“Ah, but where you’re sitting is the problem, isn’t it?” His fingers moved slightly, the lightest brush against her arm. “As I mentioned, you’d be much more comfortable elsewhere.”
“You are impossible.”
“I have been called worse.”
“By me, I’d imagine.”
“Not yet, though I have high hopes for the future.”
Despite herself—despite the crowded room and her mother mere inches away—Marianne laughed. It was soft, scarcely more than a breath, but it was real.
“There,” Adrian said, satisfaction in his tone. “That’s better.”
“Better than what?”
“Than the polite mask you’ve worn all evening. You’re not made for masks, Miss Whitcombe. You’re made for truth.”
“And you think you know my truth?”
“I believe I am beginning to.” His thigh shifted again, a subtle movement that sent sparks through her entire body. “You’re bored by all this, aren’t you? The careful conversation, the endless courtesies, the need to prove yourself worthy of their regard. You would rather be anywhere else.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Yes. Here you are.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something almost like admiration. “Fighting for your place with every breath, refusing to retreat even when they treat you as though you do not belong. It’s magnificent.”
The unexpected compliment caught her off guard. “I... that’s...”
“The truth,” he finished. “Which you claim to value so highly.”
Mrs Fortescue chose that moment to conclude her piece with a flourish that could only be described as enthusiastic. The audience applauded with visible relief, though several people were already edging toward the doors, hoping to escape before she began again.
“I need air,” Marianne announced, rising abruptly. The combination of the heat, the dreadful music, and the Duke’s proximity had left her light-headed.
Her mother gave a faint nod. “Don’t be long.”
Adrian’s gaze followed her as she stepped into the aisle. “You should take a turn in the garden,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.
“I intend to,” she replied, not daring to look directly at him.
He inclined his head slightly, the gesture one of polite detachment for any observing eyes. “And I shall see to a glass of brandy.”
It was all perfectly proper—on the surface. Marianne left the salon first, weaving through the dispersing crowd toward the open French doors. The air was blessedly cool after the stifling heat within, and she drew a steadying breath as she stepped onto the terrace.
Moments later, she heard the faint click of a cane upon stone. Adrian emerged through a separate doorway, pausing as though merely surveying the garden before descending the steps.
Several couples had also come out to stroll among the lamp-lit paths, their laughter drifting softly through the night. Marianne moved toward the far end of the terrace, where a trellis of climbing roses cast dappled shadows.
“Better?” he asked, appearing beside her as if by coincidence.
“Much.” She drew a deep breath, letting the night air soothe her heated skin. “Though I suspect this is even more scandalous than sitting together inside.”
“Undoubtedly. By tomorrow, they’ll have us engaged or eloping, depending on which version spreads faster.”
“Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Should it?” He stepped closer, backing her gently toward the garden wall. “I’ve been socially dead for years, Miss Whitcombe. My reputation can hardly decline further.”
“But mine can.”
