“How dareI?”She laughed, the sound carrying across the ballroom. “I’m a merchant’s daughter, my lord. I dare because I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Can you say the same?”
She turned to Adrian, who was watching her with a strange, unreadable intensity. “Your Grace, would you escort my motherand me to our carriage? I find the air in here has grown rather stifling.”
He offered his arm immediately. “With pleasure.”
They crossed the ballroom together in silence, the crowd parting before them. Marianne kept her head high, every inch the defiant scandal they imagined her to be.
But inside, she was shaking.
The carriage ride home was wordless. Her mother sat rigid, staring into the dark street beyond the glass. Adrian had seen them safely to the door but had not joined them.
“Well,” her mother said at last, her tone brittle as cut glass. “That was... eventful.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Are you?” Her mother turned to look at her. “Because you didn’t appear particularly sorry when you were calling a viscountpitiablein front of two hundred people.”
“He deserved it.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But deserving and wise are rarely the same thing.” Her mother sighed. “Was any of it true? What he said about the conservatory?”
Marianne considered lying, then dismissed the thought. “We kissed. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” Her mother gave a short, incredulous laugh. “As if kissing the Duke of Harrowmere could ever benothing. The man looks at you as though he means to consume you whole.”
“Mama!”
“What? You think I’m blind? The entire ton can see it. That’s why they’re so morbidly fascinated—and horrified in equal measure.” She reached over, taking Marianne’s hand. “He will offer for you.”
“What? No—he won’t—”
“He will. A man like that, with his sense of honour twisted though it may be, won’t allow this to stand. He’ll offer, your father will accept, and you’ll be the Duchess of Harrowmere before the month is out.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Tell me you don’t want him.”
Marianne opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Because shedidwant him—wanted him with a ferocity that frightened her. Not merely his touch, though she burned for that, but the man himself: his darkness and his discipline, the wildness just beneath the restraint.
“I thought so,” her mother said softly. “Just… be careful, darling. Men like that burn bright—but they burn everything around them too.”
***
Morning light filtered gently through the muslin curtains, gilding the edge of the escritoire and setting Marianne’s untouched tea to steaming once more. The house was too quiet. Even the tick of the longcase clock in the corner seemed hesitant, as though the entire household waited for something to happen.
Her mother sat near the fire with her embroidery frame, the steady movement of needle and thread betraying more agitation than calm. The breakfast tray had come and gone; the newspaper lay folded neatly on the table beside her chair, untouched but conspicuously present.
Marianne turned another page of her novel without reading a word. “You’re restless this morning, Mama.”
Her mother’s needle paused mid-stitch. “Am I?”
“You’ve re-stitched that same rose five times.”
A faint sigh. “Then perhaps it isn’t the rose that troubles me.”
Marianne set down the book, studying her mother’s face—the composed features, the slight tightening around the mouth. “What is it?”
“Nothing yet,” came the too-careful reply. “Though I suspect that will not remain the case once your father returns from his club.”
