“So I should just accept her insults? Let her humiliate me publicly?”
“No,” he said gently. “But you don’t fight fire by throwing yourself into the flames.” His hands softened, sliding down her arms in reassurance. “You’re clever, Marianne. Far cleverer than she gives you credit for. Use that brilliance. Don’t let pride make you act on her terms.”
She wanted to argue, but he was right. Venetia had set the stage, chosen the players, written the script. Meeting her head-on would only tighten the trap.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Something she’ll never expect,” he said softly. “Kindness. Real warmth. Show an interest in the others—make them see you, not her. Win their affection, not their fear.” He drew her close, his voice low and steady. “Be yourself—the woman who listens, who laughs, who disarms with wit instead of anger. That’s the woman who’ll defeat Venetia. Not the one wearing armour.”
“I thought the armour was necessary.”
“Some armour. But not so much that you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t be human.” He kissed her forehead. “She’s counting on you being stiff, superior, exactly what they expect from new nobility. Surprise them.”
***
Dinner was held in the great hall—a vast chamber large enough to swallow Marianne’s entire early childhood home. The table settings were, naturally, gold; Venetia would never have tolerated anything so gauche as restraint. Seating had been arranged for maximum disadvantage: Adrian at Worthington’s right hand, far from Marianne, who found herself between Lord Harrison and Sir Gerald Hawthorne. Catherine had been relegated to the far end, surrounded by the youngest and silliest members of the party.
But Marianne remembered Adrian’s advice. Rather than bristle at the insult, she turned to Lord Harrison with a smile of genuine warmth.
“I understand you have interests in the new railway ventures,” she said. “My father has been considering an investment, though he finds the prospectuses impossibly dense. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Harrison, who had clearly expected hauteur, blinked. “You’re interested in railways, Your Grace?”
“In anything that moves commerce forward,” Marianne replied lightly. “Beauty fades, but sound investments compound. Terribly merchant-class of me, I know—but I confess I find ledgers far more absorbing than fashion plates.”
“My word, that’s refreshing!” boomed Sir Gerald from her other side. “My wife spends a fortune on fripperies and couldn’t tell me what our estates yield in a year.”
“Perhaps she’s simply never been invited to learn?” Marianne suggested gently. “I’ve found that most women have an excellent head for figures—when given the opportunity to use it.”
The conversation flowed easily from there, ranging over investments, estate management, and the challenges of modern agriculture. Marianne offered anecdotes from her father’s business, punctuated by keen observations and thoughtful questions. By the second course, both men were entirely captivated, and others nearby leaned in to listen.
From her place of honour beside Worthington, Venetia watched the scene unfold—her expression curdling as what was meant to humiliate became, unmistakably, Marianne’s triumph.
Chapter Thirteen
The drawing room at Worthington Manor had been transformed into a gaming hell worthy of the most notorious establishments in St. James’s. Card tables draped in green baize occupied every corner, their polished surfaces gleaming beneath chandeliers that threw light and shadow in equal measure. The air hung thick with perfume, candle smoke, and anticipation.
Marianne watched from the doorway as Venetia held court at the central table. The woman’s laugh carried across the room—bright, brittle, and sharp enough to cut glass.
“Ah, our final players have arrived!” Venetia announced, her tone carrying that particular note of false warmth that made Marianne’s teeth ache. “Do come in, Your Graces. We were just explaining tonight’s entertainment.”
Adrian’s hand came to rest at the small of Marianne’s back, a gesture both protective and possessive. She could feel the tension radiating through him, the tightly leashed control that had marked his demeanour since dinner.
“Cards, I presume?” Adrian’s tone suggested indifference, though Marianne knew better. She recognised the subtle signs of his unease—the slight tightening about his eyes, the particular set of his shoulders that spoke of hypervigilance.
“Cards, yes, but with a delightful variation.” Venetia’s smile could have soured milk. “Tonight we play for truths rather than coin. The winners of each hand may ask the losers any question,and they must answer honestly. After all, what is friendship without a few unguarded moments?”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the company. Lady Thornton’s hand fluttered to her throat; Sir Gerald Hawthorne stared into his brandy as though it might rescue him. Even Lord Harrison, usually eager for any diversion, shifted uneasily.
“That seems rather … invasive,” Catherine ventured from her post near the pianoforte. She had been attempting to disappear into the wallpaper all evening, still drained from the afternoon’s ordeal with her unfortunate roommate.
“Invasive?” Venetia’s laugh tinkled like broken crystal. “My dear Catherine, surely among friends there are no secrets—unless, of course, one has something to hide?”
The challenge hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet. Marianne felt Adrian tense beside her, ready to intervene, but she pressed a steadying hand against his arm. This was a trap. To refuse would be seen as cowardice or, worse, an admission of guilt.
“What delightful entertainment,” Marianne said, gliding forward with deliberate composure. “Though I fear I shall disappoint anyone in search of scandalous revelations.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much.” Venetia’s eyes glittered. “A merchant’s daughter who captured a duke in so brief a time? Surely there’s a tale worth hearing.”
