“You are learning. We all are.”
As the sun rose fully, bathing the room in golden light, Marianne thought about the journey that had brought them here. From that first shocking meeting at the opera to this moment, lying in the arms of a man who was learning to love despite believing himself incapable of it.
Venetia had been wrong about so many things, but most of all about this: Marianne wasn’t another wall Adrian had built around himself. She was the force helping him tear the walls down, brick by brick, scar by scar.
“What happens now?” Adrian asked, as if reading her thoughts.
“Now we live,” she said. “We help Catherine re-enter society. We face whatever gossip comes. We keep learning how to be married.”
“That sounds terrifyingly ordinary.”
“Does it? I rather think it sounds like an adventure.”
He kissed her then—deep and sure, full of promise and the familiar edge of possessive hunger that never quite faded.
“With you,” he murmured against her lips, “everything’s an adventure.”
“Even breakfast?”
“Especially breakfast. You have a talent for overturning social order between the eggs and the toast.”
She laughed, bright in the morning air. “Only when provoked.”
“Then I must be certain to provoke you often.”
“I am counting on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
The ballroom at Weatherby House glittered like the inside of a jewel box, and Marianne felt like the most fraudulent gem in the collection.
“Stop fidgeting,” Adrian murmured against her ear, his breath warm, his tone carrying that unmistakable note of ducal command. “You look magnificent.”
She did look well—Sarah had outdone herself with an evening gown of midnight-blue silk that shimmered with every movement, and her mother’s sapphires blazed at her throat like captured stars. But looking the part andfeelingit were entirely different matters, especially when she could sense the weight of several hundred curious eyes upon their entrance.
“They’re all staring,” Catherine whispered from Adrian’s other side, her fingers trembling where they rested on her brother’s arm.
“Let them,” Adrian said with perfect indifference, though Marianne felt the tension in his body—the careful control that kept him from either fleeing or baring his teeth at the assembled crowd. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
It had been two weeks since their dramatic departure from Worthington Manor. Two weeks of relative peace at Harrowmere—quiet mornings, passionate nights, Catherine slowly blooming back to life, Adrian learning to soften his edges. But London would not be ignored forever, and the Weatherbys’ball—their first public appearance since what society now called ‘the Worthington Incident’—would decide their standing for the remainder of the Season.
“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Harrowmere, and Lady Catherine Blackwell,” the majordomo announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly hushed ballroom.
The silence that followed felt eternal. Then, deliberately, Lady Weatherby herself crossed the floor, her smile genuine rather than society-bright.
“Your Graces, Lady Catherine—how wonderful that you could attend.” She dropped into a curtsey a shade deeper than necessary—a subtle but unmistakable declaration of allegiance. “We have been so looking forward to your presence.”
“Lady Weatherby.” Marianne matched her curtsey perfectly, having practised until she could execute it in her sleep. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Nonsense, my dear. After that dreadful business at Worthington’s, we’re all simply relieved to see you looking so well.” Lady Weatherby’s voice carried just enough to be overheard by the nearest guests. “Such shocking behaviour from one we all thought we knew. But you handled it with such grace. We were all most impressed.”
The political calculus was clear but welcome—Lady Weatherby was publicly taking their side, casting Venetia as the villain and them as the dignified victims who had prevailed. Others would follow her lead, Marianne knew. The only question was how many.
“You are too kind,” Marianne replied, but Lady Weatherby was already turning to Catherine with motherly concern.
“My dear girl, you look lovely. That colour quite becomes you.” Catherine’s gown of soft rose silk had been chosen to make her appear serene rather than tragic. “Emma will be delighted you’re here. She’s been asking after you since she heard you’d returned.”
“Emma’s here?” Catherine’s face lit with genuine pleasure. Emma Weatherby—now Mrs Carstairs—had been one of her few true friends before the accident.
