Chapter Four #2
“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he said, his voice low, intense. “This isn’t some girlish rebellion against the ton’s rules. I could destroy you.”
“You could,” she agreed. “But you won’t.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“A man who throws himself before a carriage to save his sister does not destroy women for sport.”
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or fury. “I am no saviour, Marianne. And I haven’t been innocent in a very long time.”
“Nor I.”
The words startled them both. Yet she knew they were true. From the moment she had met his gaze across the opera house, she had surrendered any claim to innocence.
“Marianne—”
“There you are!”
Her mother’s voice shattered the stillness. She appeared at Marianne’s side, smiling too brightly, eyes sharp with alarm.
“Mama.”
“Dearest, Lady Harrison is asking for you. Something about a committee.” Her mother inclined her head to Adrian. “Your Grace.”
“Mrs Whitcombe.” He released Marianne, stepping back with polished courtesy. “I was just returning your daughter to you.”
“How considerate.” Her mother’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Come, Marianne.”
But before they could move, a shout rang out near the entrance. Lord Ralston—drunk, unsteady—was holding court with a knot of young men.
“—swear on my honour, the Beast had her pressed against the glass like a tavern wench! My man saw them—skirts rucked, panting like animals—”
The words cracked through the ballroom like a gunshot. Music faltered. Conversations died. Dozens of eyes turned upon her.
Marianne felt her blood freeze, then burn. Her mother made a strangled sound.
Adrian went utterly still—not the stillness of shock, but of a predator scenting blood.
“Your Grace,” Marianne said quietly, catching his arm as he took a step toward Ralston. “Don’t.”
“He’s slandering you.”
“Yes. And if you call him out, it will only confirm the gossip.” She kept her voice steady despite the humiliation burning through her. “This is what he wants—to force your hand, to create a scandal so large I’ll be ruined beyond rescue.”
“You’re already—” He stopped himself, but she heard it: already compromised.
“Then there’s nothing left to lose, is there?” She turned toward the crowd, her chin high, her voice carrying clear as crystal. “Lord Ralston, you seem confused. The conservatory has glass walls, as you’ve said. Strange, then, that no one else saw this supposed display.”
His face darkened. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you drunk,” she said coolly. “And desperate. And rather pitiable, if we’re to be precise. What sort of man invents such stories about a woman who refused his advances?”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. To accuse a lord of lying, to call him pathetic in public—it was social suicide.
But Marianne was past caring.
“How dare you—”
“How dare I?” She laughed, the sound carrying across the ballroom. “I’m a merchant’s daughter, my lord. I dare because I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Can you say the same?”
She turned to Adrian, who was watching her with a strange, unreadable intensity. “Your Grace, would you escort my mother and me to our carriage? I find the air in here has grown rather stifling.”
He offered his arm immediately. “With pleasure.”
They crossed the ballroom together in silence, the crowd parting before them. Marianne kept her head high, every inch the defiant scandal they imagined her to be.
But inside, she was shaking.
The carriage ride home was wordless. Her mother sat rigid, staring into the dark street beyond the glass. Adrian had seen them safely to the door but had not joined them.
“Well,” her mother said at last, her tone brittle as cut glass. “That was... eventful.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Are you?” Her mother turned to look at her. “Because you didn’t appear particularly sorry when you were calling a viscount pitiable in front of two hundred people.”
“He deserved it.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. But deserving and wise are rarely the same thing.” Her mother sighed. “Was any of it true? What he said about the conservatory?”
Marianne considered lying, then dismissed the thought. “We kissed. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more.” Her mother gave a short, incredulous laugh. “As if kissing the Duke of Harrowmere could ever be nothing. The man looks at you as though he means to consume you whole.”
“Mama!”
“What? You think I’m blind? The entire ton can see it. That’s why they’re so morbidly fascinated—and horrified in equal measure.” She reached over, taking Marianne’s hand. “He will offer for you.”
“What? No—he won’t—”
“He will. A man like that, with his sense of honour twisted though it may be, won’t allow this to stand. He’ll offer, your father will accept, and you’ll be the Duchess of Harrowmere before the month is out.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Tell me you don’t want him.”
Marianne opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Because she did want him—wanted him with a ferocity that frightened her. Not merely his touch, though she burned for that, but the man himself: his darkness and his discipline, the wildness just beneath the restraint.
“I thought so,” her mother said softly. “Just… be careful, darling. Men like that burn bright—but they burn everything around them too.”
***
Morning light filtered gently through the muslin curtains, gilding the edge of the escritoire and setting Marianne’s untouched tea to steaming once more.
The house was too quiet. Even the tick of the longcase clock in the corner seemed hesitant, as though the entire household waited for something to happen.
Her mother sat near the fire with her embroidery frame, the steady movement of needle and thread betraying more agitation than calm. The breakfast tray had come and gone; the newspaper lay folded neatly on the table beside her chair, untouched but conspicuously present.
Marianne turned another page of her novel without reading a word. “You’re restless this morning, Mama.”
Her mother’s needle paused mid-stitch. “Am I?”
“You’ve re-stitched that same rose five times.”
A faint sigh. “Then perhaps it isn’t the rose that troubles me.”
Marianne set down the book, studying her mother’s face—the composed features, the slight tightening around the mouth. “What is it?”
“Nothing yet,” came the too-careful reply. “Though I suspect that will not remain the case once your father returns from his club.”
“His club? It’s barely past ten.”
“Indeed. Which means something has driven him there very early—or driven him away from here.” She hesitated, then reached for the folded newspaper. “Cook brought this in with breakfast. I’ve been debating whether to let you see it.”
A ripple of dread passed through Marianne. “See what?”
Her mother handed it over without a word.
The Morning Gazette—and, beneath the respectable news, the far less respectable column beloved by every drawing room in London: On-Dit and Observations from the Season.
Marianne unfolded the page, her pulse quickening as her eyes caught a name—or something perilously close to one.
Among the many amusements at Lady Rothwell’s recent soirée, none provoked such interest—or dismay—as the spectacle afforded by His Grace the Duke of H— and a certain Miss W—, daughter of a well-known shipping magnate newly come into society.
Those of delicate sensibilities may wish to avert their gaze, for reports suggest the pair has been observed in a position of unmistakable intimacy, removed from the company and heedless of decorum.
A conservatory, glass-walled and well-lit, leaves little to imagination, and one cannot but wonder at the courage—or folly—of those who choose such a stage.
Whispers abound that the lady in question has long been encouraged to reach above her station, her father’s enterprise profiting handsomely from the patronage of noble clients who might now reconsider their associations.
It is said His Grace—ever a subject of speculation and shadow—has been ensnared not merely by beauty, but by ambition of a more calculating kind.
Whether through misplaced gallantry or design, the consequence is plain: a gentleman’s honour imperilled, a lady’s virtue undone, and a merchant house whose respectability hangs by a thread of its own making.
Society, of course, will look to the Duke of H— for resolution. It remains to be seen whether he will repair what may already be beyond redemption—or whether Miss W—’s family will learn that commerce and consequence make uneasy bedfellows.
She could read no further. Folding the paper with shaking hands, she placed it on the table as though it might soil the furniture.
“They make no pretence at subtlety,” she murmured.
“No,” her mother agreed quietly. “And by noon, it will be everywhere. Half of London will be rehearsing their opinions of your virtue over tea and seed cake.”
Marianne managed a laugh that wasn’t entirely steady. “Well, at least they’ll find something to agree upon.”
Before her mother could answer, the door opened and Jenkins appeared, looking graver than usual. “Mr Whitcombe has returned, ma’am.”
Her mother glanced up sharply. “So soon?”
“Yes, ma’am. He asks that you and Miss Whitcombe attend him in the drawing room.”
Marianne rose, smoothing her gown with hands that felt unaccountably clumsy. “Did he say why?”
Jenkins hesitated. “His Grace of Harrowmere is with him.”
For a moment, neither woman spoke. The only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire.
Her mother found her voice first. “Harrowmere? Here?”
“In Mr Whitcombe’s study, ma’am.”
“Goodness,” her mother breathed. “The man wastes no time.”
Marianne’s pulse thudded painfully. “He’s come to explain,” she said, though she hardly believed it herself.
“Men like that don’t explain,” her mother murmured. “They decide.”
Her father appeared in the doorway then—his hair untidy, his expression unreadable, the faint scent of brandy clinging to him.
“He’s waiting,” Edmund Whitcombe said shortly. “Says he’s already applied for a special licence.”