“Definehonourable,” came Adrian’s reply—pure ducal frost.
“I wish to court her properly, with the ultimate intention of marriage, should she be willing.”
“You have known her for a week.”
“A week, yes. But I have admired her far longer. My art instructor in Rome, Signor Benedetti, often spoke of an English lady who spent hours among the ruins, calculating the mathematics of beauty. He showed me the sketches she left behind—they were brilliant.”
There was a pause, then Adrian’s voice, slightly less frigid: “She left sketches in Rome?”
“She did. Signor Benedetti prized them. When I learned that Lady Catherine was that same English lady, I was determined to meet her.”
“So you are enamoured of herartwork?”
“Not enamoured—inspired. And now that I know her, it is something far deeper. She is extraordinary, Your Grace. Not for her beauty, though she has that in abundance, nor for her title, though I respect it—but for the way her mind works. She sees order where others see chaos, finds elegance in mathematics, passion in proportion. She discusses architecture with more spirit than most ladies discuss gowns.”
Marianne’s heart softened as she listened.
“And her past?” Adrian’s tone held steel. “The gossip, the speculation?”
“Is irrelevant to the lady she is now. Whatever she endured shaped her into someone remarkable. I do not seek to mend or rescue her. I only wish to know her—to share ideas, to make her smile.”
“Pretty words,” Adrian said darkly.
“Honest ones,” Lord Timothy answered. “I am no poet, Your Grace, merely a second son with a modest income and a passion for buildings. I can offer her comfort, companionship, and constancy. It may not sound like much—”
“It is everything,” Adrian said quietly.
A startled silence followed.
“Your Grace?”
“My sister needs no fortune—she has that. No consequence—she was born to it. What she needs is a man who seesher, not the scandal, not the title. You seem to see her.”
“I do. Or I try to.”
“Then you may court her,” Adrian said, his tone softening by degrees. “Properly. With appropriate supervision. And if you hurt her, even by accident, I shall ensure what remains of you is discovered by archaeologists in a thousand years.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
“Good. Now go—and send my sister in.”
Marianne barely had time to retreat around the corner before Lord Timothy emerged, his expression an entertaining blend of triumph and terror. He passed her without noticing, heading for the drawing room.
Moments later, Catherine appeared, radiant. “He asked permission to court me!” she whispered to Marianne. “Properly!”
She hurried into the study, and Marianne heard Adrian’s unmistakable growl: “Do not look so pleased with yourself. I have granted permission for acourtship, not a betrothal.”
“I know. But Adrian—he wishes to courtme! Not your sister, not the Duke’s connection—me!”
“Yes, well,” came the dry reply. “He seems… acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” Catherine laughed. “From you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I learned from the best.”
Marianne smiled at their familiar exchange, but another wave of dizziness forced her to catch the wall for support. Perhaps she truly ought to lie down before—
