“When Catherine comes,” she said, “I’ll be with you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He pulled her closer, his breath warm against her hair. For the first time since their marriage, she heard something almost like hope in his voice.
“Mayhap,” he murmured. “Maybe it will be all right.”
“It will,” she whispered, though her heart trembled. Because Catherine’s return would either heal old wounds—or tear them open beyond repair.
Only time would tell which.
Chapter Ten
“Your hand is going to get us caught.”
“Nonsense. The tablecloth hides everything.”
“Adrian, I cannot possibly discuss the menu with Cook while you’re—oh goodness—”
Marianne gripped the edge of the breakfast table, striving for composure as Adrian’s hand continued its wicked mischief beneath her skirts. Three weeks of marriage had taught her one undeniable truth: her husband was incorrigible, particularly when propriety demanded restraint.
“You were saying something about the fish course?” He took a measured sip of tea with his free hand, the very image of ducal composure above the table—while below, he conspired to make her lose all sense of it.
“I was saying—” She bit her lip as his touch grew far too knowing. “You are impossible.”
“I’m attentive. There’s a distinction.” His hand stilled just as she was about to lose all sense. “Now, about that fish course?”
“Adrian Blackwell, if you do not—”
The breakfast-room door burst open.
“Adrian! I’m home! Where are you, you impossible—oh.”
Marianne froze. Adrian’s hand vanished so swiftly she almost doubted its presence at all.
In the doorway stood a woman who could only be Lady Catherine Blackwell—golden-haired where Adrian was dark, delicate where he was angular, but with the same intelligent eyes and stubborn chin.
“Catherine.” Adrian rose slowly, his voice neutral and too calm. “You’re early.”
“By three days, yes. The Channel was uncharacteristically obliging.” Catherine’s gaze darted between them, taking in Marianne’s flushed cheeks and Adrian’s guilty posture. A knowing smile curved her lips. “I appear to be interrupting breakfast.”
“Not at all,” Marianne managed, praying her voice sounded normal. “You must be Lady Catherine. I’m—”
“My new sister!” Catherine crossed the room in a rustle of travel-worn silk and embraced her before anyone could react. “Oh, you’re even prettier than they said. And you married him—voluntarily! Are you quite in your senses?”
“Catherine,” Adrian warned.
“What? It’s a fair question. You are not precisely the ideal husband, dearest brother—all that brooding and glowering.” She stepped back to study Marianne, her eyes bright. “Though I suppose you have your reasons.”
Something flickered across Adrian’s face—discomfort, perhaps warning. “Catherine.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I meant you’re useful for reaching high shelves and frightening away unwanted suitors.” Her tone was light, but there was a hidden edge beneath it.
“How was Rome?” Marianne asked, hoping to ease the strain in the air.
“Tedious by the end. There are only so many ruins one can admire before they begin to resemble one another.” Catherine smiled thinly. “But I hear you’ve caused quite the stir here. The merchant’s daughter who tamed the Beast.”
