“I’d be delighted,” Adrian said before she could answer.
The third course came and went in a blur. Marianne barely tasted any of it, too aware of Adrian beside her, of the heat radiating from his body, of the way his long fingers held his wine glass with such controlled grace. She thought of those fingers on her throat in the garden, and had to take a large sip of wine to cool her suddenly dry throat.
“Careful,” Adrian murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Wine on an empty stomach can be treacherous.”
“I’ve eaten plenty.”
“Have you? You’ve done a fine job rearranging your food, but very little of it has actually passed those lovely lips.”
The casual observation, delivered in that dark velvet tone, made her cheeks warm. “You’ve been watching me eat?”
“I’ve been watching you breathe.” His admission was quiet, unsettlingly sincere. “I can’t seem to stop.”
“Your Grace—”
“Adrian,” he corrected softly, leaning fractionally nearer. “You promised to call me Adrian when we are alone.”
“We are most assuredly not alone.”
“No,” he agreed, his gaze lingering—far too boldly—on her mouth. “But we will be.”
The promise in those words tightened something low in her chest—a flutter of anticipation and something that might have been fear. Or desire. With him, it was increasingly difficult to tell the difference.
Dessert was served—an elaborate confection of cream and berries that Cook had laboured over for hours. Marianne managed three bites before her father pushed back from the table.
“Right then. Margaret, shall we retire to the drawing room? Leave these young people to their conservatory tour?”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Edmund, surely—”
“Surely our daughter can show a guest our plants without incident,” he replied. “Glass walls on all sides. Perfectly proper.”
Marianne caught the look that passed between her parents—her mother’s concern, her father’s calculating assessment. He was testing something, though whether it was her or Adrian, she couldn’t tell.
“The conservatory it is,” she said lightly, rising before anyone could object further.
Adrian stood immediately, offering his arm. She took it, acutely aware of the strength beneath fine wool, of how even that small contact unsettled her composure.
The conservatory was her father’s pride—a gleaming glass structure heavy with the scent of earth and growing things. Orchids clung to trellises, palms created dappled alcoves, and lamplight shimmered through the leaves like reflected fire.
“It’s like another world,” Adrian said quietly, genuine appreciation in his voice.
“Father says it reminds him of the ports his ships visit—places he’ll never see himself but can imagine through these.”
“And you? What do you see when you look at it?”
Marianne considered, running her fingers along a broad leaf. “Freedom. These plants were taken from their homes and forced to grow in foreign soil. Yet they survive. Some even thrive.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Adapting to foreign soil?”
“Aren’t we all?” She turned to face him, finding him closer than expected. “Even you, Your Grace. The ton isn’t your natural habitat any more than it is mine.”
“No,” he agreed, moving closer still. “My natural habitat is altogether more... dangerous.”
“Are you trying to frighten me again?”
“I’m trying to warn you.” His hand came up, fingers ghosting along her jaw. “Your father’s right to be protective. I’m not a good man, Marianne. I’ve done things that would horrify you.”
“In India?”
