“That’s marriage,” he corrected softly. “Our marriage.”
She looked up at him, equal parts love and exasperation. “You can’t lock me away every time you feel possessive.”
“Watch me.”
“Adrian—”
He kissed her—thoroughly, triumphantly—and when he finally drew back, both breathless, he said, “One day. Give me one day that belongs only to us.”
The vulnerability in his voice undid her. “All right. One day.”
“Good.” He swept her into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. “Starting now.”
“It’s evening—”
“Then we’ll count until tomorrow evening. Even better.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You are spying on your sister. In broad daylight. Through a hedge.”
Adrian did not even have the decency to look abashed as Marianne discovered him crouched behind the neatly trimmed boxwood, peering through the foliage at the Royal Academy’s sculpture garden, where Catherine and Lord Timothy stood examining a marble Venus.
“I am not spying,” he said with ducal dignity, somewhat undermined by the leaf in his hair. “I am observing.”
“Through a hedge.”
“It affords excellent cover.”
“Adrian, you are the Duke of Harrowmere, not a Bow Street Runner.” Marianne tugged at his arm, attempting to draw him away. “Do come away before someone sees you.”
“I must know his intentions.”
“His intentions are plain to anyone with eyes. The man is utterly besotted.”
“Besotted men can still be dangerous.” Adrian shifted, finding a better vantage through the leaves. “Look how close he stands.”
Marianne sighed and, despite herself, leaned to look. Lord Timothy was indeed near Catherine, but his posture was irreproachable—hands clasped neatly behind his back, head inclined to hear her observations upon the sculpture.
“They are discussing art,” she said. “In public. Beneath the watchful gaze of half of London.”
“Exactly. The perfect disguise for—”
“For what? Subversive sculpture appreciation?”
He turned to glare at her, an expression rendered ineffective when she reached up and plucked the leaf from his hair. His mouth twitched, the faintest hint of surrender.
“I am being ridiculous,” he admitted.
“Yes.”
“I cannot help it. She is my sister. My responsibility.”
“She is a grown woman who has finally found someone who sees her as more than her misfortunes.” Marianne’s tone softened. “Lord Timothy makes her laugh, Adrian. When was the last time you heard her truly laugh before he came along?”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze returning to where Catherine now sketched something in her notebook while Lord Timothy watched with open admiration.
“Five years ago,” he said at last. “The morning of the accident. She was laughing at her dancing master’s ridiculous moustache.”
