“I was not timing it.”
“I was,” Marianne admitted. When everyone looked at her, she shrugged. “It seemed relevant information.”
Timothy cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I understand your anger. Were someone to take such liberty with one of mysisters, I should react similarly. But my intentions toward Lady Catherine are entirely honourable.”
“Honourable,” Adrian echoed, sceptical. “And what, precisely, are these honourable intentions?”
Timothy straightened his shoulders, looking every inch the gentleman despite his mussed cravat—Catherine’s doing, Marianne noted with interest. “I intend to court her properly, with your permission. To show her, through actions rather than words, that she is valued, cherished, and respected. And, if she’ll have me, to eventually ask for her hand.”
“Her hand?You have known her a week!”
“You proposed to Marianne after but a handful more,” Catherine pointed out, with fatal accuracy.
“Well, it was longer still,” he snapped. “And that was—”
“Quite different, yes. Your hypocrisy is duly recorded.” Catherine’s voice gentled. “The point stands: you fell quickly and acted. Why is it tolerable for you but forbidden to me?”
“Because you are my sister,” he said, the fight draining from him. “My responsibility. I am meant to keep you safe.”
“From what? From joy? From love?” Her tone softened to match his. “From feeling whole, rather than a collection of shards held together by good manners?”
The naked truth of it unstrung him; his shoulders sagged.
“I am trying to keep you from harm,” he said quietly. “From a mistake that could undo you.”
“Like the mistake ofliving?” She stepped closer, took his hand. “I know you are frightened for me. But Timothy is not going to hurt me.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.” She held his gaze. “Because he sees me. Not the tragedy, not the scandal—me. Imperfect, improving. Scarred, not ruined. And he thinks I am worth the trouble.”
Adrian looked to Timothy, who had stood back, steady as a pillar. “Is that true?”
“Every word,” Timothy said simply. “I won’t pretend to understand all she has endured. But whatever forged her into who she is, I am grateful—even the painful parts. They are part of her story, and her story brought her to me.”
“Pretty words,” Adrian muttered, with far less venom.
“True words,” Timothy answered. “I am no poet, Your Grace. I am an architect. I deal in foundations and structures—what bears weight and weathers storms. What I feel for your sister is not fancy. It isbedrock.”
Marianne blinked against sudden tears. Even Adrian seemed moved, though he disguised it with a cough.
“You will court her properly,” he said at last. “With chaperonage. In daylight. No more garden assignations.”
“Of course,” Timothy agreed at once.
“For a lengthy engagement. Six months at minimum.”
“Three,” Catherine countered immediately.
“Five,” Adrian returned, glowering.
“Four,” Timothy offered diplomatically. “It allows sufficient time to prove my constancy, without risking our old age in the process.”
Adrian looked between them, recognising the inevitable defeat. “Four months. But your finances will be reviewed by my solicitor. Proper settlements drawn. References obtained—from your family, your tutors… your tailor, if necessary.”
“Adrian,” Marianne murmured, slipping her hand through his arm, “perhaps the particulars might wait? Lady Ashford will begin imagining duels.”
“Let her imagine,” he muttered, but he permitted her to turn him toward the house.
