“What kind of statement?” Marianne asked, arching a brow.
“That the Duchess of Harrowmere bows to no one’s opinion.” His fingers brushed her shoulder, just for a moment. “That she’s magnificent—and knows it.”
The result was nothing short of astonishing: sapphire silk that mirrored her wedding ring, black lace that hinted rather than revealed, a neckline daring enough to command attention without descending into scandal. When she donned it on the evening of the assembly, she hardly recognised herself.
“You’ll ruin them,” Adrian said from the doorway, immaculate in black.
“Is that the aim?”
“The aim is to remind them that you’re my duchess. The destruction will merely be incidental.” He stepped behind her, his hands resting lightly on her waist. “You’re wearing the locket.”
She touched the gold where it rested against her skin. “I always do.”
Something flickered in his expression—an emotion she couldn’t name. “We should go.”
The carriage ride was quiet but charged. Adrian sat across from her, his gaze unyielding, the lamplight catching in his eyes.
“You’re nervous,” he observed.
“Shouldn’t I be? This is our first public appearance together. The ton will be watching, judging, waiting for any crack in the façade.”
“Let them watch.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “You’re the Duchess of Harrowmere. You could throw wine in their faces and they’d still curtsy.”
“I wasn’t planning to throw anything.”
“A shame. It would make an impression.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he said softly, “are mine.”
The words hung in the air—possession and promise in equal measure.
“Remember that tonight,” he went on, his tone gentler now. “No matter what anyone says or does—you belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”
***
Lady Ashworth’s ballroom blazed with light and noise. The moment they entered, conversations stuttered and stopped. Every eye turned to them—the Beast and his merchant bride, the scandal sanctified by marriage.
Adrian’s hand came to rest at the small of her back, possessive and reassuring as he guided her through the throng.Bows and curtseys followed in their wake, along with the inevitable whispers.
“…barely a week married…”
“…must have been compromised…”
“…poor girl, trapped with him…”
“Your Grace!” Lady Ashworth glided forward, her smile bright and brittle. “Howwonderfulthat you could attend. And, Duchess—you do look... striking.”
“Lady Ashworth.” Marianne matched the smile, all porcelain politeness. “How kind of you to include us.”
“But of course! Everyone isdyingto offer their congratulations.” The emphasis was as subtle as a slap.
They made the requisite circuit, accepting felicitations that ranged from lukewarm to malicious. Adrian remained beside her throughout, his presence a dark, silent warning that kept the more vicious tongues in check. Yet Marianne could feel the tension in him—the way his hand would tighten slightly whenever a comment strayed too close to insult.
And thensheappeared.
Lady Venetia Carlisle.
