But Maribel had stopped listening. Her attention snagged on a figure across the lawn—tall, dark-haired, standing rigid amongst gentlemen discussing parliamentary procedure.
Thaddeus.
He hadn’t seen her yet. His profile was stark against the pale sky, expression carved from stone.
Then he turned.
Their eyes met across the garden.
The distance contracted. Maribel felt her pulse stutter, heat rise despite the October chill.
He looked away, returning to his companions as though she didn’t exist.
The dismissal stung.
Near the fountain, Maribel caught whispers from a cluster of debutantes in white gowns.
“...hardly surprising when breeding is insufficient. My mama says the Ashcroft name was ruined long before the daughter married above her station.”
“And the boy. Poor creature. One wonders what sort of upbringing he’ll receive from someone of her background.”
Maribel’s hands curled into fists. Before Eleanor could intervene, Lady Whitmore herself appeared.
“Miss Hartley. Miss Archibald.” Ice dripped from every syllable. “I trust you haven’t forgotten that Lady Blackwood is a guest in my home, entitled to respect due her station. Unless you wish to explain to your mothers why I had you removed?”
The girls fled. Lady Whitmore turned to Maribel with profound exasperation.
“Insufferable creatures. I apologise, Your Grace.”
“Your intervention was unnecessary but appreciated.”
“Nonsense. Entirely necessary.” Lady Whitmore’s shrewd gaze swept over her. “You’re handling this with remarkable grace. Better than most would.”
The unexpected kindness made Maribel’s throat tighten.
A commotion near the house drew their attention. Gentlemen had gathered, voices rising. Maribel recognised several of the political figures, including Lord Hastings—pompous, odious, whose politics she despised.
And Thaddeus, at the edge, listening with that stillness he employed when thoroughly displeased.
“Lord Hastings does enjoy his own voice,” Eleanor observed. “We should move away before he begins another speech about bloodlines.”
But Maribel moved closer instead. Eleanor followed with a resigned sigh.
“—simply stating facts,” Hastings was saying. “Parentage matters. Breeding matters. One cannot expect a child of uncertain origins to?—”
“Are you referring to young Talbot?” another gentleman interrupted.
“The Duke’s ward, yes. The boy’s bloodline is rather complicated, shall we say. The mother’s people were barely gentry. And there are whispers about connections to the Ashcroft scandal, though naturally no one speaks of it openly.”
Maribel’s blood ran cold.
Thaddeus went very still—the particular stillness before violence.
“Breeding will out,” Hastings continued, oblivious. “Mark my words, the boy will prove unsuitable. It would be kinder to acknowledge the limitations of his birth and adjust expectations accordingly.”
Thaddeus turned. Every line of his body showed. The deliberate, controlled movement of a man who’d spent years mastering fury.
He crossed to Hastings with measured steps. Every eye fixed on them.
