Chapter Three
“He’s early.”
Marianne nearly dropped the vase she’d been arranging, her mother’s words sending her heart into a ridiculous gallop. “How early?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Her mother peered through the drawing room curtains like a spy in a penny novel. “That is either very rude or very eager—and I cannot decide which is worse.”
“Perhaps he’s simply punctual.” Marianne forced herself to finish with the flowers—white roses and deep-purple dahlias, a combination that had seemed elegant this morning but now felt overdone.
Everything felt overdone. The dining room gleamed with their best china; the silver had been polished twice, and Cook had prepared enough food to feed a regiment.
“Dukes are never punctual,” her mother declared. “They arrive precisely when they mean to—which is invariably late enough to make everyone uneasy.” She turned from the window, smoothing her best silk gown for the dozenth time. “Your father’s still in his study. Should I fetch him?”
“Let Papa finish his brandy. He’ll need it.”
Her mother gave her a sharp look. “As might we all. Marianne, are you quite certain about this? You might still sit out the evening—say you are feeling a little out of sorts—”
“And let the Duke imagine we are uneasy in his company?”
Her mother’s lips tightened. “Well... are we not?”
Marianne touched the hidden weight of the locket beneath her bodice, its presence a constant reminder of last night’s whispered promises. “No, Mama. We’re not.”
The doorbell rang, echoing through the house like a gunshot. They both froze, then laughed at their own nerves.
“Well,” her mother said, squaring her shoulders. “Into battle, then.”
But Marianne was already moving, drawn as though by magnetic force toward the entrance hall. She arrived just as their butler, Jenkins, opened the door.
Adrian stood on their threshold like a dark prince from a gothic romance—severe in black, the lamplight catching the sharp lines of his scar. He carried a bottle of what was undoubtedly an obscenely expensive wine, and his eyes found hers immediately over Jenkins’s shoulder.
“Miss Whitcombe.” His voice held that particular timbre that made her name sound both an endearment and a warning.
“Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsey that might have been a shade more ironic than proper. “How kind of you to be so… prompt.”
His mouth quirked. “I was taught that keeping one’s hosts waiting is the height of rudeness. Though I understand that particular lesson has rather fallen out of fashion among my peers.”
“Along with common courtesy and basic decency, from what I’ve observed.”
“Marianne.” Her mother’s warning tone carried from behind her.
Adrian’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Mrs Whitcombe. Thank you for the invitation. I have brought a small token—something from my own cellar.”
Her mother accepted the bottle, her merchant’s eye immediately cataloguing its worth. Her eyebrows rose slightly. “A Sauternes from the nineties? Your Grace, this is... extremely generous.”
“It’s a fitting choice,” he said quietly, his gaze still on Marianne. “Some evenings merit the best one has to offer.”
Before anyone could respond to that loaded statement, her father’s voice boomed from the dining room doorway. “Your Grace! Come to brave the merchant’s table, have you?”
Edmund Whitcombe stood with his hands on his hips, studying Adrian with the same assessing look he used when considering a profitable but dangerous investment. The two men faced one another across the entrance hall, and Marianne held her breath.
Adrian inclined his head slightly. “Mr Whitcombe. Good of you to have me.”
“Good of you to come,” her father returned. “Though I admit, I’m curious as to why you accepted.”
“Edmund!” her mother gasped.
“It’s a fair question,” Adrian said evenly. “I suspect you’re a man who values directness.”
“I’m a man who built his fortune on reading intentions. And yours, Your Grace, are decidedly obscure.”
The tension stretched taut as a wire. Then Adrian smiled—not his usual sardonic curl, but something more genuine, and therefore more dangerous.
“Then we have that in common, Mr Whitcombe. Your daughter is rather… unexpected.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed, then he barked out a laugh. “That she is. Come then, let’s eat before Cook takes to her bed with nerves. She’s been fretting over this meal since dawn.”
The dining room had never felt smaller. Adrian’s presence seemed to fill it, making their carefully laid table suddenly intimate despite its formality.
He pulled out Marianne’s chair before the footman could, his fingers brushing her shoulder as she sat.
The contact lasted no more than a second, yet it sent electricity racing down her spine.
“Wine, Your Grace?” her father asked, already pouring without waiting for assent. He had chosen one of their better bottles—though nothing approaching the Sauternes the Duke had brought, which had been whisked away for some future, more momentous occasion.
“Thank you.” Adrian accepted the glass, his gaze sweeping the room with idle interest. “You have a fine home.”
“We have an expensive home,” her father corrected. “Cost a small fortune to buy from Lord Ashfield when his gambling debts came due. Still finding empty brandy bottles in the oddest places.”
“Edmund, really,” her mother murmured.
“What? It’s the truth.” He took his seat at the head of the table, fixing Adrian with that penetrating stare. “I assume you made your inquiries before accepting our invitation.”
“Of course.”
“And?”
Adrian sipped his wine, considering. “You began as a clerk in a shipping office. Within ten years, you owned the company. Within twenty, you controlled half the merchant fleet operating out of London. You’re known for fair dealing, but ruthless negotiation.
You’ve never defaulted on a contract, never betrayed a partner—but you’ve destroyed men who crossed you. ”
Her father smiled, showing teeth. “And what does that tell you?”
“That your daughter comes by her steel honestly.”
The compliment hung in the air like a challenge. Marianne felt the heat climb her cheeks but kept her expression composed as the first course arrived—a delicate soup Cook had practised three times to perfect.
“And what of your family, Your Grace?” her mother asked, clearly attempting to steer the conversation toward safer waters. “I understand you have a younger sister?”
Something flickered across Adrian’s face—gone too swiftly to name. “Lady Catherine. She’s abroad at present. Italy, last I heard.”
“How lovely. And your parents?”
“Dead.” The word was flat, final.
An awkward silence fell. Marianne found herself speaking before she could think better of it. “Is that when you went to India?”
His eyes shifted to her, a flicker of surprise breaking his composure. “You have been making enquiries about me?”
“Only fair, is it not? You took the trouble to make yours about us.”
“I see. And what else did you uncover in your… investigations?”
She felt the weight of her parents’ attention but pressed on.
“That you spent five years in the East. That you returned with a fortune no one can quite explain, and scars no one dares ask about. That you’ve had three mistresses but no official courtships.
That you fence at Angelo’s on Tuesdays and keep a box at the opera you rarely use. ”
“Marianne!” Her mother’s horrified whisper did nothing to stop her.
“It’s all right,” Adrian said, his gaze steady on Marianne. “I admire thoroughness. Though you missed a few details.”
“Oh?”
“I also breed horses at my estate in Kent. I speak four languages fluently. And I’ve been thinking of you every moment since the opera.”
The last was spoken so softly she almost missed it. Her father did not.
“Right,” Edmund said, setting down his spoon with a decisive clink. “Cards on the table, Harrowmere. What are your intentions toward my daughter?”
“Edmund, for goodness’ sake—”
“No, Margaret, this needs saying.” He leaned forward. “My daughter is not some pampered miss who’ll swoon at plain speaking. She has a spine of steel and a mind sharp enough to run my entire operation if society would let her. So, I’ll ask again: what is it you want with her?”
Adrian was silent for a long moment, his fingers turning the stem of his glass. When he looked up, his eyes went directly to Marianne.
“I want,” he said slowly, “what I haven’t wanted in a very long time—something real in a world of facades. Someone who looks at me without flinching, who gives as good as she gets, who makes me feel…” He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. “Alive.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Marianne couldn’t breathe; she could only stare as her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.
“Well,” her father said at last, “that’s either the prettiest speech I’ve ever heard or the most honest. I can’t quite tell which.”
“Both, perhaps,” Adrian replied, his gaze still locked with Marianne’s.
Her father leaned back. “Then the question is what you intend to do about it. Because if you mean to trifle with her—”
Adrian’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “I would never dishonour her so.”
“Wouldn’t you? A duke and a merchant’s daughter—it’s not exactly a likely match.”
“Edmund, enough,” her mother said sharply. “You’re being deliberately provocative.”
“I’m being protective. There’s a difference.” But he subsided, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d read in Adrian’s face.
The second course arrived—roasted fowl with all the accompaniments. Conversation turned to safer topics: the theatre season, the new railway lines being built, the price of silk from China. But underneath the polite discourse, tension thrummed like a plucked string.
Adrian’s knee brushed Marianne’s beneath the table. She couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or accidental, but she didn’t move away. The contact was minimal, barely there, but it made every nerve in her body sing with awareness.