“Nothing that was not being said already, I imagine.” She settled into her chair, arranging her skirts with careful precision. “Though perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm.”
“This is no jest,” her mother hissed. “The Duke of Harrowmere—do you know what they call him?”
“The Beast of Belgravia, I believe. Also, the Scarred Duke, the Devil of Harrowmere, and on Tuesdays, I’m told, the Demon of Mayfair.” She opened her fan, using it to cool her still-flushed cheeks. “He seems to collect epithets the way other men collect snuffboxes.”
Her father leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “He spoke to you?”
“Briefly.” Her tone was light, though her pulse had not quite steadied. “He was concerned about wolves, apparently.”
“Wolves?”
“A metaphor, I believe—though for what, I could not say.”
That was a lie. She knew precisely what he had meant. Thetonwas full of predators—men who would see her merchant’s blood as permission to take liberties no gentleman would dare with a lady of breeding. The Duke’s public acknowledgement had made her infinitely more interesting to those wolves.
The only question was whether he had meant it as a warning… or a threat.
Chapter Two
“Stop fidgeting with your gloves, Marianne. You’ll wear holes in them.”
Marianne forced her hands to stillness, though every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Lady Weatherby’s musicale was the first invitation they had received in four days—four interminable days of silence that had felt like a social death sentence until the cream-coloured card had arrived that morning.
“I’m not fidgeting,” she lied, smoothing her skirts for the tenth time. She had chosen her gown with particular care: midnight-blue silk that brought out the colour of her eyes, cut fashionably but not scandalously so. After the green silk at the opera, she had decided a touch of restraint might be wise.
Though restraint seemed laughably impossible when every breath carried the possibility of seeing him again.
“He might not even attend,” her mother said, correctly interpreting the source of Marianne’s agitation. “The Duke rarely graces these sorts of gatherings.”
“I’m not concerned about the Duke,” Marianne replied, lying through her teeth.
Her mother gave her a look that said she wasn’t fooled for a moment. “Of course not, darling. You’re simply eager to hear Mrs Fortescue’s performance on the pianoforte.”
“Mrs Fortescue is renowned for her musical prowess.”
“Mrs Fortescue sounds like a dying cat when she plays, and everyone knows it. We attend these things for the conversation, not the catastrophe she calls music.”
Despite her nerves, Marianne laughed. Her mother so rarely revealed her wit in public, maintaining the careful façade of a proper merchant’s wife. But in private, she could be surprisingly astute.
The Weatherby townhouse blazed with light, every window golden with candle-glow. Carriages lined the street, disgorging the cream of society in their evening finery. Marianne noticed more than a few heads turn their way as they entered, and heard the inevitable whispers begin.
“The merchant’s daughter…”
“…defended her honour…”
“…the Beast actually threatened…”
She kept her head high, her expression serene. Let them whisper. At least none of them would dare say anything to her face.
The salon was already crowded, every seat taken save for a few deliberately left vacant for late arrivals of importance. Mrs Fortescue sat at the pianoforte, warming up with scales that already sounded slightly off-key. The poor woman really was dreadful, but her husband owned half of Hampshire, so everyone pretended otherwise.
“Miss Whitcombe!” Lady Weatherby descended upon them in a cloud of violet perfume and ostrich feathers. “How delighted I am that you could attend. And Mrs Whitcombe, what a pleasure. Do come in, come in. I’ve saved you seats just there, near the middle.”
Near the middle. Not at the back with the marginal guests, nor at the front with the truly important ones. A careful positioning that acknowledged their wealth while preserving the social hierarchy. Marianne accepted it with grace, settling into her assigned chair with her mother beside her.
The room filled quickly, the noise rising as conversation competed with Mrs Fortescue’s increasingly enthusiastic warm-up. Marianne found herself scanning the crowd, looking for—
“My word,” someone whispered behind her. “He’s actually here.”
