Chapter Two #2
“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the death of me.”
“What a tragedy that would be. However would society survive without its favourite beast to gossip about?”
“They’d manage. They always do.” His thigh pressed more firmly against hers, a deliberate, steady pressure that made her breath catch. “The question is—would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Survive without me.”
The arrogance of it should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself fighting a smile. “Your confidence is staggering.”
“My confidence is earned.” He shifted slightly, and somehow his hand ended up on the arm of his chair, his fingertips just barely brushing her elbow. “Tell me you haven’t thought about me since the opera.
“Your Grace—”
“Tell me,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “that you haven’t touched your neck where I breathed against it, trying to recapture that feeling.”
Marianne’s breath caught. Because she had. Of course she had. Every night since, she’d pressed her fingers to that spot, remembering the way his breath had stirred her skin, circling the rapid beat of her pulse.
“You are being presumptuous,” she managed.
“I am being honest. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m sitting, they seem remarkably similar.”
“Ah, but where you’re sitting is the problem, isn’t it?” His fingers moved slightly, the lightest brush against her arm. “As I mentioned, you’d be much more comfortable elsewhere.”
“You are impossible.”
“I have been called worse.”
“By me, I’d imagine.”
“Not yet, though I have high hopes for the future.”
Despite herself—despite the crowded room and her mother mere inches away—Marianne laughed. It was soft, scarcely more than a breath, but it was real.
“There,” Adrian said, satisfaction in his tone. “That’s better.”
“Better than what?”
“Than the polite mask you’ve worn all evening. You’re not made for masks, Miss Whitcombe. You’re made for truth.”
“And you think you know my truth?”
“I believe I am beginning to.” His thigh shifted again, a subtle movement that sent sparks through her entire body. “You’re bored by all this, aren’t you? The careful conversation, the endless courtesies, the need to prove yourself worthy of their regard. You would rather be anywhere else.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Yes. Here you are.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something almost like admiration. “Fighting for your place with every breath, refusing to retreat even when they treat you as though you do not belong. It’s magnificent.”
The unexpected compliment caught her off guard. “I... that’s...”
“The truth,” he finished. “Which you claim to value so highly.”
Mrs Fortescue chose that moment to conclude her piece with a flourish that could only be described as enthusiastic. The audience applauded with visible relief, though several people were already edging toward the doors, hoping to escape before she began again.
“I need air,” Marianne announced, rising abruptly. The combination of the heat, the dreadful music, and the Duke’s proximity had left her light-headed.
Her mother gave a faint nod. “Don’t be long.”
Adrian’s gaze followed her as she stepped into the aisle. “You should take a turn in the garden,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.
“I intend to,” she replied, not daring to look directly at him.
He inclined his head slightly, the gesture one of polite detachment for any observing eyes. “And I shall see to a glass of brandy.”
It was all perfectly proper—on the surface. Marianne left the salon first, weaving through the dispersing crowd toward the open French doors. The air was blessedly cool after the stifling heat within, and she drew a steadying breath as she stepped onto the terrace.
Moments later, she heard the faint click of a cane upon stone. Adrian emerged through a separate doorway, pausing as though merely surveying the garden before descending the steps.
Several couples had also come out to stroll among the lamp-lit paths, their laughter drifting softly through the night. Marianne moved toward the far end of the terrace, where a trellis of climbing roses cast dappled shadows.
“Better?” he asked, appearing beside her as if by coincidence.
“Much.” She drew a deep breath, letting the night air soothe her heated skin. “Though I suspect this is even more scandalous than sitting together inside.”
“Undoubtedly. By tomorrow, they’ll have us engaged or eloping, depending on which version spreads faster.”
“Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Should it?” He stepped closer, backing her gently toward the garden wall. “I’ve been socially dead for years, Miss Whitcombe. My reputation can hardly decline further.”
“But mine can.”
“True.” He braced one hand against the wall beside her head, not quite caging her but making his presence undeniable. “Is that what you want? A spotless reputation? Acceptance into their tedious little world?”
“You’re part of that world.”
“I exist alongside it. There’s a difference.” His free hand rose, his fingers tracing the air near her jaw without quite touching. “I attend when it amuses me, take what I want, and leave the rest to rot. It’s surprisingly liberating.”
“Must be nice to have that luxury.”
“It’s not luxury. It’s power.” His fingers finally grazed her cheek, a feather-light touch. “And you, Miss Whitcombe, have more power than you realise.”
“Because of my father’s money?”
“No.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, sending a shiver through her. “Because you refuse to break. Do you know how many women would have hidden away after what happened at the opera, waiting for the scandal to fade?”
“I don’t hide.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice soft and dangerous. “You don’t. You stand your ground and dare the world to do its worst. It’s...” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Intoxicating.”
The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Marianne’s breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in a way that drew his gaze down before he forced it back to her face.
“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered.
“Why not? Because it’s improper? Because someone might hear?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Or because you like it too much?”
“Your Grace—”
“Adrian.” The name came out rough, almost desperate. “When we’re alone, call me Adrian.”
“We’re not alone. Anyone could see—”
“Let them.” His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, his fingers resting lightly against her pulse. “Let them see that you’re mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Aren’t you?” His thumb pressed softly over her racing pulse. “Your body says otherwise.”
“My body—” She broke off, flushing hotly.
“Yes?” He was so close now she could feel his breath against her lips. “Tell me about your body, Marianne. Tell me how it feels when I touch you. Tell me what you think about in the dark, when you’re alone with nothing but memories of my breath on your skin.”
“Stop.” The word came out breathless, unconvincing.
“Make me.” His lips brushed her ear, sending sparks through her entire body. “Push me away. Slap me. Scream for help. Do something other than stand there trembling, pressing closer when you should be running away.”
He was right. She was pressing closer, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed warnings. Her hands had somehow found his chest, though she couldn’t remember reaching for him.
“This is madness,” she breathed.
“The best things usually are.” His hand slid from her throat to her waist, pulling her against him. “Tell me to stop, Marianne. One word, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you to your spotless reputation and your empty victories.”
She should say it. Should push him away, return to the salon—to safety, to sense.
Instead, she looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes that promised such beautiful destruction. “And if I don’t?”
His grip tightened, his control visibly fraying. “Then we’re already beyond saving.”
For a moment, they stood frozen, balanced on a knife’s edge between propriety and ruin. Then voices approached—loud, drunken male voices that shattered the moment like glass.
Adrian stepped back at once, though his eyes remained fixed on hers, dark with promise and frustration. By the time Lord Harrison and his cronies rounded the corner, they were standing at a perfectly respectable distance, discussing the weather with faultless politeness.
“Harrowmere!” Harrison slurred, clearly deep in his cups. “And the lovely Miss Whitcombe. Taking the air?”
“The salon was rather close,” the Duke said coolly. “Miss Whitcombe felt faint.”
“Of course, of course.” Harrison’s leer suggested he didn’t believe a word of it. “Though perhaps she should return inside. The night air can be... dangerous for young ladies.”
“Indeed,” the Duke said, his voice carrying just enough edge to make Harrison step back. “Which is why I was just escorting Miss Whitcombe back to her mother.”
He offered his arm again, and Marianne took it, allowing him to guide her past the leering lords and back toward the house. But just before they reached the doors, he drew her into another shadowed alcove.
“This isn’t finished,” he said, his voice rough with suppressed want. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
“Liar.” He pressed something into her hand—a calling card, she realised. “My direction. When you’re ready to stop pretending, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t come.”
“Yes,” he said with absolute certainty, “you will.”
Then he was gone, striding back into the salon and leaving her alone in the shadows, her heart racing and her skin aflame.
She looked down at the card in her hand. Just his name and address—nothing more. Such a simple thing, yet it felt like holding a lit match over gunpowder.
When she finally returned to the salon, her mother took one look at her and went pale.
“We’re leaving,” she announced, gathering their things with unprecedented haste.
Marianne didn’t argue. She couldn’t have sat through another moment of Mrs Fortescue’s torture, not with her blood still singing from Adrian’s touch, his words echoing in her mind.
As their carriage pulled away, she caught a glimpse of him through the salon windows. He stood alone despite the crowd around him—a dark figure among the glittering throng. As if sensing her gaze, he turned, and even from that distance, she felt the weight of his attention.
“You’re playing with fire,” her mother said quietly.
“I know.”
“He’ll ruin you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Marianne—”
“I know, Mama.” She clutched his card tighter, feeling the edges bite into her palm. “I know exactly what he is, what he represents, what he could do to me.”
“And yet?”
Marianne thought of dark eyes and dangerous promises, of a thumb against her pulse and lips against her ear. Of a man who saw through her composure to the wildness beneath, who made her feel alive in a way she never had before.
“And yet,” she said softly, watching the city blur past the window, “I can’t seem to care.”
Her mother sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Your father’s letter went out this morning—an invitation to dine with the Duke. He insisted on extending it to him after the… incident at the opera.”
Marianne turned sharply. “And did he accept?”
“Within the hour.”
Something in Marianne’s chest tightened with anticipation and fear. Adrian Blackwell at her father’s table, in her home, surrounded by her family’s merchant practicality. It would be a disaster.
She could hardly wait.
That night, she stood at her window, his card still in her hand. The address seemed to burn into her palm—a temptation and a threat all at once. She thought of his words in the garden, his certainty that she would come to him.
The arrogance of it should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself tracing the letters of his name, imagining what would happen if she did. What rooms lay behind that address? What would he do if she appeared at his door?
You’d fare better in my lap than that frail chair.
Heat surged through her at the memory—the sheer impropriety of it, the way he’d whispered it like a secret, like a promise. And her response—what on earth had possessed her to say such a thing?
But she knew what had possessed her. The same force that made her breath catch when he entered a room, that set her skin aflame when he touched her, that made her feel wild and reckless and alive.
Desire.
She had read about it, of course—in novels, in hushed conversations overheard at parties. But she had never understood it. Never felt that pull that made sensible people do mad, impossible things.
Until now. Until him.
A soft knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. Her maid entered with a box.
“This just arrived, miss. No card, but the footman who delivered it wore Harrowmere livery.”
Marianne’s heart jumped. She took the box with hands that trembled slightly, waiting until the maid had gone before opening it.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a single golden locket—exquisite in its simplicity, the gold worked into delicate filigree. But it was what lay within that stole her breath.
A tiny piece of paper, folded impossibly small. She unfolded it carefully to reveal a single line in that bold, masculine hand:
For when you’re ready to stop pretending.