“You are a merchant’s daughter—”
“I am the Duchess of Harrowmere,” Marianne interrupted, her voice clear and carrying, drawing the attention of half the ballroom. “I am the wife of a peer of the realm, the sister-in-law of Lady Catherine Blackwell, the daughter-in-law of the late Duke and Duchess of Harrowmere. My blood may come from trade, but my title comes from church and crown. So when you address me, Lady Harrison, you will use my title with the respect it commands—or not address me at all.”
The ballroom fell silent, a ripple of awe and alarm spreading through the glittering crowd. Lady Harrison looked around for allies, but none met her gaze. The tide had turned—Marianne’s triumph at Worthington had become legend, and now even those who once mocked her stood quietly on her side.
“I... Your Grace...” Lady Harrison’s capitulation came out strangled. “I meant no offence.”
“Of course not,” Marianne said graciously, now that victory was secured. “We all sometimes speak without thinking. I’m certain it will not happen again.”
Lady Harrison fled with what dignity she could muster, her husband hurrying after her with obvious relief. The ballroom slowly returned to normal conversation, though Marianne caught several approving nods—and even a few smiles—directed her way.
“Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you?” Adrian murmured, his lips barely moving, pride glinting beneath the teasing tone.
“I learned from the best.”
“Clearly.” His hand settled at the small of her back—a gesture that appeared merely proper but burned through the silk of her gown. “Dance with me.”
“The dancing hasn’t started—”
“It has now.”
He led her onto the floor with ducal certainty that brooked no argument, and a moment later the musicians hastily struck up a waltz.
Other couples joined them, but Marianne was aware only of Adrian—the heat of his hand at her waist, the surety of his movements, the intensity in his gaze that made her breath catch.
“You’re looking at me as though you mean to devour me,” she whispered.
“I do.” His grip tightened fractionally. “Watching you destroy Lady Harrison with words alone was... magnificent.”
“You’re supposed to disapprove of such unladylike conduct.”
“I’m supposed to do many things I don’t.” He spun her, using the movement to draw her closer than was strictly proper. “My wife defending our family’s honour? Nothing could be more ladylike.”
“Our family,” she repeated softly, tasting the words.
“Yes.” His expression gentled in a way that would have astonished anyone who had known him before. “Ours.”
The waltz ended, but before they could leave the floor, Lord Ashford—Reginald—approached with a younger man at his side—the resemblance unmistakable despite the ink stain on the youth’s cuff.
“Your Graces,” he said, bowing.
“Lord Ashford.” Adrian inclined his head. “How was Bath? I trust the waters proved beneficial.”
“Indeed,” Reginald replied, visibly pleased. “Lady Ashford’s health improved markedly. We are much restored.” He gestured to the young man beside him. “May I present my son, Lord Timothy? Newly returned from his studies in Rome.”
“Rome?” Adrian’s interest sharpened. “Architecture, I presume?”
Lord Timothy’s face brightened. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been studying the classical forms—particularly the mathematics of proportion and harmony.”
“Fascinating,” Adrian said, and meant it. “My sister has only just returned from Rome herself. She spent considerable time among the ruins.”
“Lady Catherine is here?” The young man’s eagerness was unguarded. “I had heard she’d returned to England. I would be honoured to pay my respects.”
Marianne and Adrian exchanged a quick glance. His interest seemed genuine—not in the scandal, but in Catherine herself.
“She’s speaking with Mrs Carstairs,” Marianne said, gesturing toward the refreshment area. “I’m sure she would be pleased to meet a fellow admirer of Rome.”
Lord Timothy bowed and crossed the room with barely contained enthusiasm. His father watched him go with paternal amusement.
