“You are attending, are you not?”
“Well… yes.”
“Then you are winning.”
Timothy entered, cheerful as ever. “Someone must ensure Adrian does not expire from sheer worry. I could hear him threatening the physician from the pavement.”
“I did not threaten Peterson. I merely suggested that if he failed to talk sense into my wife, I might be obliged to seek additional opinions.” Adrian lifted his chin. “Possibly several.”
“You threatened to have him transported to the Colonies.”
“That was hyperbole.”
“You drafted the letter to the Home Secretary.”
Adrian had the grace to look slightly abashed. “I may have been… somewhat overwrought.”
Another pain rippled through Marianne’s back. She focused carefully on keeping her expression serene. These “preparatory” pains had been occurring for two days—though she had no intention of informing Adrian, who would doubtless barricade her in their chamber.
“The fact remains,” she said once it subsided, “that I have been confined for nearly two months. Two months, Adrian. I have reorganised the library twice, terrified the staff with improvements, and read every novel in London. If I do not leave this house soon, I shall lose my mind.”
“Better that than—” He stopped, but they all knew the end of that sentence. Better mad than dead. His mother’s death from childbirth haunted him like a spectre, colouring every moment of Marianne’s pregnancy with terror he could barely contain.
“I am not your mother,” Marianne said gently—for the hundredth time. “I am healthy. I have excellent care.”
“My mother had excellent care.”
“And your mother had three stillbirths after Catherine,” she reminded him softly. “I am carrying my first child. And a very determined one, judging by the amount of kicking.”
As though in illustration, the baby delivered a blow that made her catch her breath.
“You’re in pain.” Adrian was at her side instantly, hands hovering helplessly. “That’s it. We’re not going. I’m sending our regrets at once.”
“You will do no such thing.” Marianne captured his hands and placed them deliberately on her stomach. “Feel that? Your child is dancing. Clearly, it wishes to attend the opera.”
“Our child has no opinion on cultural outings!”
“It has inherited your flair for drama and my obstinacy. It definitely has opinions.”
To rescue the moment, Catherine offered, “Speaking of drama—did you hear Lady Harrison’s daughter eloped with a dancing master? They’re halfway to Gretna Green by now.”
The distraction worked. Adrian instantly redirected his outrage, allowing Marianne to breathe through another contraction unnoticed. Every ten minutes now? Perhaps. But first babies were slow—she had hours yet. Possibly days.
The conversation meandered through society news until Timothy mentioned, “The Worthingtons are attending tonight as well. Their box faces yours.”
“Let them attend,” Adrian said darkly. “We have nothing to fear from Venetia any longer.”
“No,” Marianne echoed, though a flicker of old unease stirred beneath her ribs. “She is entirely defanged.”
But as another pain gripped her—sharper now—she wondered whether the evening might prove more dramatic than any of them anticipated.
***
The afternoon passed in a blur of preparation. Sarah, Marianne’s loyal maid, fussed over gowns with determined purpose before finally settling on a midnight-blue silk that had been cleverly altered to accommodate Marianne’s expanded figure. The silk whispered against her skin, stirring memories of that first night at the opera—when she had worn green and Adrian had stared at her with such consuming intensity she had felt it like a physical touch.
“You’re wool-gathering, Your Grace,” Sarah observed, deft fingers managing the buttons despite Marianne’s altered shape. “Thinking of His Grace?”
“When am I not?” Marianne adjusted the neckline—more modest than that first daring gown. Pregnancy had rendered certain aspects of her figure far too pronounced for fashionablescandal. “Sarah, do you think I’m being foolish? Attending in my condition?”
