They glared at one another across the table, but Marianne could see the affection beneath the argument—the amused glint in Catherine’s eyes, the twitch of laughter Timothy tried valiantly to suppress.
Adrian appeared in the doorway, immaculately dressed despite the hour, surveying the chaos with the long-suffering airof a man resigned to domestic disorder. His gaze swept the scene—the plans, the books, the defaced linen—and he sighed.
“Why,” he asked with deliberate patience, “are there mathematical equations on my breakfast table? And is that—did someonedrawon the tablecloth? That is Irish linen!”
“They’re load-bearing calculations,” Catherine said absently, scribbling another figure. “Timothy believes we can remove a wall to expand the morning room. I am proving that such a change would require additional beams that would ruin the proportions entirely. The tablecloth can be washed.”
“Or replaced,” Timothy offered helpfully. “I’ll gladly purchase a new one.”
“With what funds?” Adrian inquired dryly. “Last I heard, you were a second son with limited income until your architectural practice is established.”
“With my future funds from said profession, then. Consider it an investment in marital harmony.”
“Marital harmony achieved by ruining my breakfast?” Adrian raised a brow.
“Marital harmony achieved by demonstrating that my future wife is wrong about support beams.”
“I am not wrong!” Catherine declared. “Look at these calculations—”
“Naturally,” Adrian said, crossing to Marianne’s side with that easy grace that still had the power to undo her. “How foolish of me not to recognise load-bearing equations at breakfast. I suppose next you’ll be conducting chemical experiments over tea.”
His hand found her shoulder automatically, thumb stroking gently in that absent way that told her he wasn’t even conscious of the gesture. These small touches had become constant—his hand at her back when they walked, fingers brushing hers at dinner, the way he’d pull her against him whenever they were alone. It was as if he needed the constant reassurance of her presence, especially now with the baby making itself known.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked, already forgetting the chaos around them.
“Round,” she said cheerfully, patting her stomach. “Wonderfully, gloriously round. I can no longer see my feet when I stand, Sarah had to let out another seam in this dress, and I become winded climbing the stairs. It’s marvellous.”
“You’re glowing,” he corrected, bending to kiss her temple with unguarded tenderness. “Radiant. Magnificent. More beautiful every day.”
“I’m spherical,” she countered. “I saw my reflection earlier and thought someone had hung a portrait of a blueberry in a gown.”
“A beautiful blueberry.”
“Adrian, that is not the compliment you think it is.”
“You’re beautiful in every shape,” he said simply, his hand drifting to her rounded middle with reverence. “Especially this one.”
“You two are insufferable,” Catherine said, fond despite herself. “Timothy, tell them about the windows before Adrian starts composing sonnets to Marianne’s ankles.”
“I would never compose sonnets to her ankles,” Adrian replied with dignity. “Her ankles are far more suited to heroic couplets.”
“You are all absurd,” Marianne laughed, covering Adrian’s hand with her own. “The windows?”
“Yes!” Timothy seized the opportunity eagerly. “Stained-glass inserts throughout the music room—not biblical scenes or pastoral nonsense, but mathematical designs. Logarithmic spirals in coloured glass, the divine proportion rendered in blue and amber.”
“That is…” Adrian hesitated, visibly torn between rivalry and admiration. “Actually rather ingenious. Provided you can find a craftsman precise enough for it.”
“I know someone in Venice,” Timothy said, his excitement mounting. “Signor Bellini, a master glazier I met during my studies. He once created a rose window based entirely on mathematical ratios—it’s so perfect that professors take students to study it.”
“Of course you do,” Adrian said, resigned but amused. “I suppose next you’ll tell us you correspond with the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Timothy replied solemnly. “Though I do own copies of his notebooks on architectural principles.”
“Show Adrian the bedroom plans,” Catherine said brightly—then went scarlet to the roots of her hair. “That is, thelayoutof the private quarters. The arrangement of rooms. The entirely proper architectural considerations for domestic comfort. The—”
“We understand,” Marianne said gently, hiding her smile behind her teacup. “Though I notice you are most particular about rooms you have not yet seen. One might almost suspect you have been thinking about your future home rather extensively.”
“Timothy sent me the existing floor plans,” Catherine explained, her colour still high but her chin lifting in defiance. “It is a perfectly proper correspondence about architecture. We discuss load-bearing walls and window placements—nothing remotely improper.”
