He stopped dancing abruptly, though the music continued. They stood in the middle of the ballroom, his hands still on her, their bodies close enough that she could feel his breath.
“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he said, his voice low, intense. “This isn’t some girlish rebellion against the ton’s rules. I could destroy you.”
“You could,” she agreed. “But you won’t.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“A man who throws himself before a carriage to save his sister does not destroy women for sport.”
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or fury. “I am no saviour, Marianne. And I haven’t been innocent in a very long time.”
“Nor I.”
The words startled them both. Yet she knew they were true. From the moment she had met his gaze across the opera house, she had surrendered any claim to innocence.
“Marianne—”
“There you are!”
Her mother’s voice shattered the stillness. She appeared at Marianne’s side, smiling too brightly, eyes sharp with alarm.
“Mama.”
“Dearest, Lady Harrison is asking for you. Something about a committee.” Her mother inclined her head to Adrian. “Your Grace.”
“Mrs Whitcombe.” He released Marianne, stepping back with polished courtesy. “I was just returning your daughter to you.”
“How considerate.” Her mother’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Come, Marianne.”
But before they could move, a shout rang out near the entrance. Lord Ralston—drunk, unsteady—was holding court with a knot of young men.
“—swear on my honour, the Beast had her pressed against the glass like a tavern wench! My man saw them—skirts rucked, panting like animals—”
The words cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot. Music faltered. Conversations died. Dozens of eyes turned upon her.
Marianne felt her blood freeze, then burn. Her mother made a strangled sound.
Adrian went utterly still—not the stillness of shock, but of a predator scenting blood.
“Your Grace,” Marianne said quietly, catching his arm as he took a step toward Ralston. “Don’t.”
“He’s slandering you.”
“Yes. And if you call him out, it will only confirm the gossip.” She kept her voice steady despite the humiliation burningthrough her. “This is what he wants—to force your hand, to create a scandal so large I’ll be ruined beyond rescue.”
“You’re already—” He stopped himself, but she heard it:already compromised.
“Then there’s nothing left to lose, is there?” She turned toward the crowd, her chin high, her voice carrying clear as crystal. “Lord Ralston, you seem confused. The conservatory has glass walls, as you’ve said. Strange, then, that no one else saw this supposed display.”
His face darkened. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you drunk,” she said coolly. “And desperate. And rather pitiable, if we’re to be precise. What sort of man invents such stories about a woman who refused his advances?”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. To accuse a lord of lying, to call him pathetic in public—it was social suicide.
But Marianne was past caring.
“How dare you—”
