Marianne decided intervention was required before someone—most likely poor Timothy—ended up becoming an unfortunate addition to Lady Ashford’s prized roses.
“How romantic,” she said, descending the steps with unhurried grace. “Your first kiss, Catherine. Was it everything the novels promise?”
Three heads whipped towards her.
“How long have you been there?” Catherine demanded, colouring furiously.
“Long enough to hear Lord Timothy’s declaration,” Marianne said mildly. “Byron could hardly have bettered it—though he would have used more syllables and far more doom.”
“Marianne!” Adrian seized the opportunity to redirect his outrage. “You cannot becondoningthis—thiswanton display of—”
“—of affection between two people who clearly care for one another?” She set a calming hand upon his rigid arm. “Hardly the scandal of the century, darling. We have seen worse at Vauxhall on a Tuesday.”
“That is different! Those people are not—”
“Not your sister?” Her tone dropped. “Adrian, recall a certain conservatory? Cut glass gleaming while you pressed me rather firmly against the windows?”
He flushed. “That was different.”
“How, precisely?”
“Because it wasus!” The words burst out—and then he heard himself and faltered. “Because—because we were—I mean to say—”
“Yes?” Marianne prompted, all gentle mischief. “Do explain how our improprieties were more acceptable.”
“They were not improprieties, they were—” He raked a hand through his hair, destroying its careful order. “I do not know! Theywere.”
“A persuasive argument,” Catherine said drily. “I especially admired the precedent.”
“Do not be clever with me, Catherine Elizabeth Blackwell.”
“Would you prefer I bestupid? Though that ship has sailed, considering I have just been caught kissing a man in a garden.”
Timothy, wisely silent until now, stepped forward. “Your Grace, if I might—”
“You mightnot,” Adrian snapped. “You might explain why you imagined taking liberties with my sister could ever be acceptable.”
“I took no liberties,” Timothy said evenly. “As Lady Catherine stated—”
“She is protecting you.”
“She is telling the truth,” he returned, unflinching. “I would never presume so far without invitation. I was making my sentiments known—prematurely, perhaps—but I was not the instigator of the… physical expression of regard.”
“‘Physical expression of regard’?” Adrian repeated, acidly. “Isthatthe phrase?”
“Would you prefer ‘moment of passion’? ‘Surrender to feeling’? ‘Temporary madness induced by moonlight and proximity’?”
Despite himself, Adrian’s mouth twitched. “Do not attempt wit, boy. You’re not equipped for it.”
“Adrian,” Catherine said, moving to stand at Timothy’s side, a declaration in itself. “I am two-and-twenty. I have spent five years in exile, afraid of shadows. Timothy makes me feelalive. Surely that is worth a single kiss?”
“After a week?” The word broke from him. “You have known him a week, Catherine!”
“A week—yes. But what a week.” Her smile was soft, radiant. “We have discussed architecture and mathematics, art and philosophy. He showed me drawings of impossible buildings; I shared calculations of proportion in nature. We have said more in seven days than many couples do in seven months.”
“Conversation,” Adrian said flatly. “And now kissing.”
“One kiss. Barely ten seconds.”
