“My father,” Marianne said, smoothing her skirts with only the faintest tremor, “is a businessman. He trusts no one. He was testing us both.”
“And we failed.”
“Did we?” She moved past him toward the door, pausing to glance back. “Or did we pass—with distinction?”
His laugh was dark, disbelieving. “You’re going to destroy me.”
“Quite possibly.” She smoothed her hair, knowing it was hopeless but trying anyway. “But what a spectacular destruction it will be.”
She left him there among the shadowed leaves and perfumed air, her lips still burning from his kiss.
Chapter Four
“Did you hear about the Whitcombe chit? She was seen leaving the conservatory with her hair quite undone. At her own dinner party!”
“With Harrowmere, no less. My dear, the man is an absolute savage. What her parents were thinking, admitting him to their table…”
Marianne stood perfectly still behind a marble column, her champagne glass warming in her hand as she listened. Three days had passed since that dinner—three days since that kiss that had overturned everything she thought she knew of herself. Three days of remembering every breath, every touch, every shiver that still haunted her skin.
Lady Rothwell’s soirée was the talk of the week, a spectacle of candlelight and costly perfume. The townhouse glowed like a gilded cavern—amber light pooling against silk-hung walls, laughter drifting through rooms thick with gossip and opportunity.
“Well, I heard she has already been compromised,” whispered Lady Thornton, her voice carrying despite its supposed discretion. “Why else would he pay her such marked attention?”
“Because he’s amusing himself, of course,” replied Mrs Cavendish, who had been parading her daughter before eligibletitles for three seasons without success. “You know what they say of him—the scars, the temper—”
Marianne leaned nearer, her pulse quickening despite herself.
“Oh yes, India,” Lady Thornton continued, lowering her voice theatrically. “Though that is not where the scars came from.”
“No?”
“Not at all. My husband was there—he saw the whole thing. It happened here, in London, before Harrowmere ever sailed East.”
Despite herself, Marianne found herself holding her breath.
“His sister, Lady Catherine—sweet girl, barely seventeen—was walking in Hyde Park with her governess when a carriage came racing around the corner. The horses had bolted, completely out of control.”
“How terrible!”
“It would have trampled her completely, but Harrowmere... he threw himself directly in front of it. Grabbed the leads, managed to slow it just enough that when it struck him...” Lady Thornton paused dramatically. “Well, the physician said it was a miracle he survived at all. His face was—well—ruined. That scar we see is actually the part that healed well.”
“Good grief.” Mrs Cavendish sounded genuinely shocked. “But why doesn’t anyone know this? Why let people think—”
“Pride, naturally. Lord Thornton says Harrowmere forbade anyone to speak of it. Threatened to ruin any who dared call him a hero. Left for India the moment he could walk again.”
“And Lady Catherine?”
“Unharmed. But she has never recovered her spirits. They say she cannot bear the sight of him—the reminder of what he sacrificed for her.”
The two women moved away, their voices fading into the general hum of conversation, leaving Marianne standing frozen behind her pillar. Her chest felt tight, her eyes burning with unexpected tears.
All this time, society had painted him a monster—a creature of violence and scandal. And he had let them. He had worn the mask of a beast because the truth, thegentletruth, was unbearable to him.
The knowledge left her furious.
How dare he? How dare he be all of it at once—ruthless and selfless, terrifying and tender? How dare he make her feel this wretched mixture of admiration, anger, and desire?
“Hiding, Miss Whitcombe?”
