Chapter 20
The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning that had begun like every morning of the past fortnight since New Year's Eve—with Alaric in Marianne's bakery at four-thirty, wearing an apron that still didn't quite fit his tall frame, determinedly trying to master the art of bread-making while Marianne tried not to laugh at his continued failures.
"You're kneading it too aggressively again," she said, watching as he attacked the dough like it had personally offended him. "It's bread, not an enemy requiring submission."
"This dough is absolutely an enemy. It refuses to cooperate with the simplest requests."
"What requests?"
"To become bread-like in texture and appearance rather than resembling something that might be used to repair castle walls."
"That's because you're strangling it with enthusiasm rather than working with it.
Here, feel." She moved behind him, her arms coming around to guide his hands, a position that had become familiar over the past two weeks but still sent little sparks through both of them.
"Gentle pressure, rhythmic motion. Like a dance. "
"We've established I'm terrible at dancing."
"You were perfectly adequate at New Year's."
"Adequate. Your favourite word for me."
"You've been promoted from adequate. You're now approaching satisfactory."
"Such high praise. My heart may not survive the honour."
"Your heart seems fairly resilient, considering it survived being broken by a baker and mended with gingerbread and forgiveness."
"Mixed with a healthy dose of public humiliation and flour warfare."
"The best recipes always have unexpected ingredients."
They were laughing when Grimsby entered, looking apologetic but carrying a silver tray with a letter that bore an all-too-familiar seal.
"I apologize for the interruption, Your Grace, but this just arrived by express messenger from London. The rider insisted it required immediate attention."
Alaric's hands stilled on the dough. He recognized the seal; his aunt, Lady Rhodes, who used express messengers the way other people used casual conversation, with aggressive frequency and dramatic flair.
"What do you think it is?" Marianne asked, noting his sudden tension.
"Nothing good ever comes from my aunt via express messenger. The last one informed me that I was a disappointment to the family name for missing her birthday soirée."
"You have an aunt?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Lady Rhodes, my father's sister. She considers herself the guardian of family dignity and social standing, despite having married a merchant who made his fortune in soap."
"Soap is very dignified."
"Not for my father. He never liked his sister’s match."
"Now I desperately want to know about the details."
"Later. First, let's see what catastrophe Aunt Bethany is predicting now." He wiped his flour-covered hands on his apron and broke the seal, reading quickly. His expression grew increasingly grim with each line.
"Bad news?" Marianne asked, concerned.
"She's hosting the Winterbourne Ball in three days."
"And?"
"And my attendance is not merely requested but absolutely required on pain of social excommunication and familial estrangement."
"She can't actually disown you. You're a duke."
"She can make my life monumentally uncomfortable. She knows everyone in society, and by everyone, I mean everyone who matters in terms of politics, finances, and social standing. If she decides to make my life difficult, she has the connections to do so."
"What's the Winterbourne Ball?"
"Only the most significant social event of the winter season. It marks the unofficial beginning of the new social year. Everyone who matters attends."
"And you matter?"
"According to Aunt Bethany, I matter primarily as an unmarried duke who should be looking for a suitable duchess, not 'playing house with a provincial nobody'...her words, not mine," he added quickly, seeing Marianne's expression.
"She knows about me?"
"Apparently, news travels. She mentions hearing 'absolutely shocking rumours about your recent behaviour' and demands I attend to 'dispel these unfortunate stories before they become entrenched.'"
Marianne turned back to her bread, kneading with sudden violence. "Well, you should go then. Dispel the stories. Find a suitable duchess. Someone who knows which fork to use and doesn't smell permanently of yeast."
"Marianne..."
"It's fine. We knew this would happen eventually. Your world and mine, they don't..."
He spun her around, flour flying, and kissed her thoroughly until she stopped protesting and melted against him.
"Come with me," he said when they finally broke apart.
"What?"
"Come to London. Come to the ball. Let me introduce you properly before the gossip does it badly."
Marianne stared at him as if he'd suggested she fly to the moon. "You want me to attend a London ball? With aristocrats and titles and people who were born knowing how to waltz?"
"I want you to attend as my chosen companion, my future duchess, the woman I love."
"Alaric, I don't know how to be a duchess at a ball. I know how to bake bread and manage account books and occasionally throw flour at annoying dukes."
"You know how to be yourself. That's enough."
"That's romantic but impractical. These people will never accept me."
"These people will be charmed by you, just like everyone is once they actually meet you."
"The entire village knows me! They've known me since birth! London society will take one look at my callused hands and flour-permanent hair and laugh me out of the ballroom."
"Then they're fools and we'll leave immediately."
"You can't just leave the Winterbourne Ball!"
"Watch me."
"Alaric..."
"Marianne, please. I need you there. Not just want—need.
I haven't attended a society function in two years.
The thought of facing all those people, their questions, their expectations, without you there to keep me grounded.
.. I'd rather face the Christmas geese armed with nothing but good intentions. "
She looked at him, seeing the genuine anxiety beneath his attempted humor. "You're actually nervous."
"I'm terrified. These people have known me since childhood.
They expect the Duke of Wexmere to be cold, controlled, perfect.
You've thoroughly destroyed that version of me, and I'm grateful for it, but now I have to face them as this new person who bakes badly and falls off ladders and throws flour when frustrated. "
"You've only thrown flour once."
"It was a memorable one."
Marianne's mother entered the bakery, took one look at them standing close together covered in flour, and sighed. "What crisis has occurred now? And please tell me it doesn't involve the geese."
"Alaric wants me to go to London for a fancy ball," Marianne said, still looking dazed.
"A fancy ball? How fancy?"
"The Winterbourne Ball," Alaric said. "The social event of the winter season."
Mrs. Whitby senior dropped the tray she was carrying. It clattered on the floor, rolls scattering everywhere.
"The Winterbourne Ball? My Marianne at the Winterbourne Ball?"
"Is it that significant?" Marianne asked.
"Significant? Child, the Queen attends the Winterbourne Ball! Foreign princes! The entire aristocracy!"
"Oh good," Marianne said faintly. "No pressure then."
"When?" her mother demanded.
"Three days," Alaric said.
"THREE DAYS?"
The shout brought Thomas running in from outside where he'd been shoveling snow. "What's happening? Are the geese attacking?”
"His Grace wants to take Marianne to the Winterbourne Ball in three days," Mrs. Whitby senior said, sounding slightly hysterical.
Thomas's eyes went wide. "The fancy London ball where everyone wears jewels and judges each other?"
"That's the one," Marianne confirmed weakly.
"Brilliant! Can I come?"
"No," all three adults said simultaneously.
"Worth asking," Thomas said cheerfully. "Mrs. Whitby, you'll need a dress. A proper fancy one, not your Sunday best that you've had for five years."
"I don't have time to have a dress made."
"I'll handle that," Alaric said quickly. "My modiste in London can work miracles with enough motivation."
"Your modiste? You have a personal dressmaker?"
"Technically, she was my mother's, but she's maintained the connection hoping I'd eventually marry and need her services."
"And you want her to dress me? A baker? For the fanciest ball of the year?"
"I want her to create something that shows London exactly who you are; brilliant, beautiful, and perfect exactly as you are."
"That's lovely, but I still don't know how to dance fancy dances or talk to aristocrats or use seventeen different forks..."
"There are never seventeen forks," Alaric assured her. "Twelve at most."
"TWELVE?"
"I'm joking. Usually only six."
"SIX?"
"Marianne, breathe," her mother said, though she looked nearly as panicked. "You can do this. You're clever and adaptable and you've been handling this one's aristocratic nonsense for weeks now."
"This one is standing right here," Alaric pointed out.
"In my kitchen, covered in flour, having destroyed another batch of bread. You've rather lost your intimidation factor, Your Grace."
"I'll have you know I'm very intimidating in London."
"You're about as intimidating as Thomas's pet rabbit."
"Thomas has a pet rabbit?"
"Had. It escaped and joined the wild rabbits. Even prey animals aren't intimidated by you anymore."
"Can we focus?" Marianne interrupted. "I need to know everything. Every rule, every expectation, every possible social trap I could fall into."
"The first rule," Alaric said, taking her hands, "is that you're going as my chosen partner. Anyone who disrespects you disrespects me, and despite my recent lapses in dignity, I still carry enough social weight to make that uncomfortable for them."
"And the second rule?"
"Be yourself. The Marianne who organized a Christmas fair, who fights geese, who makes the best bread in three counties. That Marianne can handle a few overdressed aristocrats."