“You argue daily about your overprotectiveness,” Catherine said.
“Those aredifferentarguments about the same topic. Entirely distinct thing.”
“You’re impossible,” Marianne said fondly.
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“It bears repeating.”
The butler entered then with his usual impeccable timing. “Your Graces, Mr Whitcombe has arrived.”
Edmund Whitcombe swept in like a force of nature, bringing the smell of tobacco and the docks and London commerce with him. He was still in his business clothes, suggesting he’d come straight from his warehouses.
“There’s my girl! Good grief, you’re enormous!”
“Papa!” Marianne protested, but she was smiling as she struggled to rise from the sofa.
“Don’t get up, don’t get up—you’ll unbalance yourself and topple over.” He kissed her cheek with rough affection. “Round as a Christmas pudding! That’s my grandchild making you spherical.”
“Everyone seems obsessed with my shape,” Marianne said, laughing.
“Because it’s a glorious shape! That’s my grandchild in there, making you round as a full moon.” He kissed her again, then turned to Adrian. “Still hovering, I see.”
“I don’t hover,” Adrian said automatically.
“You’re hovering right now. You’re practically vibrating with the need to hover more efficiently.”
“I’m standingprotectively.”
Edmund pulled a chair close to Marianne, the furniture scraping against the floor with a sound that made Adrian wince. “How are you really, puppet? And none of that duchess speech about being perfectly well. I want the truth.”
“I’m wonderful,” Marianne said honestly, covering his rough hand with hers. “Tired, sometimes queasy, frequently emotional, occasionally convinced I’m carrying a particularly energetic octopus, but wonderful.”
“And this one?” Edmund jerked his thumb at Adrian. “Driving you mad with fussing?”
“Only moderately. He’s on his fourth medical text about childbirth.”
“Fourth?” Edmund said, aghast. “Goodness, boy—planning to deliver the child yourself?”
“I like to be prepared.”
“You like to terrify yourself with dreadful possibilities.”
“I am present, you know,” Adrian said with wounded dignity.
“We know,” Edmund said cheerfully. “You’re hard to miss—like a very well-tailored storm cloud.”
Before Adrian could retort, Edmund pulled a small package from his coat. “As for the wedding, I’ve brought something.”
Inside lay an exquisite lace veil—so delicate it seemed spun from moonlight and spider silk, roses and ivy woven in intricate design.
“Mama’s?” Marianne breathed, eyes filling.
“Her mother’s before that,” Edmund said, his voice roughened with feeling. “Been in the family near a century. Thought Catherine might wear it—make her properly family.”
Catherine’s eyes glistened. “Mr Whitcombe, I couldn’t—it’s too precious—”
“Of course you can. Of course you must. You’re Marianne’s sister now—that makes you my daughter by extension. Daughters wear family veils. Tradition.”
