“With a three-page digression on the symbolism of roses in Tudor construction,” Timothy said with a grin that made him look even younger than his six-and-twenty years. “Which, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with roses being Catherine’s favourite flower.”
“That was relevant historical context,” Catherine protested. “The Tudor rose as an architectural motif speaks to the union of aesthetics and political power—”
“You drew hearts in the margins.”
“They were geometric demonstrations of proportional scaling!”
“They were hearts, dearest. Very small ones. With our initials inside them.”
The endearment slipped out naturally, and Catherine’s blush deepened even as her lips curved into a smile. Such casual intimacies had grown increasingly common as their courtship progressed—always chaperoned, but genuine. The way Timothy’s hand lingered when helping her from a carriage, the way Catherine leaned toward him when they spoke, the private glances that needed no interpreter.
“Speaking of correspondence,” Adrian said, producing a letter from his pocket with the air of a man unveiling a scandal, “this arrived from Madame Delacroix. Your wedding gown is ready for its final fitting.”
Catherine’s expression transformed from scholarly authority to bridal alarm in an instant. Her hands flew to her hair, smoothing already perfect curls. “Already? But the wedding is still six weeks away!”
“Eight,” Adrian corrected with the weary precision of someone who had been over this before. “Alterations take time—particularly for a dress of such, ah,architectural splendour, as the modiste described it.”
“Six weeks,” Catherine insisted. “We agreed on four months from the garden incident—”
“We agreed on four months of proper courtship before the wedding,” Adrian said, consulting the small diary he’d apparently been keeping for the purpose. “It has been two months since I gave permission. Two plus six—”
“Four,” Catherine interrupted triumphantly. “Two months of courtship completed, two remaining. The ceremony is fixed for the twentieth of December. I have the figures perfectly in order.”
“That is six weeks,” Marianne pointed out, amused. “Six weeks from now is December twentieth.”
“Six weeks, two months—what is time?” Catherine waved her hand dismissively, but Marianne noticed her fingers were trembling slightly. “A human contrivance. Timothy, tell them about your theory of temporal architecture.”
“I haven’t one,” Timothy said, eyeing her in concern. “Catherine, are you quite well?”
“Perfectly. Entirely. Utterly.” Her tone had risen half an octave. “Why should I not be well? I am only to be married in six weeks—six weeks!—with a gown I have seen but once, while all of London gathers to decide whether I am worthy of happiness after everything that has happened—”
Timothy came round the table and took her hands gently, propriety quite forgotten. “Catherine. Breathe.”
She drew a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “Six weeks feels both endless and no time at all.”
“I know the feeling,” Marianne said softly, remembering her own whirlwind courtship—the terror and thrill of marrying Adrian when they had barely begun to understand one another. “But you two have had more conversation in two months than Adrian and I managed in our entire courtship.”
“That’s because we were too busy scandalising society to talk,” Adrian said, moving to pour Catherine a cup of tea with surprising gentleness. “Here, drink this. It’s that chamomile blend you like.”
“You know my tea preferences?” Catherine looked at her brother with surprise.
“Of course I do. You’re my sister. You’ve been drinking the same bloody tea since you were fifteen and declared Earl Grey ‘pedestrian.’”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I notice everything,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “Everything concerning my household.”
“Wetalkedplenty during our courtship,” Marianne protested, seeking to lighten the air. “We had many meaningful conversations.”
“We had debates,” Adrian corrected, a dry note entering his voice. “Endless debates.”
“Thatistalking,” she insisted. “Debating is simply very spirited conversing.”
“Your definition of spirited involved accusing me of being unbearably arrogant,” he said.
“Youwereunbearably arrogant.”
“And you were maddeningly contrary.”
