The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. His expression shuttered immediately, the moment of almost-warmth vanishing like morning mist.
“You should return to your box, Miss Whitcombe.”
“Should I?” She took a deliberate step nearer, her skirts brushing his boots. “And which are you, Your Grace—the wolf or the cage?”
Something flared in his eyes—hot, dangerous. “What makes you think there is a difference?”
“Because wolves are wild things, driven by instinct and hunger.” She was playing with fire, she knew, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Cages, on the other hand, are contrived by civilisation to contain. So which are you? The beast they whisper of—or the bars you have built around yourself?”
He went utterly still, and for a moment, she thought she’d gone too far. The scar on his face seemed to whiten, his jaw clenching with some suppressed emotion. When he moved, it was with the controlled precision of a predator.
He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to her ear. His breath stirred the delicate curls at her temple, warm and tinged with brandy. “Careful, little sparrow,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to resonate in her bones. “You might not like the answer.”
She should have been frightened. Any sensible woman would have been. Instead, she turned her head slightly, bringing her own mouth dangerously close to his. “You assume I’m looking for something to like.”
His sharp intake of breath was immensely satisfying. For a heartbeat, they stood suspended, the space between them charged with something that made her skin feel too tight, her corset too restricting. She could see the pulse beating at his throat, rapid and telling. Could feel the tension in his body, coiled and ready to spring.
Then voices approached—loud, laughing, aristocratic voices that shattered the moment like a rock through glass. The Duke straightened abruptly, stepping back with his customary controlled grace. But his eyes remained on hers, dark and unreadable.
“Your parents will be wondering where you are,” he said; his voice had returned to its earlier cultured indifference.
“Let them wonder.”
But even as she said it, she knew the interlude was over. Reality was reasserting itself in the form of Lord and Lady Harrison, who were bearing down on them with expressions of barely concealed delight at finding such prime gossip fodder.
“Harrowmere!” Lord Harrison boomed. “And the charming Miss… Whitcombe, is it not? How delightful!”
The Duke’s expression could have frozen fire itself. “Harrison.” The single word dripped disdain.
Lady Harrison’s gaze flicked between them, bright with calculation. “We did not mean to interrupt. Were you acquainted with Miss Whitcombe previously, Your Grace?”
“We have only just been introduced,” Marianne said smoothly, before the Duke could respond. “His Grace was kind enough to warn me about the wolves that hunt in these halls.”
“Wolves!” Lady Harrison tittered; the sound grating as nails on slate. “How dramatic! Though I suppose you would know of such things, would you not, Your Grace? All those years abroad in savage places...”
The Duke’s hand tightened on his cane—the only sign of his irritation. “If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head fractionally, the gesture somehow excluding the Harrisons even as it was directed at Marianne. “Miss Whitcombe.”
He turned and walked away, his slight limp barely noticeable—unless one happened to be watching very closely. Which she most certainly was not. Just as she was most certainly not noticing the way his evening coat stretched across his broadshoulders, or the way he commanded space simply by existing in it.
“Well!” Lady Harrison’s voice cut through her entirely inappropriate observations. “That was quite remarkable. The Duke of Harrowmere never speaks to anyone at these events. You must have made quite an impression, Miss Whitcombe.”
There was something sly in her tone, something that suggested she was already composing the gossip she would spread at tomorrow’s morning calls. Marianne summoned her sweetest smile—the one her father claimed could strip paint when properly applied.
“How kind of you to say so, Lady Harrison. Though I am sure His Grace was merely being polite. After all,” she added conspiratorially, “we merchants’ daughters are sonewto these refined gatherings. He likely felt obliged to prevent some dreadful faux pas.”
Lady Harrison’s eyes sharpened. “Indeed. How... considerate of him.”
“Quite. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my parents. This is our first time at Covent Garden, you know. Father was so pleased to secure a box—he so enjoyssupportingthe arts.”
She gave the word just enough weight to remind Lady Harrison precisely whose coin kept institutions like this running.
She swept away before they could respond, but not before catching Lord Harrison’s muttered, “Damned mushrooms, sprouting up everywhere.”
The walk back to her family’s box felt like navigating a battlefield. Conversations paused as she passed; faces turned; whispers followed. By tomorrow, thetonwould be aflame with talk of the Duke of Harrowmere’s unprecedented acknowledgement of the merchant’s daughter.
Her parents awaited her, both taut with anxiety.
“Marianne!” Her mother practically yanked her into the box. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea what people are saying?”
