Chapter 10
“They’re saying the marriage was indecently hasty.”
Lady Eleanor didn’t bother with preamble. She set down her teacup gracefully and her eyes met Maribel’s. “I must say that it was hasty, my dear. I too am… concerned. About you.”
Maribel continued buttoning her gloves. “They’ve been saying that since the banns were posted.”
“Today you must face them.” Eleanor rose, crossing to where Maribel stood before the looking glass. “Lord and Lady Whitmore’s garden party isn’t some insignificant gathering. Half of London will be watching how the new Duchess of Blackwood comports herself.”
“How delightful for them.”
“Maribel.” Eleanor’s hand settled on her shoulder. “You cannot afford contempt. Not when whispers about your marriage are fresh, and certainly not when Oliver’s position remains so delicate.”
Oliver. Maribel’s hands stilled on the last button. “What have you heard?”
Eleanor’s mouth pressed thin. “Questions. About the boy’s lineage. About why the Duke married so precipitously. About whether a woman of your background is truly suited to raise such an illustrious ward.”
Each word landed like a stone. Maribel turned from the mirror, spine rigid. “How considerate of them.”
“It’s precisely their affair. Or they’ve made it so.
” Eleanor’s voice softened. “Society thrives on speculation. Your family’s disgrace taught you as much.
And now you’ve given them fresh fodder—a hasty marriage to a duke who spent a decade avoiding matrimony, a mysterious ward whose parentage raises eyebrows, yourself elevated from ruin to duchess overnight. ”
“I married to protect Oliver—”
“I know. And I applaud your sacrifice.” Eleanor took both Maribel’s hands. “But the ton doesn’t care for noble motivations. They care for appearances. And the appearance is that something isn’t right about the whole arrangement.”
Maribel pulled free, moving to the window. Beyond the glass, London stretched in endless rows of fine houses, each containing carefully guarded secrets and meticulously maintained facades.
“What would you have me do? Perform for them?”
“Yes.” No apology in the word. “Precisely that. Not for yourself—for Oliver. If they decide he’s unsuitable, if they whisper loudly enough about bloodlines...” Eleanor trailed off.
Maribel’s reflection stared back—pale, composed, dressed in borrowed emerald silk. She looked every inch the duchess. She felt like an impostor.
“The Duke will attend as well,” Eleanor continued. “That should provide some solidarity.”
Thaddeus. The thought of him sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach. They hadn’t spoken since she’d found the brass key—three days of careful avoidance, meals in separate rooms, corridors navigated to ensure they never crossed paths.
The key sat in her dressing table drawer, untouched. She thought of it constantly. Thought of what it meant that he’d left it.
“Will he speak to me?” The question emerged quieter than intended. “Or shall we maintain our strategy of pretending the other doesn’t exist?”
Eleanor’s expression shifted toward sympathy. “The Duke is complicated. But if there is someone who can soften him, it may well be you. He is not indifferent. He at the very least respects you according to the whispers of servants.”
“High praise indeed. And since when do you listen to the whispers of servants?”
Eleanor smirked. “Any good woman knows that the servants see everything. And do not mock the idea of his respect. I’ve known marriages built on far less.” Eleanor collected her reticule. “The carriage is waiting. Shall we?”
Maribel squared her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”
The Whitmore gardens were magnificent even in late October. Manicured lawns stretched between tables draped in white linen where society’s finest gathered like brilliantly plumed birds.
Maribel descended from the carriage beside Eleanor, acutely aware when their arrival registered. Heads turned with studied casualness. Conversations paused. Fans fluttered as whispers were exchanged.
“Chin up,” Eleanor murmured. “You’re the Duchess of Blackwood.”
If only that mattered.
They navigated through clusters of guests. Maribel smiled, nodded, performed careful pleasantries whilst feeling the weight of speculation in every glance.
“Lady Blackwood.” A woman materialised—Lady Archibald, Maribel knew at once. “How delightful. We’d wondered whether you might remain in the country after such a hasty marriage. To settle in, as it were.”
Translation: to hide until the scandal dies.
“His Grace and I felt it important to maintain our social obligations,” Maribel replied smoothly.
“Of course. And the child? Master Oliver?” The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Such a difficult situation. I do hope he’s adjusting to his new circumstances.”
“Oliver is thriving.”
“How lovely.” The smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Though one does wonder about propriety. A young woman, unmarried at the time, caring for an unmarried duke’s ward. The whispers were quite persistent before your sudden nuptials.”
Eleanor’s hand tightened warningly, but Maribel’s temper had already kindled.
“If you have concerns about propriety, I suggest directing them to His Grace himself.”
The woman’s face mottled. Before she could respond, Eleanor intervened smoothly, and the woman retreated with a stiff curtsey.
“Well done,” Eleanor muttered. “Antagonising one of the ton’s worst gossips within the first quarter hour.”
But Maribel had stopped listening. Her attention snagged on a figure across the lawn—tall, dark-haired, standing rigid amongst gentlemen discussing parliamentary procedure.
Thaddeus.
He hadn’t seen her yet. His profile was stark against the pale sky, expression carved from stone.
Then he turned.
Their eyes met across the garden.
The distance contracted. Maribel felt her pulse stutter, heat rise despite the October chill.
He looked away, returning to his companions as though she didn’t exist.
The dismissal stung.
Near the fountain, Maribel caught whispers from a cluster of debutantes in white gowns.
“...hardly surprising when breeding is insufficient. My mama says the Ashcroft name was ruined long before the daughter married above her station.”
“And the boy. Poor creature. One wonders what sort of upbringing he’ll receive from someone of her background.”
Maribel’s hands curled into fists. Before Eleanor could intervene, Lady Whitmore herself appeared.
“Miss Hartley. Miss Archibald.” Ice dripped from every syllable. “I trust you haven’t forgotten that Lady Blackwood is a guest in my home, entitled to respect due her station. Unless you wish to explain to your mothers why I had you removed?”
The girls fled. Lady Whitmore turned to Maribel with profound exasperation.
“Insufferable creatures. I apologise, Your Grace.”
“Your intervention was unnecessary but appreciated.”
“Nonsense. Entirely necessary.” Lady Whitmore’s shrewd gaze swept over her. “You’re handling this with remarkable grace. Better than most would.”
The unexpected kindness made Maribel’s throat tighten.
A commotion near the house drew their attention. Gentlemen had gathered, voices rising. Maribel recognised several of the political figures, including Lord Hastings—pompous, odious, whose politics she despised.
And Thaddeus, at the edge, listening with that stillness he employed when thoroughly displeased.
“Lord Hastings does enjoy his own voice,” Eleanor observed. “We should move away before he begins another speech about bloodlines.”
But Maribel moved closer instead. Eleanor followed with a resigned sigh.
“—simply stating facts,” Hastings was saying. “Parentage matters. Breeding matters. One cannot expect a child of uncertain origins to—”
“Are you referring to young Talbot?” another gentleman interrupted.
“The Duke’s ward, yes. The boy’s bloodline is rather complicated, shall we say. The mother’s people were barely gentry. And there are whispers about connections to the Ashcroft scandal, though naturally no one speaks of it openly.”
Maribel’s blood ran cold.
Thaddeus went very still—the particular stillness before violence.
“Breeding will out,” Hastings continued, oblivious. “Mark my words, the boy will prove unsuitable. It would be kinder to acknowledge the limitations of his birth and adjust expectations accordingly.”
Thaddeus turned. Every line of his body showed. The deliberate, controlled movement of a man who’d spent years mastering fury.
He crossed to Hastings with measured steps. Every eye fixed on them.
“I’m sorry.” His voice emerged soft. Dangerous. “Would you care to repeat that?”
Hastings flushed crimson. “Your Grace, I merely meant—”
“You merely meant to disparage my ward. The son of my dearest friend. A boy of four who’s endured more loss than you’ll experience in your entire pampered existence.” Each word fell like a blow. “You suggested his bloodline makes him unsuitable. Complicated. Limited by circumstances of birth.”
“I—that is—one must consider—”
“One must consider,” Thaddeus said, voice dropping to a register that made everyone lean closer, “that the boy is under my protection. His future is mine to determine. His worth is not subject to th =e opinions of men whose greatest accomplishment is having been born into families marginally less mediocre than the general population.”
The garden went silent.
Maribel could hear her own pulse, feel Eleanor’s hand gripping her arm. She couldn’t look away from Thaddeus—from the cold fury radiating from him, the tremor in his clenched fists.
“Your Grace,” Hastings stammered. “I intended no offence—”
“Then you failed spectacularly.” Thaddeus stepped closer.
Hastings retreated. “Let me be clear. Oliver Talbot is my ward. My responsibility. My family. If I hear anyone—anyone—questioning his suitability, his breeding, his place in my household, they will answer to me personally. Do I make myself understood?”
It wasn’t a question.
Hastings nodded mutely. Thaddeus held his gaze one more terrible moment, then turned and walked away.