“Because exhaustion breeds carelessness. The weary let things slip—truths, fears, mistakes.” Marianne took the chair beside her. “But also to remind us that she can. To show power over the vulnerable.”
“Adrian was right,” Catherine said bleakly. “This is war.”
“Yes. But wars can be won.”
***
By the time they assembled for tea, Marianne had transformed herself into full duchess regalia. She wore an afternoon dress of deep purple silk that had cost more than most people’s yearly income, with her mother’s amethysts at her throat. Every hair was perfect, every gesture calculated to project serene confidence.
The drawing room was already full when they arrived—at least thirty guests, all watching their entrance with avid curiosity. Venetia held court near the fireplace, still in that cloth-of-gold that should have been too much for an afternoon but somehow wasn’t.
“Your Grace,” she called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. “How kind of you to finally join us. I hope your rooms are satisfactory?”
“Perfectly adequate,” Marianne replied, the word landing like a slap. “Though I was surprised at Lady Catherine’s accommodations. It seems inconsiderate to place her with a young lady in such fragile health—neither will be able to rest comfortably under the circumstances.”
A ripple went through the crowd; Lady Thornton flushed scarlet.
“Oh dear, has there been some difficulty?” Venetia’s eyes gleamed with mock concern. “How distressing. Though I suppose you’re well acquainted with managing such matters—coming from trade, as you do.”
“Indeed,” Marianne said smoothly. “Trade teaches one to spot damaged goods—and to avoid being poisoned by them.”
The room stilled; the double meaning needed no explanation. Venetia’s smile faltered, then hardened.
“How fascinating. You must tell us all about your merchant background. I’m sure everyone isdyingto know how one transitions from counting coins to wearing a coronet.”
It was a direct attack, designed to humiliate. The room held its breath.
“Gladly,” Marianne replied, settling into a chair like a queen upon her throne. “Though I should perhaps remind you, Lady Venetia, that my family hasn’t ‘countedcoins’ in quite some time. We employ several people to do that for us—and with rather more efficiency than most titled estates manage their debts.” She smiled, perfectly serene. “But I imagine the transition is much like moving from mistress to wife—one simply requires the right opportunity, and the determination to grasp it.”
Someone gasped. Someone else tittered nervously. Venetia’s face went white, then red.
“Indeed,” she managed. “Though some transitions are more successful than others.”
“Quite true. Yet success can be such a fleeting thing, don’t you find?” Marianne sipped her tea calmly. “After all, May–December arrangements can be so very... brief. December has such a tendency to end abruptly.”
The insult to Worthington’s age was bold, perhaps too bold. But Venetia had drawn first blood with the room assignments and the laudanum. This was Marianne’s declaration that she wouldn’t be cowed.
Adrian, who’d been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. “Perhaps we could discuss something more pleasant. Lady Venetia, I understand you’ve planned extensive entertainments. Might we hear about them?”
It was a lifeline, a chance to retreat from open warfare. Venetia took it, though her eyes promised retribution.
“Of course. Tonight, we’ll have music and cards. Tomorrow, riding and archery for those who enjoy them, and I’ve arranged a special tableau vivant for the evening—scenes from mythology. I thought you might participate, Your Grace,” this to Marianne. “Perhaps as Pandora? It seems so appropriate.”
The insult was clear—Pandora, who released evil into the world through curiosity and pride.
“I prefer Penelope,” Marianne replied. “Patient, clever, and ultimately victorious.”
“How optimistic.”
The rest of tea was a careful dance of veiled insults and false pleasantries. Other guests began to choose sides through their attention—some gravitating toward Venetia’s court, others showing subtle deference to the ducal couple. Catherine, exhausted from the afternoon’s crisis, said little, but her presence beside Marianne was its own statement.
As they prepared for dinner, Adrian paced their room like a caged beast.
“You’re being too aggressive,” he said. “Venetia thrives on conflict. You’re giving her what she wants.”
“I’m showing her I won’t be intimidated.”
“You’re showing her where to strike.” He caught her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “She wanted you angry, reactive. Now she knows exactly how to provoke you.”
