“Every forged document, every bribed affidavit, every stitch of contrived ‘evidence’ Venetia collected,” Worthington said. “Consider it a wedding gift—or an apology.” He tipped his hat to Marianne. “Anyone who can turn a plot on its head deserves respect.”
“Why?” Adrian asked, bewildered.
“Because I may be marrying a viper, but I’m not without honour. And because your duchess behaved admirably tonight.” He inclined his head. “I hope next time we meet it will be under pleasanter circumstances.”
“As do I,” Marianne said, though privately she hoped never to see Worthington Manor again.
The coach rolled away in a taut silence. Catherine dozed, exhausted. Adrian sat rigid, his hand wrapped about hers until the knuckles whitened.
“Say something,” she whispered at last.
“What would you have me say?” His voice was raw. “That I led you into peril? That my past threatened those I—” He broke off.
“Those you what?” she pressed.
He turned in the dim light, his scarred profile painfully open. “Those I love.” The words were small and astonishing, and they hung between them like a fragile heirloom.
“Adrian—”
“I know I said I did not know how to love,” he murmured, thumb tracing the rim of her wedding ring. “That I could not. But seeing anyone hurt you or Catherine... it makes me feel as if I’m being flayed alive.”
“That sounds like love,” Marianne said softly.
“Does it?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “It feels like madness.”
“Perhaps they are the same thing.”
She reached up to touch his scarred cheek, and he leaned into her palm with a vulnerability that made her heart ache.
“You handled her perfectly—Venetia, I mean,” he murmured.
“I had a good teacher.”
“He must be a wise man, then.”
“Arrogant beast, more like.”
Despite everything, he smiled—a true smile that transformed his face. “Your beast, though.”
“Yes,” she said, warmth blooming in her chest. “Mine.”
They stopped at an inn before midnight, too exhausted to travel farther. Adrian arranged rooms with his usual quiet efficiency, but when it came time to part for the night, he lingered at her door.
“Stay,” she said simply.
They came together with the tenderness of survivors—no frenzy, only fierce relief. Every touch spoke of endurance, every breath of belonging. Adrian mapped her body like territory reclaimed from war, whispering endearments against her skin that would have shocked society with their raw honesty.
Afterwards, as they lay tangled in the inn’s simple sheets, Marianne traced patterns on his chest.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That Venetia was wrong.”
“About?”
“Everything,” he said, catching her hand and pressing it to his heart. “But especially about you being just another obsession. Obsessions fade. This—whatever this is—only deepens.”
“Even after tonight? After all the danger and scandal?”
