The pain in his voice made Marianne’s heart ache. She slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently.
“Then let her laugh again,” she whispered. “Let her have this.”
“What if he hurts her?”
“Then you will ruin him, and I shall assist you in concealing the evidence. But what if he does not? What if he makes her happy?”
Before Adrian could respond, a wave of dizziness swept over Marianne. The world tilted alarmingly, and she had to grip Adrian’s arm to keep from swaying.
“Marianne?” His voice sharpened with concern, his hand coming to her waist. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I only—The sun—it is rather warm today.”
“It is overcast.” His frown deepened. He touched her forehead. “You’re clammy. And you were unwell this morning.”
“A touch of bad fish, perhaps—from last night’s dinner.”
“You did not have fish last night.”
“Then perhaps—” Another surge of nausea cut her short, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
“We are leaving,” Adrian said at once, his tone brooking no dispute. “Now.”
“But Catherine—”
“Has Lord Timothy and half of society to attend her. You require a physician.”
“I do not—”
“Marianne.” The quiet force in his voice silenced her. “Please.”
Too light-headed to argue, she nodded. Adrian guided her swiftly through the Academy, his arm steady about her waist. Curious glances followed them—Lady Weatherby, Mrs Thompson, others who had lately become allies—but Adrian’s ducal authority ensured none dared delay them.
Within minutes, their carriage was brought round, and Marianne found herself gathered in his arms as it rattled through the streets toward Harrowmere House.
“I am being dramatic,” she murmured against his chest. “It is nothing.”
“You have been tired for days. Light-headed yesterday morning. And you barely touched breakfast all week.”
She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “You noticed all that?”
“I notice everything about you.” His thumb brushed her cheek, his voice low and roughened. “Every change. Every breath. Every silence.”
“That sounds rather obsessive.”
“We have long since established my obsessive tendencies.” He attempted a smile, though worry still shadowed his eyes. “Tell me what you are hiding.”
“Nothing! I am only fatigued from too much society and too little sleep. It is no mystery.”
He regarded her with that piercing scrutiny that missed nothing. “If something is amiss—”
“Nothing is amiss,” she said gently. “Truly.”
He did not look convinced, but further discussion was prevented by their arrival at Harrowmere House. Adrian practically carried her inside, ignoring her protests that she could walk perfectly well.
“Send for Mr Peterson,” he barked at the butler. “Immediately.”
“Adrian, really—”
