That evening, as they prepared for dinner at the Ashfords’, Adrian fussed over every detail of Marianne’s attire.
“This neckline is too low. You’ll catch a cold.”
“It’s August.”
“Summer colds are the worst kind.” He adjusted her shawl for the third time. “And these shoes—are they comfortable? You shouldn’t strain your feet.”
“Adrian, we are dining, not marching across the moors.”
“Still, comfort is paramount.” He knelt to examine her slippers with absurd gravity.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“I am being attentive.”
“You’re being—” She broke off with a gasp as he pressed a kiss to her ankle, then her calf, his hands sliding higher beneath her skirts.
“Adrian! We shall be late!”
“Then we shall be late.” His mouth moved higher still. “I must ensure you are properly relaxed before social exertion. Physician’s orders.”
“Mr Peterson said nothing about—oh!” She gripped his shoulders as he found a particularly sensitive spot. “This isnotmedical treatment!”
“Isn’t it? Your pulse is improved, your colour excellent—clearly beneficial.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “I prescribe continuation.”
What followed made them very late indeed, and required Sarah to redo Marianne’s hair entirely while Adrian looked on with smug satisfaction.
The Ashford dinner was a small affair—just the immediate family and a few close friends. Lord Timothy was there, of course, placed strategically far from Catherine at the table, though their eyes met constantly across the distance.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Lady Ashford said warmly to Marianne. “A baby! How delightful!”
“How did you—” Marianne began, then turned to Adrian, narrowing her eyes. “Youtoldthem?”
“I may have mentioned it. To a few who needed to know.”
“He announced it at White’s,” Lord Ashford said with a grin. “Stood up in the card room and declared he was to be a father.”
“Adrian!”
“I wasexcited.”
“You were drunk,” Lord Ashford corrected. “Three brandies in an hour.”
“I was celebrating.”
The dinner conversation flowed pleasantly, with only minimal threatening looks from Adrian when Lord Timothy spoke to Catherine. It wasn’t until afterwards, when the ladies withdrew, that things became interesting.
***
Marianne had stepped onto the terrace for air when she heard voices from the garden below. Catherine and Lord Timothy, having somehow escaped their respective groups.
Below, in the garden illuminated by paper lanterns that swayed gently in the breeze, she heard voices—soft, urgent, unmistakably private. She recognised Catherine’s light tones immediately, followed by Lord Timothy’s deeper register. They were partially hidden by a trellis of climbing jasmine, though Marianne could see their silhouettes clearly enough in the moonlight.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Catherine murmured, though her tone lacked conviction. “If someone were to see us unchaperoned—”
“I know it’s improper,” Timothy said, his voice low, urgent. “But I had to speak with you privately. Constant supervision makes honesty nearly impossible.” He hesitated. “May I call you Catherine? Here, where there are no titles between us?”
“You already have been,” she said softly. “In your mind, if not aloud. I can see it in your eyes when you say ‘Lady Catherine’—as if your heart rebels.”
