“Indeed there is,” Marianne agreed pleasantly. “He defended my honour, I admired his nobility, we married. Quite straightforward, really.”
“How refreshingly simple.” Venetia gestured to the tables. “Shall we begin? I’ve already arranged the partners. Your Grace”—to Adrian—“you’ll play with Colonel Morrison. I believe you served together in India?”
Adrian went very still. Colonel Morrison, florid and heavy-eyed, had indeed been in India. The pairing was no accident.
“And the duchess,” Venetia continued, “shall partner Lord Harrison against myself and Mr Thompson.”
Another careful move. Harrison was already half-drunk and indiscreet; Mr Thompson was Venetia’s creature through and through—a younger son with a sharp tongue and an empty purse.
“And Catherine?” Marianne asked, unwilling to let her sister-in-law be placed without oversight.
“Dear Catherine will play with the younger set—my cousin Lydia and the Ashworth twins. I thought she’d enjoy companions of her own age.”
The Ashworth twins were notorious gossips, and Lydia Carlisle had the morals of a snake.
“How thoughtful,” Catherine said dryly, surprising everyone with her composure. “Though I should warn you, I’m dreadful at cards. Papa always said I couldn’t bluff to save my life.”
“Then you’ll fit perfectly into our little game,” Venetia purred. “After all, we’re playing for truth.”
They took their places with the gravity of soldiers preparing for battle. Marianne noted how the room had been arranged—she could not see Adrian’s table from her position, nor could she monitor Catherine. They were isolated, separated, vulnerable.
The first few hands passed harmlessly enough. Questions concerned favourite books, childhood memories, opinions on fashion. Marianne began to relax, wondering if perhaps she had overestimated Venetia’s malice.
Then she lost a hand.
“Oh, how delightful!” Venetia clapped her hands, eyes alight with triumph. “Now, what shall I ask our dear duchess?” She tapped her chin in feigned thought. “I know! Tell us about your wedding night. Was the Beast of Belgravia as … demanding as his reputation suggests?”
A stunned silence fell. Every head turned. Such a question was beyond indecent—a deliberate strike at Marianne’s dignity.
Lord Harrison cleared his throat. “I say, Lady Venetia, that’s rather—”
“Rather what? We are all married women here—or soon to be.” Venetia’s smile was pure venom. “Surely the duchess need not be ashamed of her marriage bed? Unless there is something … unusual about it?”
Heat rose to Marianne’s cheeks, but her voice remained steady. “My wedding night was precisely as a bride might hope—private, tender, and between husband and wife. As it should be.”
“How tediously conventional. And here I thought His Grace preferred more … adventurous amusements.”
The implication was unmistakable. Venetia was circling close to ruinous territory.
Across the room, a chair scraped sharply—Adrian’s, no doubt—but Marianne lifted a hand, forbidding him to interfere.
“I wouldn’t know about his past preferences,” Marianne said calmly. “I only know that my husband is attentive, considerate, and entirely satisfying. Though I can understand your curiosity, Lady Venetia—particularly with your own wedding approaching. I do hope His Grace enjoysrobusthealth despite his advanced years?”
Gasps rippled through the room. To question an elderly man’s potency, even obliquely, was audacious in the extreme.
Venetia’s face flushed darkly. “How dare—”
“Ladies, please!” Mrs Thompson, the elderly matron who had watched in silence until now, rose with unexpected authority. “This is meant as amusement, not warfare. Perhaps we might return to more seemly questions?”
“Of course,” Venetia said through clenched teeth. “How foolish of me to forget that some are too delicate for honest discourse.”
The game continued, but the air had changed. Lines were drawn, sides quietly taken. Marianne caught more than one guest studying Venetia with new wariness, as if seeing her cruelty laid bare.
Three hands later, disaster struck from another quarter.
“I’ve won!” Lydia Carlisle cried from Catherine’s table. “Now, Lady Catherine, my question for you—why did you really leave England? And please don’t insult us with tales of health cures in Italy.”
Catherine went pale. Marianne half-rose, but Harrison caught her arm.
