“Excessively. He proposed hiring someone to carry me upstairs so I should not ‘strain’ myself.”
“Men become absurd when their wives are breeding,” Lady Weatherby observed. “Lord Weatherby once tried to wrap me in cotton wool. Literally. He had read a medical text that suggested padding to prevent injury.”
“Adrian’s been reading medical texts,” Marianne admitted. “I caught him with one about childbirth last week. He went white as parchment and had to have three brandies.”
“Never let them read the medical texts,” Lady Weatherby advised. “They can’t handle the details. Better they think babies arrive by stork.”
The talk ran on—pregnancy, matrimony, the coming wedding—while Madame Delacroix pinned and smoothed. Emma, married herself, immediately began dispensing advice with the authority of someone who’d survived the ordeal.
“The secret is delegation,” she declared. “Let… well—let Marianne manage the particulars. You concentrate on not panicking.”
“Too late,” Catherine said, muffled by bodice adjustments. “I began panicking two months ago. I have lists. Categorised by topic and severity.”
“Perfectly normal. I nearly climbed out of a window the morning of my wedding.”
“What stopped you?” Catherine asked with interest.
“The gown would not fit through. Also, my husband was waiting below with a ladder, having anticipated the attempt. He knows me rather well.”
“How romantic,” Lady Weatherby said dryly. “Nothing says eternal love like escape prevention.”
“At least Catherine is not trying to flee,” Marianne said, then paused. “You are not, are you?”
“Not actively. Though Timothy and I have calculated the best escape routes from the church. But only as an intellectual exercise.”
“Of course,” Emma said, smiling. “All brides do. Tradition.”
“You won’t run,” Lady Weatherby said with conviction. “Not with the way Lord Timothy looks at you—like a most fascinating theorem he’ll devote a lifetime to solving.”
“Everyone keeps saying that!”
“Because it is true. At the Hendersons’ dinner last week, he spent twenty minutes—at least—explaining why your method of proportion was revolutionary. He had diagrams. Poor Lord Henderson fell asleep in his soup.”
“He discussed my calculations at a dinner party?” Catherine brightened at once.
“In excruciating detail,” Lady Weatherby assured her. “If that is not romance in your language, my dear, I do not know what is.”
Marianne met Catherine’s eyes in the glass. “As to your other anxiety—speak plainly with Timothy, as you do about arches and angles. Begin with what you know: that you trust him. The rest will follow. And if awkwardness appears, you may laugh together and try again. Trying again is its own kind of intimacy.”
Catherine’s shoulders eased. “You make everything sound possible.”
“It is,” Marianne said softly.
***
When they returned to Harrowmere House—the rain having held off just long enough for the journey—they found Adrian and Timothy in the study, apparently deep in discussion. The room smelled faintly of brandy and tobacco, though neither man appeared to be drinking or smoking.
“—and if you hurt her,” Adrian was saying in his most ducal tone, “even unintentionally—”
“You’ll destroy me so thoroughly that future archaeologists will debate my existence,” Timothy finished, sounding like a man well acquainted with repetition. “Yes, Your Grace, you’ve mentioned. Several dozen times. This morning alone.”
“I wish to be perfectly clear.”
“Crystal clear. Transparently clear. Architecturally sound in your clarity. You’ve practically had it engraved on a tablet and submitted to theTimes.”
“Don’t be glib, boy.”
“I’m not being glib—I’m being mathematically precise about your threats. You’ve delivered exactly forty-seven since our engagement. I’ve been keeping count.”
