Chapter Three #2
“More wine, Your Grace?” She reached for the bottle at the same moment he did; their fingers tangled briefly before he took it. “Allow me,” he murmured, refilling her glass. His thumb lingered, tracing the back of her hand in the smallest, most deliberate caress.
Her father noticed everything. “Marianne,” he said mildly, “perhaps you might show His Grace the conservatory after dinner. We’ve had some new specimens sent from the colonies.”
“I’d be delighted,” Adrian said before she could answer.
The third course came and went in a blur.
Marianne barely tasted any of it, too aware of Adrian beside her, of the heat radiating from his body, of the way his long fingers held his wine glass with such controlled grace.
She thought of those fingers on her throat in the garden, and had to take a large sip of wine to cool her suddenly dry throat.
“Careful,” Adrian murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Wine on an empty stomach can be treacherous.”
“I’ve eaten plenty.”
“Have you? You’ve done a fine job rearranging your food, but very little of it has actually passed those lovely lips.”
The casual observation, delivered in that dark velvet tone, made her cheeks warm. “You’ve been watching me eat?”
“I’ve been watching you breathe.” His admission was quiet, unsettlingly sincere. “I can’t seem to stop.”
“Your Grace—”
“Adrian,” he corrected softly, leaning fractionally nearer. “You promised to call me Adrian when we are alone.”
“We are most assuredly not alone.”
“No,” he agreed, his gaze lingering—far too boldly—on her mouth. “But we will be.”
The promise in those words tightened something low in her chest—a flutter of anticipation and something that might have been fear. Or desire. With him, it was increasingly difficult to tell the difference.
Dessert was served—an elaborate confection of cream and berries that Cook had laboured over for hours. Marianne managed three bites before her father pushed back from the table.
“Right then. Margaret, shall we retire to the drawing room? Leave these young people to their conservatory tour?”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Edmund, surely—”
“Surely our daughter can show a guest our plants without incident,” he replied. “Glass walls on all sides. Perfectly proper.”
Marianne caught the look that passed between her parents—her mother’s concern, her father’s calculating assessment. He was testing something, though whether it was her or Adrian, she couldn’t tell.
“The conservatory it is,” she said lightly, rising before anyone could object further.
Adrian stood immediately, offering his arm. She took it, acutely aware of the strength beneath fine wool, of how even that small contact unsettled her composure.
The conservatory was her father’s pride—a gleaming glass structure heavy with the scent of earth and growing things. Orchids clung to trellises, palms created dappled alcoves, and lamplight shimmered through the leaves like reflected fire.
“It’s like another world,” Adrian said quietly, genuine appreciation in his voice.
“Father says it reminds him of the ports his ships visit—places he’ll never see himself but can imagine through these.”
“And you? What do you see when you look at it?”
Marianne considered, running her fingers along a broad leaf. “Freedom. These plants were taken from their homes and forced to grow in foreign soil. Yet they survive. Some even thrive.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Adapting to foreign soil?”
“Aren’t we all?” She turned to face him, finding him closer than expected. “Even you, Your Grace. The ton isn’t your natural habitat any more than it is mine.”
“No,” he agreed, moving closer still. “My natural habitat is altogether more... dangerous.”
“Are you trying to frighten me again?”
“I’m trying to warn you.” His hand came up, fingers ghosting along her jaw. “Your father’s right to be protective. I’m not a good man, Marianne. I’ve done things that would horrify you.”
“In India?”
His hand stilled. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me.” She caught his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Stop hiding behind warnings and threats and tell me something real.”
For a moment, she thought he’d pull away. Then, so quietly she had to strain to hear: “I killed men in India. Many men. Some deserved it. Some were simply in the way.”
“Soldiers?”
“Some. Others were...” He pulled his hand free, turning away. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, your father’s right. You should be afraid of me.”
“But I’m not.”
He spun back, eyes blazing. “Then you’re a fool.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I see what you refuse to.” She took a slow step closer, drawn by some force she couldn’t name. “You’re not the beast they paint you as, Adrian. A true beast wouldn’t wrestle with its own conscience. Wouldn’t care enough to push me away for my sake.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?” She was close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat, to feel the tension radiating from him. “Then prove me wrong. Be the beast they say you are.”
His control snapped. She saw it happen—the careful walls crumbling, replaced by raw hunger. He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him hard enough to steal her breath.
“You want the beast?” His voice was rough, dangerous. “Fine.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, and Marianne’s world exploded.
This was nothing like the careful, chaste kisses she’d imagined.
This was fire and demand, his tongue claiming her mouth with devastating thoroughness.
She should have been shocked, should have pushed him away.
Instead, she melted against him, her hands fisting in his jacket as she kissed him back with equal fervour.
He groaned against her mouth, the sound sending heat straight to her core. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, tangling in her carefully arranged hair. He walked her backwards until she hit the glass wall, the cool surface a shock against her heated skin.
“This is what you’ve awakened,” he said against her lips, his breathing ragged. “This hunger. This madness. I want to devour you, Marianne. Want to have you right here—against the glass, heedless of who might see.”
“Adrian—”
“Say it again.” His mouth moved to her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. “Say my name.”
“Adrian,” she breathed, her head falling back as he found a spot below her ear that made her entire body shiver.
“You will be ruined,” he warned, even as his grip on her waist tightened. “Your reputation destroyed. Society will tear you apart.”
“Let them.” She pulled his head up, meeting his wild gaze. “I don’t care.”
“You should.” But he was kissing her again, deep and desperate, like a drowning man seeking air. His hand slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her corset, and she made a sound she’d never made before—needy and wanton.
“Your Grace? Miss Whitcombe?”
They broke apart at Jenkins’s voice, both breathing hard. Adrian’s hair was dishevelled where her fingers had tangled in it, his eyes still wild with want. Marianne knew she must look equally undone.
“Your parents request your return to the drawing room, miss,” Jenkins called, carefully refraining from stepping into the conservatory proper.
“Tell them we shall be there directly,” Marianne managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
They waited until his footsteps receded. Adrian stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to restore order.
“This was a mistake,” he said.
“Was it?”
“Your father trusted me alone with you.”
“My father,” Marianne said, smoothing her skirts with only the faintest tremor, “is a businessman. He trusts no one. He was testing us both.”
“And we failed.”
“Did we?” She moved past him toward the door, pausing to glance back. “Or did we pass—with distinction?”
His laugh was dark, disbelieving. “You’re going to destroy me.”
“Quite possibly.” She smoothed her hair, knowing it was hopeless but trying anyway. “But what a spectacular destruction it will be.”
She left him there among the shadowed leaves and perfumed air, her lips still burning from his kiss.