Chapter Two
“Stop fidgeting with your gloves, Marianne. You’ll wear holes in them.”
Marianne forced her hands to stillness, though every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate with anticipation.
Lady Weatherby’s musicale was the first invitation they had received in four days—four interminable days of silence that had felt like a social death sentence until the cream-coloured card had arrived that morning.
“I’m not fidgeting,” she lied, smoothing her skirts for the tenth time.
She had chosen her gown with particular care: midnight-blue silk that brought out the colour of her eyes, cut fashionably but not scandalously so.
After the green silk at the opera, she had decided a touch of restraint might be wise.
Though restraint seemed laughably impossible when every breath carried the possibility of seeing him again.
“He might not even attend,” her mother said, correctly interpreting the source of Marianne’s agitation. “The Duke rarely graces these sorts of gatherings.”
“I’m not concerned about the Duke,” Marianne replied, lying through her teeth.
Her mother gave her a look that said she wasn’t fooled for a moment. “Of course not, darling. You’re simply eager to hear Mrs Fortescue’s performance on the pianoforte.”
“Mrs Fortescue is renowned for her musical prowess.”
“Mrs Fortescue sounds like a dying cat when she plays, and everyone knows it. We attend these things for the conversation, not the catastrophe she calls music.”
Despite her nerves, Marianne laughed. Her mother so rarely revealed her wit in public, maintaining the careful facade of a proper merchant’s wife. But in private, she could be surprisingly astute.
The Weatherby townhouse blazed with light, every window golden with candle-glow. Carriages lined the street, disgorging the cream of society in their evening finery. Marianne noticed more than a few heads turn their way as they entered, and heard the inevitable whispers begin.
“The merchant’s daughter…”
“…defended her honour…”
“…the Beast actually threatened…”
She kept her head high, her expression serene. Let them whisper. At least none of them would dare say anything to her face.
The salon was already crowded, every seat taken save for a few deliberately left vacant for late arrivals of importance.
Mrs Fortescue sat at the pianoforte, warming up with scales that already sounded slightly off-key.
The poor woman really was dreadful, but her husband owned half of Hampshire, so everyone pretended otherwise.
“Miss Whitcombe!” Lady Weatherby descended upon them in a cloud of violet perfume and ostrich feathers. “How delighted I am that you could attend. And Mrs Whitcombe, what a pleasure. Do come in, come in. I’ve saved you seats just there, near the middle.”
Near the middle. Not at the back with the marginal guests, nor at the front with the truly important ones. A careful positioning that acknowledged their wealth while preserving the social hierarchy. Marianne accepted it with grace, settling into her assigned chair with her mother beside her.
The room filled quickly, the noise rising as conversation competed with Mrs Fortescue’s increasingly enthusiastic warm-up. Marianne found herself scanning the crowd, looking for—
“My word,” someone whispered behind her. “He’s actually here.”
She didn’t need to turn to know who they meant. She could feel the change in the air—the way conversation faltered, the subtle tightening of collective breath.
Adrian Blackwell stood in the doorway, immaculate in evening black, his scarred face set in its usual expression of controlled disdain. His dark eyes swept the room once, cataloguing and dismissing most of its occupants in a single glance.
Then those eyes found her.
The impact was as devastating as it had been at the opera. Her breath caught, her pulse leapt, and heat climbed her throat in a way that had nothing to do with the crowded room. He held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those dark depths.
Then he moved.
The crowd parted before him like tide before a ship’s prow.
No one wanted to stand in the Beast’s path, though a few ambitious mothers made valiant attempts to push their daughters forward.
He ignored them all, his focus absolute as he crossed the room with that particular, controlled grace of his—the slight favouring of his left leg barely noticeable.
He was coming directly toward her.
No, not merely toward her—toward the empty chair beside her. The one that ought to have been taken ten minutes ago, but that no one had dared claim.
“Your Grace,” Lady Weatherby fluttered, hurrying after him. “How wonderful that you could join us. I have a seat reserved for you just here, at the front—”
“This will do.” He lowered himself into the chair beside Marianne without looking at their hostess, his gaze apparently fixed upon the pianoforte. “I prefer a less prominent position.”
Lady Weatherby’s mouth opened and closed several times, but what could she say? One did not argue with a duke—particularly not this duke. She retreated, defeated, leaving behind a trail of furious whispers.
Marianne kept her eyes forward, though every nerve in her body was aware of the man beside her.
He had left perhaps an inch between their chairs—technically proper, yet far too close.
She could smell his cologne, that distinctive blend of sandalwood and something darker.
Could feel the heat of his body. Could hear his steady, measured breathing—so controlled compared to her own shallow breaths.
“Miss Whitcombe,” he said, his voice pitched low enough for her ears alone. “You look well.”
“Your Grace.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you would find musicales tedious.”
“I find most things tedious.” He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing hers through the layers of silk and petticoats. “But occasionally, something proves… interesting enough to warrant attendance.”
The word interesting carried weight—suggestion, promise. Marianne felt heat bloom in her cheeks but refused to look at him. “And what, precisely, has captured your interest tonight?”
“Fishing for compliments, Miss Whitcombe?”
“Simply trying to understand what could draw the Beast of Harrowmere from his lair.”
She felt, rather than saw, his smile. “Careful. That name might give people the wrong impression.”
“Oh? And what impression would that be?”
He leaned closer, close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple. “That I’m dangerous.”
“Are you not?”
“Incredibly.” The word was almost a purr—dark and promising. “The question is whether that frightens you or—” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “—excites you.”
Marianne’s hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms through the thin gloves. She should have been scandalised. Should have moved away, signalled displeasure—done something to discourage such inappropriate intimacy.
Instead, she turned her head slightly, bringing her mouth close to his ear. “Perhaps it’s both.”
His sharp intake of breath was immensely satisfying. For a moment, they sat frozen, the space between them thrumming with tension. Then Mrs Fortescue struck the first chord of her performance, and the spell shifted.
Or rather, it transformed into something else.
The music was, as predicted, dreadful. Mrs Fortescue attacked the keys with more enthusiasm than skill, producing something that might charitably be called an interpretation of Mozart, but sounded more like someone murdering a harpsichord.
Several people winced. Someone in the back actually whimpered.
“Goodness gracious,” Adrian muttered. “It’s worse than I remembered.”
“You’ve heard her before?”
“Once. Five years ago. I’d hoped she had improved.” He paused as Mrs Fortescue hit a particularly discordant note. “I was tragically optimistic.”
Marianne bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Surely it’s not that bad.”
“It’s worse. I’ve heard dying animals make more harmonious sounds.” He shifted in his chair, and this time the contact between their thighs was deliberate, sustained. “In truth, I am convinced this borders on cruelty.”
“Your Grace,” she breathed, acutely aware that her mother sat beside her and that dozens of eyes were upon them. “You’re being inappropriate.”
“Am I?” He leaned even closer, his lips a whisper from her ear. “How shocking. Although, if we’re discussing inappropriate things, we should mention that dress.”
“What’s wrong with my dress?”
“Absolutely nothing. That’s the problem.” His voice dropped to a register that seemed to resonate in her bones. “Do you have any idea what that colour does to your complexion? You glow like moonlight. Every man in this room is imagining how you would feel beneath his hand.”
Heat flooded through her, pooling low in her belly. “You cannot know what they’re thinking.”
“Can’t I? I know what I am thinking.”
“And what is that?”
For a moment, he was silent, and she feared he would not answer. Then, just as Mrs Fortescue reached an especially vigorous flourish, he leaned close enough that his lips brushed her ear.
“I am thinking,” he murmured, his voice dark with temptation itself, “that you would fare far better in my lap than on that fragile chair.”
Marianne’s entire body went rigid. Heat surged through her—her face, her chest, places she dared not think about in a crowded salon. She ought to be outraged. Should slap him, or rise and leave, or at the very least move away.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly towards him, her own voice barely a whisper. “Be careful, Your Grace. I might accept.”
He froze—completely, utterly still. For a heartbeat, two, three, he didn’t seem even to breathe.
Then he laughed.
It was soft, scarcely more than an exhale, but it was perhaps the most genuine sound she’d ever heard from him. Dark and rich and thrilling, it arrowed straight through her, leaving her trembling in its wake.