Epilogue
Finally, it was time. Marianne stood at the top of the stairs, terrified to descend. The dress suddenly felt too fine, the jewels too heavy, the whole situation too impossible.
"Breathe," Alaric said, appearing beside her in his evening clothes, looking every inch the duke. "I'm right here."
"You look very duke-ish."
"Duke-ish?"
"Intimidating. Proper. Nothing like the man who falls off ladders and burns bread."
"I'm still that man. Just in better clothes."
"Much better clothes."
"The clothes don't matter. What matters is that we're together."
The carriage ride to the Winterbourne mansion was both too long and too short. Marianne watched London pass by the windows—buildings lit with thousands of candles, carriages heading to various entertainments, the city alive with evening energy.
"Tell me about the people who'll be there," she said, needing information to combat anxiety.
"Well, there's Lord Browne, who breeds roses and will talk about nothing else if given the chance.
Lady Carmichael, who gossips professionally but is actually quite kind beneath the chatter.
The Drummond twins, who are identical and enjoy confusing people by switching places.
Sir Robert Robert, who's supposed to be courting the eldest Waverly girl but is obviously in love with her younger sister. "
"How do you know all this?"
"Observation. It's the only way to survive these events—watch, catalog, remember. Knowledge is protection in society."
"And your former... interests? Will they be there?"
Alaric shifted uncomfortably. "Possibly. Probably. Lady Sarah Harrington will definitely be there; her mother is Aunt Bethany's closest friend."
"Tell me about her."
"Sarah? She's... persistent. Her mother has been trying to match us since we were children. Sarah herself is beautiful, accomplished, everything a duchess should be."
"Then why didn't you marry her?"
"Because she's also cold, calculating, and views marriage as a business transaction. She doesn't want me...she wants the title, the position, the prestige."
"And you're sure she'll be there?"
"Unfortunately, yes. And she won't be pleased about you."
"Wonderful. My first ball and I already have an enemy."
"Not an enemy. Competition."
"For you?"
"For the position. But she's already lost, because you have something she never will."
"Flour in my hair?"
"My heart."
The Winterbourne mansion blazed with light. Every window glowed, carriages lined the drive, and Marianne could hear music drifting from within. Her hands trembled as footmen helped her from the carriage.
"Ready?" Alaric asked, offering his arm.
"No."
"Perfect. Neither am I."
They entered through doors that seemed designed to intimidate, into an entrance hall that was all gold and crystal. A butler in elaborate livery stood at the entrance to the ballroom.
"The Duke of Wexmere and Mrs. Marianne Whitby," he announced in a voice that carried.
The entire ballroom seemed to turn as one. Hundreds of faces, all focused on them—on her. Marianne felt Alaric's arm tense under her hand.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe."
They descended the stairs into the ballroom, and Marianne tried not to stare. The room was magnificent; chandeliers dripping crystal, walls lined with mirrors that reflected the light infinitely, flowers everywhere despite the winter season.
"Alaric!" A woman's voice, imperious and familiar.
Lady Bethany Rhodes approached like a ship under full sail—elaborate purple gown, diamonds at her throat, expression that could freeze flame. She was beautiful, with Alaric's dark hair (though clearly aided by art) and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Aunt Bethany," Alaric said formally, bowing slightly.
"You came." She sounded surprised. "I thought you might ignore my summons as you have the last twelve."
"This one seemed particularly insistent."
"They were all insistent. You simply chose to finally listen." Her gaze turned to Marianne, assessing. "And this is the baker."
"This is Mrs. Marianne Whitby," Alaric corrected firmly.
"Yes, the baker. From your little village." She circled Marianne much as Madame Laurent had, but with less kindness. "You're prettier than I expected."
"Thank you?" Marianne managed.
"That wasn't necessarily a compliment. Pretty faces are common. Character is rare."
"Then it's fortunate I have both," Marianne said before she could stop herself.
Lady Bethany's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? And what makes you think you have character?"
"I'm here, aren't I? Despite knowing I'll be judged, dissected, and found wanting by people who've never done a day's honest work in their lives."
"Careful, girl. Those people are my friends."
"Then you should get better friends."
There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Lady Bethany laughed—a sharp bark of amusement.
"Oh, you do have spine! How refreshing. Come, let me introduce you to society. Let's see if that spine holds up under pressure."
What followed was a whirlwind of introductions. Names and titles blurred together as Lady Bethany paraded Marianne through the ballroom like a prize of war. Some people were kind, others cold, most carefully neutral as they waited to see how the wind would blow.
Then they reached a group of young women, all beautiful, all watching Marianne with predatory interest.
"Ladies," Lady Bethany said with what could only be described as malicious pleasure, "may I present Mrs. Whitby. Alaric's... friend from the country."
The women curtseyed with perfect form and false smiles. One stepped forward; blonde, beautiful in the way that ice sculptures were beautiful, wearing a gown that probably cost more than the bakery made in a year.
"Lady Sarah Harrington," she said, her voice like honey over broken glass. "I've heard so much about you."
"Have you?" Marianne replied. "How interesting, since I've heard nothing about you at all."
It was a lie, Alaric had told her about Sarah, but the flash of annoyance in the woman's perfect features was worth it.
"How... refreshing," Sarah said. "Country manners are so direct."
"Yes, we tend to say what we mean rather than hiding behind pretty words and prettier lies."
"Is that what you think society does? Hide?"
"I think society has turned hiding into an art form. Fortunately, I prefer honesty."
"How noble. And how does dear Alaric feel about your... honesty?"
"Why don't you ask him?" Marianne suggested as Alaric appeared at her elbow.
"Ask me what?" he said, though his eyes were on Marianne, checking she was all right.
"Lady Sarah was wondering how you feel about my country manners," Marianne said sweetly.
"I find them perfect," Alaric said immediately. "Refreshing after years of society's exhausting pretense."
Sarah's smile tightened. "How wonderful that you've found someone so... authentic."
"Yes," Alaric agreed. "After years of people wanting my title rather than me, it's wonderful to find someone who loved me when she thought I was just a steward."
That caused a ripple through the listening group. The story of Alaric's deception had clearly made the gossip rounds, but hearing him reference it so casually was unexpected.
"She didn't know you were a duke?" one of the other women asked, incredulous.
"She knew me as Mr. Fletcher, estate steward. She fell in love with a man who couldn't bake bread and fell off ladders, not the Duke of Wexmere."
"How... unusual," Sarah said, clearly trying to find her footing.
"How real," Marianne corrected. "But then, I suppose reality is unusual in your circles."
Before Sarah could respond, the music changed, and Alaric bowed to Marianne. "Would you honour me with this dance?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Marianne said, taking his hand.
He led her onto the dance floor as a waltz began. Other couples joined them, but Marianne was only aware of Alaric—his hand at her waist, his eyes on hers, the way they moved together as if they'd been dancing together for years.
"You're doing brilliantly," he murmured.
"I've insulted at least three people."
"They deserved it."
"Your aunt is watching us."
"Let her watch."
"Everyone's watching us."
"Good. Let them see that I'm completely, irrevocably yours."
"Alaric..."
"No, I need to say this. I've attended dozens of these balls, danced with countless women, and never felt anything. But dancing with you, here, in front of everyone...this is the first time I've felt like myself at one of these events."
"Even though I'm probably using the wrong fork later?"
"Especially then. Your wrong fork usage is more real than their perfect etiquette."
The waltz ended, but before Marianne could leave the floor, another partner appeared; Lord Browne, the rose enthusiast.
"Mrs. Whitby, might I have this dance? I promise to only discuss roses minimally."
Marianne glanced at Alaric, who nodded encouragingly. "You can't only dance with me. Society requires you to be social."
So Marianne danced with Lord Browne (who discussed roses extensively despite his promise), then Sir Robert Robert (who spent the entire dance staring longingly at the younger Waverly sister), then a series of other partners whose names she immediately forgot.
She was returning from the retiring room when she overheard voices in an alcove.
"...can't believe Wexmere actually brought her." Sarah's voice, sharp with annoyance.
"She's pretty enough," another woman replied.
"Pretty? She's common. Did you see her hands? She actually works for a living."
"Maybe that's what he likes. The novelty."
"Novelties wear off," Sarah said confidently. "He'll tire of her once the charm of the unusual fades. Then he'll remember what's appropriate for a duke."
"And come back to you?"
"Where else would he go? I'm the only suitable option who's still unmarried."
Marianne should have walked away, but anger made her step into view. "How fascinating, Lady Sarah. You think Alaric is a commodity to be claimed when available."