That night, she stood at her window, his card still in her hand. The address seemed to burn into her palm—a temptation and a threat all at once. She thought of his words in the garden, his certainty that she would come to him.
The arrogance of it should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself tracing the letters of his name, imagining what would happen if she did. What rooms lay behind that address? What would he do if she appeared at his door?
You’d fare better in my lap than that frail chair.
Heat surged through her at the memory—the sheer impropriety of it, the way he’d whispered it like a secret, like a promise. And her response—what on earth had possessed her to say such a thing?
But she knew what had possessed her. The same force that made her breath catch when he entered a room, that set her skin aflame when he touched her, that made her feel wild and reckless andalive.
Desire.
She had read about it, of course—in novels, in hushed conversations overheard at parties. But she had neverunderstoodit. Never felt that pull that made sensible people do mad, impossible things.
Until now. Until him.
A soft knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. Her maid entered with a box.
“This just arrived, miss. No card, but the footman who delivered it wore Harrowmere livery.”
Marianne’s heart jumped. She took the box with hands that trembled slightly, waiting until the maid had gone before opening it.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a single golden locket—exquisite in its simplicity, the gold worked into delicate filigree. But it was what lay within that stole her breath.
A tiny piece of paper, folded impossibly small. She unfolded it carefully to reveal a single line in that bold, masculine hand:
For when you’re ready to stop pretending.
Chapter Three
“He’s early.”
Marianne nearly dropped the vase she’d been arranging, her mother’s words sending her heart into a ridiculous gallop. “How early?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Her mother peered through the drawing room curtains like a spy in a penny novel. “That is either very rude or very eager—and I cannot decide which is worse.”
“Perhaps he’s simply punctual.” Marianne forced herself to finish with the flowers—white roses and deep-purple dahlias, a combination that had seemed elegant this morning but now felt overdone. Everything felt overdone. The dining room gleamed with their best china; the silver had been polished twice, and Cook had prepared enough food to feed a regiment.
“Dukes are never punctual,” her mother declared. “They arrive precisely when they mean to—which is invariably late enough to make everyone uneasy.” She turned from the window, smoothing her best silk gown for the dozenth time. “Your father’s still in his study. Should I fetch him?”
“Let Papa finish his brandy. He’ll need it.”
Her mother gave her a sharp look. “As might we all. Marianne, are you quite certain about this? You might still sit out the evening—say you are feeling a little out of sorts—”
“And let the Duke imagine we are uneasy in his company?”
Her mother’s lips tightened. “Well... are we not?”
Marianne touched the hidden weight of the locket beneath her bodice, its presence a constant reminder of last night’s whispered promises. “No, Mama. We’re not.”
The doorbell rang, echoing through the house like a gunshot. They both froze, then laughed at their own nerves.
“Well,” her mother said, squaring her shoulders. “Into battle, then.”
But Marianne was already moving, drawn as though by magnetic force toward the entrance hall. She arrived just as their butler, Jenkins, opened the door.
Adrian stood on their threshold like a dark prince from a gothic romance—severe in black, the lamplight catching the sharp lines of his scar. He carried a bottle of what was undoubtedly an obscenely expensive wine, and his eyes found hers immediately over Jenkins’s shoulder.
“Miss Whitcombe.” His voice held that particular timbre that made her name sound both an endearment and a warning.
