Chapter 20 #3
"You were thinking that you love me enough to brave my world."
"Love makes people do insane things."
"Yes," he agreed. "Like pretending to be my own steward and falling in love with a baker who throws pies."
"I didn't throw them. Gravity was involved."
"Gravity has been very helpful in our relationship."
"Gravity and flour."
"The foundation of all great romances."
She smiled despite her anxiety. "Tell me about the ball. Who will be there? What should I expect?"
"Everyone who matters in society, which is to say, many people who don't actually matter at all but think they do.
There will be dancing; waltzes, quadrilles, country dances.
There will be an elaborate dinner with..
.indeed, multiple forks, but I'll guide you.
There will be gossip, speculation, and probably at least one dramatic scene that has nothing to do with us. "
"And your aunt?"
"Will test you. She'll ask probing questions, make observations designed to unsettle you, try to determine if you're 'suitable.'"
"And if she decides I'm not?"
"Then she's wrong, and I'll tell her so."
"You'd defy your aunt for me?"
"I'd defy anyone for you."
That night, Marianne barely slept. She could hear Alaric pacing in the adjacent room, apparently equally restless. When morning came, they were both tired but determined.
The approach to London was overwhelming. Marianne had read about the city, heard descriptions, but nothing had prepared her for the reality; the size, the noise, the sheer number of people and buildings and vehicles.
"It's enormous," she breathed, pressed against the carriage window.
"It's overwhelming," Alaric agreed. "I forget sometimes, having grown up with it. Seeing it through your eyes... it's rather terrible, isn't it?"
"It's magnificent and terrible simultaneously."
"Like many things in life."
His townhouse was on a square that spoke of quiet wealth and established privilege. The buildings were uniform in their elegance, the small park in the center manicured to perfection.
"This is where you live?"
"Where I stay when in London. It's never been home."
"It's very..."
"Imposing? Cold? Excessively formal?"
"I was going to say clean. No flour anywhere."
"A tragic lack of flour. We'll have to remedy that."
The staff was lined up in the entrance hall; butler, housekeeper, footmen, maids, all in perfect formation. Marianne felt like she'd stepped into another world entirely.
"Your Grace," the butler intoned with a bow that managed to be both respectful and questioning. "We were not expecting you."
"Plans changed, Robertson. This is Mrs. Whitby. She'll be staying for three days and attending the Winterbourne Ball with me."
If the butler was surprised, he showed it only in a slight widening of his eyes. "Very good, Your Grace. Shall I prepare the blue room?"
"Yes. And send word to Madame Laurent that I require her immediate attendance. We need a ball gown by tomorrow evening."
"Tomorrow evening, Your Grace?"
"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all, Your Grace. Madame Laurent appreciates challenges."
Marianne stood frozen as the staff dispersed, feeling completely out of place in the entrance hall with its paintings of stern-looking ancestors.
"Marianne?" Alaric touched her arm gently.
"They're all judging me."
"They're all curious. There's a difference."
"They think I'm your mistress."
"They think you're my guest."
"Your unmarried female guest who needs a ball gown immediately."
"My future duchess who needs appropriate attire for her introduction to society."
"You can't tell them that!"
"I can tell them whatever I like. It's one of the few advantages of being a duke."
The housekeeper, Mrs. Hemsley, approached with a professional smile. "Mrs. Whitby, shall I show you to your room? You must be tired from the journey."
"Thank you," Marianne managed, grateful for the woman's kindness.
The blue room was more luxurious than anything Marianne had ever seen—silk wallpaper, velvet drapes, a bed that could fit her entire family.
"This is too much," she said when Alaric appeared in the doorway.
"This is actually one of the simpler rooms."
"Then your complex rooms must be terrifying."
"My room is right next door if you need anything."
"What I need is to wake up and discover this was all a dream and I'm actually still in the bakery covered in flour."
"Would you prefer that?"
"No," she admitted. "I want to be here with you. I'm just terrified I'll do something wrong and ruin everything."
"Impossible."
"I could trip on my dress."
"I'll catch you."
"I could use the wrong fork."
"I'll hand you the right one."
"I could accidentally insult someone important."
"Then they probably deserved it."
Before Marianne could catalog more potential disasters, there was a commotion in the hallway; raised voices speaking rapid French.
"That would be Madame Laurent," Alaric said with amusement. "Brace yourself."
The door burst open and a tiny woman dressed entirely in black swept in, followed by three assistants carrying fabric samples, measuring tapes, and what appeared to be an entire sewing kit.
"Your Grace!" she exclaimed in accented English. "Such short notice! Such impossibility! I love it!" She turned to Marianne, circling her with sharp eyes. "And this is the baker who has captured the uncapturable duke?"
"I...how did you..."
"Gossip travels faster than your carriage, my dear. Half of London knows the Duke of Wexmere is bringing someone to the Winterbourne Ball. The other half is speculating wildly about who." She continued her circling. "Good bones. Excellent posture. Beautiful coloring. We can work with this."
"Work with this?" Marianne repeated, offended.
"Make you devastating, darling. Those society peacocks won't know what hit them." She snapped her fingers. "Strip."
"I beg your pardon?"
"To your chemise. How can I dress you if I don't know what I'm working with?"
"Alaric is standing right there!"
"The duke has seen female forms before, I assure you."
"Not mine!"
Alaric was already backing toward the door, his face red. "I'll be in the library. The very distant library. Behind closed doors. Possibly in another country."
When he was gone, Madame Laurent smiled. "He's smitten. I've never seen him blush. This is delightful."
The next two hours were a whirlwind of measuring, draping, pinning. Madame Laurent worked with frightening efficiency, her assistants following her rapid-fire French instructions.
"The dress must be perfect," she declared. "Not just beautiful—meaningful. You are not trying to blend in, darling. You are making a statement."
"What kind of statement?"
"That the Duke of Wexmere has chosen someone real over all the painted dolls who've been throwing themselves at him for years."
"Is that what they are? Painted dolls?"
"Some. Others are sharks in silk. A few are genuinely nice but boring. You, though—you have character. I can see why he loves you."
"How can you see that?"
"Your hands, darling. They work. Your eyes...they see. Your stance...you don't apologize for existing. Most of these society girls, they're taught to be decorative. You're functional and beautiful. Much more interesting."
"You make me sound like a particularly attractive piece of furniture."
"Furniture doesn't usually capture dukes."
By the time Madame Laurent left, promising to return in the morning with the completed gown, Marianne was exhausted. She found Alaric in the library, surrounded by ledgers but clearly not reading them.
"Survived?" he asked.
"Barely. She's intense."
"She's the best. She'll create something that makes you feel powerful."
"I don't need to feel powerful. I need to feel like I won't embarrass you."
"You could never..."
"If you say I could never embarrass you one more time, I'm throwing something at you."
"Book or ledger?"
"Whichever is heavier."
He smiled, pulling her down beside him on the sofa. "Tell me what you're really afraid of."
"That they'll see I don't belong. That they'll laugh at you for choosing someone so far beneath your station. That you'll see me next to all those elegant ladies and realize you've made a terrible mistake."
"Marianne, I need you to listen to me. Really listen, not just hear while planning counter-arguments."
"I don't plan counter-arguments."
"You're doing it right now."
"Maybe a little."
He turned her to face him fully. "I have attended dozens of these balls. I have danced with countless eligible ladies. I have been pursued by women with perfect pedigrees, perfect manners, perfect everything. And I was miserable. Empty. Going through motions without feeling anything."
"But..."
"Then you crashed into me with pies, and suddenly I was feeling everything. Annoyance, amusement, frustration, joy, love. You woke me up, Marianne. You made me real. If those society people can't see how extraordinary you are, then they're the ones who should be embarrassed, not you."
"You really believe that."
"I know that."
***
That evening, they had a dancing lesson in the ballroom. Alaric taught her the basic steps of a waltz, a quadrille, a country dance.
"You're naturally graceful," he said as they moved through the waltz.
"I'm naturally terrified of stepping on your feet."
"You haven't yet."
"The night is young."
"The night is perfect."
They were pressed close, closer than proper form dictated, but there was no one to see. Marianne could feel his heartbeat, quick despite his calm exterior.
"You're nervous too," she realized.
"I haven't danced in two years at a ball. And never with someone who mattered."
"I matter?"
"You're everything."
They stopped dancing but didn't step apart, standing in the middle of the empty ballroom, holding each other.
"What if..." Marianne began.
"No more what-ifs. Whatever happens tomorrow, we face it together."
"Together," she agreed.
The next morning was chaos. Madame Laurent arrived with the completed gown, a creation in deep sapphire silk that somehow managed to be both elegant and unique. The bodice was embroidered with tiny silver stars that caught the light, the skirt full but not excessive.
"It's beautiful," Marianne breathed.
"It's you," Madame Laurent corrected. "Or rather, it's you translated into silk and attitude. Try it on."
The dress fit perfectly, transforming Marianne from baker to something else entirely—not quite a duchess, but definitely not ordinary.
"I don't look like myself," Marianne said, staring at her reflection.
"You look exactly like yourself," Alaric said from the doorway. "Just in fancier packaging."
"You're not supposed to see me before the ball!"
"That's weddings, not balls."
"Still!"
"You're beautiful. No...you're amazing. Aunt Bethany won't know what hit her."
The afternoon was spent in final preparations. A hairdresser arrived to arrange Marianne's hair in an elaborate style that somehow managed to tame her usually rebellious locks. Jewelry appeared—not excessive, just a simple necklace and earrings that Alaric said had been his mother's.
"I can't wear these," Marianne protested. "They're too precious."
"They're perfect. She would have wanted you to wear them."
"How do you know?"
"Because she would have loved you. Because you're everything she wanted me to find; someone who could make me laugh, make me real, make me better."