“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “remember that you’re my duchess. Mine. No matter what she says or does, that doesn’t change.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Venetia will try to make you doubt it. She’ll imply, insinuate, invent—whatever serves her. Don’t let her.” His thumb brushed over her wedding ring. “That’s not just ornament. It’s armour.”
The manor appeared ahead—an immense Palladian edifice that loomed rather than welcomed. Carriages already filled the courtyard, releasing passengers like poisonous blooms unfolding in reverse.
“Ready?” Adrian asked.
“No,” Marianne admitted. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
His smile was swift and sharp. “That’s my duchess.”
They descended from the carriage in perfect formation—Adrian first, then turning to help Marianne, then Catherine. A statement of unity, of precedence, of protection. Footmen in Worthington livery rushed to attend them, but it was the figure waiting at the top of the steps that drew every eye.
Venetia stood like a queen receiving supplicants, dressed in cloth-of-gold that should have looked garish but somehow made her seem like she’d been dipped in sunlight. Worthington besideher looked like a withered tree next to a goddess—which was probably exactly the effect she’d intended.
“Adrian,” she purred, descending with feline grace. “How wonderful that you could come. And you’ve brought your entire family. How... comprehensive.”
“Lady Venetia.” Adrian’s bow was impeccable and ice-cold. “Our congratulations on your betrothal.”
“Yes, rather sudden, wasn’t it?” Her smile could have cut glass. “But then, you’d know all about sudden betrothals. Your Grace”—to Marianne, with a curtsey both flawless and faintly insulting—“how lovely to see you again. That silk at the assembly wassomemorable.”
“As was your departure from it,” Marianne replied sweetly. “How fortunate that you’ve found a situation better suited to your... circumstances.”
Venetia’s eyes flashed, though her smile remained perfect. “And dear Catherine! How wonderful to see you emerge from your self-imposed exile. Your letters from Rome were suchentertainingreading.”
Catherine went very still. “I was unaware entertainment was their purpose.”
“Oh, but everything can be entertainment—viewed from the right angle.” Venetia slipped her arm through Catherine’s with practised affection. “Come, you must tell me all about Rome. I’m simply dying to hear of your adventures.”
“Actually,” Adrian interjected smoothly, “we should like to refresh ourselves after the journey. Perhaps you could have someone show us to our rooms?”
“Of course. Though there has been a slight confusion with the arrangements.” Venetia’s expression was all false contrition. “We’ve had to place you in separate wings. The Duke and Duchess in the east wing, naturally, as befits your rank. But dear Catherine must be in the south wing, with the other unmarried ladies—for propriety’s sake, of course.”
“That’s not—” Adrian began.
“Necessary? I’m afraid it is. Worthington is quite old-fashioned about such matters. Unmarried ladies must be properly chaperoned, particularly during our evening diversions.” Her smile gleamed. “We wouldn’t wish any whispers of impropriety, would we? Not when Catherine is at such a delicate age for making a match.”
It was masterfully done—using propriety itself as a weapon, forcing them to accept the separation or seem careless with Catherine’s reputation.
“How thoughtful,” Marianne said before Adrian could respond. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think Catherine wasn’t receiving the full protection due to an unmarried lady of quality.”
“Exactly! I knew you’d understand. After all, you must be so careful about perceptions, given your own... unusual circumstances.”
Before Marianne could respond, Worthington himself tottered forward, his ancient face creasing into what might have been intended as a welcoming smile.
“Harrowmere! Good of you to come, good of you. Need young blood around here. Well, younger than mine, anyway.” He wheezed a laugh at his own joke. “Your ladies are looking splendid. Venetia will take good care of them, won’t you, my dear?”
“Of course, darling.” Venetia’s hand on his arm was possessive, proprietary. “I live only to ensure your guests’ comfort.”
As footmen led them toward their respective chambers, Marianne caught Adrian’s eye. The battle had begun before they’d even crossed the threshold. Separated, isolated, already on the defensive—Venetia had won the opening round.
But as Marianne’s mother has always said, the first round was merely to test one’s opponent’s reach. The true fight was yet to come.
***
Their rooms were magnificent—chosen, clearly, to intimidate. The ducal suite overlooked the formal gardens; silk wallpaper gleamed under gilt-framed paintings, and every surface whispered of centuries of privilege. Yet the insults were subtle: the flowers were past their prime, the fire unlit despite the chill, the water in the basin tepid.
