“What?” Adrian’s voice sharpened to a blade. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Merely… the baby sitting low.”
“We are going home.”
“We are going inside.” She tightened her grip on both men and began the ascent of the opera steps. Whispered exclamations rose around them:
“The duchess!”
“In her state!”
“Shocking!”
“Merchant blood—what can one expect?”
That last comment made Adrian stiffen, his free hand moving toward where his sword would have been in an earlier era. Marianne squeezed his arm in warning.
“Let them whisper,” she murmured. “We have faced worse.”
They had just reached the foyer when the first familiar face appeared—Lady Weatherby, resplendent in purple silk and ostrich feathers, her expression a mixture of delight and horror.
“Your Grace! I could scarcely believe you meant to attend. In your—ah—delicate condition.”
“I find the opera soothing,” Marianne said, smiling through another tightening.
“Soothing!” Lady Weatherby repeated faintly. “My dear, you look ready to—well! Surely your time must be—”
“Not for three weeks yet,” Marianne lied smoothly. By her calculations, it was closer to one week, but admitting that would only fuel Adrian’s panic.
“Besides,” Catherine said, arriving at her side, “we could not possibly miss Don Giovanni. It is practically symbolic.”
“Symbolic—oh!” Lady Weatherby’s eyes widened. “Of course—this is where you and His Grace first—how very romantic.”
A cool voice drifted from behind them. “Romantic. Yes. One word for it.”
They turned. Venetia, Duchess of Worthington, stood gleaming in cloth-of-gold, beauty as polished as ever—but something hollow lurked beneath the sheen.
“Your Grace,” Adrian said in a tone that could freeze a river.
“Your Grace,” Venetia echoed smoothly. Then her eyes moved over Marianne. “How… robust you look.”
“How gracious of you to notice,” Marianne replied, though speaking grew harder with each pain. “And you look… well-preserved.”
The insult was subtle but effective. Venetia’s eyes flashed, but before she could respond, the Duke of Worthington appeared at her elbow. At seventy-four, he looked remarkably vital, his eyes sharp with intelligence and something that might have been amusement.
“Harrowmere! And the lovely duchess. Shouldn’t you be confined, my dear? In my day, ladies in your condition didn’t appear in public past their sixth month.”
“Times change, Your Grace,” Marianne managed, though she could feel perspiration gathering at her temples.
“Indeed they do. Sometimes for the better.” His gaze moved to his own wife with an expression that was difficult to read. “Come, my dear. Our box awaits.”
As they departed, Venetia glanced back, and for a moment, her mask slipped. The expression revealed was one of such profound unhappiness that Marianne almost pitied her. Almost.
“Vulgar woman,” Adrian muttered.
“She is miserable,” Marianne observed.
“Good.”
