Chapter Eight
Three days into their marriage, the invitation arrived.
“Lady Ashworth is hosting an assembly,” Adrian announced over breakfast—a meal they now shared, though he spent most of it behind a fortress of correspondence. “Our attendance is expected.”
“Expected?” Marianne set down her teacup with care. “We’ve been married less than a week.”
“Exactly why we must go. Our absence would breed more gossip than our presence.” He didn’t look up from his letter. “We’ll show them the scandal has been properly contained.”
“How romantic,” she murmured. “‘Properly contained.’ You should write poetry.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Saturday evening. The modiste will arrive tomorrow for your fitting.”
“I have gowns.”
“You have gowns suitable for a merchant’s daughter.” Now he did look up, and the slow sweep of his gaze over her morning dress made her pulse quicken. “You’re a duchess now. You’ll dress as one.”
“And if I prefer my current wardrobe?”
“Then you may wear it—after indulging me with at least one gown that shows the ton precisely who you are.”
“And who is that, exactly?”
His eyes darkened. “Mine.”
The possessive note in his voice shouldn’t have thrilled her.
Yet it did. Their nights had been incendiary since that first evening—Adrian teaching her pleasures she hadn’t imagined, always pushing her boundaries but never her consent.
Their days remained carefully divided, yet she was slowly learning to navigate the peculiar rhythms of their marriage.
“Very well,” she said lightly. “One gown.”
The following day, the modiste arrived with an army of assistants and enough silk and lace to clothe half of Mayfair. Adrian, to the poor woman’s visible astonishment, insisted on attending the consultation.
“The sapphire silk,” he said at once, dismissing three other bolts without hesitation. “With the black lace overlay.”
“Your Grace has excellent taste,” the modiste simpered. “Perhaps a modest neckline—”
“No.” Adrian’s gaze caught Marianne’s reflection in the mirror. “The neckline should make a statement.”
“What kind of statement?” Marianne asked, arching a brow.
“That the Duchess of Harrowmere bows to no one’s opinion.” His fingers brushed her shoulder, just for a moment. “That she’s magnificent—and knows it.”
The result was nothing short of astonishing: sapphire silk that mirrored her wedding ring, black lace that hinted rather than revealed, a neckline daring enough to command attention without descending into scandal. When she donned it on the evening of the assembly, she hardly recognised herself.
“You’ll ruin them,” Adrian said from the doorway, immaculate in black.
“Is that the aim?”
“The aim is to remind them that you’re my duchess. The destruction will merely be incidental.” He stepped behind her, his hands resting lightly on her waist. “You’re wearing the locket.”
She touched the gold where it rested against her skin. “I always do.”
Something flickered in his expression—an emotion she couldn’t name. “We should go.”
The carriage ride was quiet but charged. Adrian sat across from her, his gaze unyielding, the lamplight catching in his eyes.
“You’re nervous,” he observed.
“Shouldn’t I be? This is our first public appearance together. The ton will be watching, judging, waiting for any crack in the facade.”
“Let them watch.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “You’re the Duchess of Harrowmere. You could throw wine in their faces and they’d still curtsy.”
“I wasn’t planning to throw anything.”
“A shame. It would make an impression.”
Despite herself, she laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he said softly, “are mine.”
The words hung in the air—possession and promise in equal measure.
“Remember that tonight,” he went on, his tone gentler now. “No matter what anyone says or does—you belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”
***
Lady Ashworth’s ballroom blazed with light and noise. The moment they entered, conversations stuttered and stopped. Every eye turned to them—the Beast and his merchant bride, the scandal sanctified by marriage.
Adrian’s hand came to rest at the small of her back, possessive and reassuring as he guided her through the throng. Bows and curtseys followed in their wake, along with the inevitable whispers.
“…barely a week married…”
“…must have been compromised…”
“…poor girl, trapped with him…”
“Your Grace!” Lady Ashworth glided forward, her smile bright and brittle. “How wonderful that you could attend. And, Duchess—you do look... striking.”
“Lady Ashworth.” Marianne matched the smile, all porcelain politeness. “How kind of you to include us.”
“But of course! Everyone is dying to offer their congratulations.” The emphasis was as subtle as a slap.
They made the requisite circuit, accepting felicitations that ranged from lukewarm to malicious.
Adrian remained beside her throughout, his presence a dark, silent warning that kept the more vicious tongues in check.
Yet Marianne could feel the tension in him—the way his hand would tighten slightly whenever a comment strayed too close to insult.
And then she appeared.
Lady Venetia Carlisle.
She was everything Marianne was not—tall, willowy, the sheen of her golden hair a calculated weapon. Her gown of deep burgundy clung like sin itself, and she moved through the room as though it were her private stage.
“Adrian,” she purred, gliding closer. “I heard the most extraordinary news. You’ve married.”
Adrian went rigid beside Marianne. “Lady Venetia.”
“Oh, don’t be so formal.” Her laugh was like the tinkle of fine glass. “After everything we’ve shared, surely we may dispense with titles.”
Marianne’s chin lifted a fraction. So this was the woman—the one the ton whispered about, the shadow from his past.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Marianne said, her tone cool as crystal.
Venetia’s gaze flicked over her dismissively. “Ah yes, the merchant’s daughter. I had heard. How... enterprising of you.”
“My wife,” Adrian said, the steel in his voice unmistakable. “The Duchess of Harrowmere.”
“Of course.” Venetia’s smile sharpened. “Your wife.” Her eyes slid back to Marianne. “Tell me, Your Grace—has he taught you all his little preferences yet? He can be quite... exacting.”
The insinuation struck its mark. This woman had known Adrian’s touch, his commands, his private desires. The thought was acid in her veins.
“I find my husband’s preferences quite... agreeable,” Marianne replied, her voice perfectly even.
“Do you? How accommodating.” Venetia leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough for nearby guests to strain to hear. “I suppose upbringing such as yours prepares one so well to… accommodate another’s wishes. A skill acquired young, I imagine.”
“Venetia.” Adrian’s voice was soft—and lethal. “Walk away. Now.”
“Or what?” Venetia’s laugh was brittle, ugly now. “You’ll cause a scene? Defend her honour? We both know you prefer your women more… experienced. This little mouse will bore you within a month.”
“Actually,” Marianne said, loud enough for half the room to hear, “I’ve found that men certain of their own talents have little need of women so... thoroughly practised. It’s only the uncertain who seek constant reassurance.”
A ripple of shocked laughter broke through the crowd. Venetia’s colour rose sharply, her composure fracturing.
“You forget yourself—”
“Duchess,” Marianne cut in smoothly. “The Duchess of Harrowmere. And you, Lady Venetia, are the woman who couldn’t hold my husband’s interest long enough to secure a ring. How terribly unfortunate for you.”
Venetia’s eyes blazed with fury, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper that somehow carried further than a shout. “You vulgar little creature. You may wear a title, but breeding will always tell. The daughter of a tradesman, playing at—”
“Enough.” Adrian’s voice cut through the growing scene like a blade. He stepped between them, his back to Venetia, his focus entirely on Marianne. “We’re leaving.”
“But—”
“Now.”
He guided her through the crowd, his hand firm on her elbow. She heard the explosion of gossip behind them, but couldn’t bring herself to care. They’d barely made it to the carriage before Adrian rounded on her.
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that your former mistress needed to be put in her place.”
“You caused a scene. The entire ton will be talking about this tomorrow.”
“They were already talking!” She yanked off her gloves, needing something to do with her hands. “At least now they’re talking about how I stood up to her rather than cowering.”
“I was handling it.”
“You were letting her insult me!”
“I told her to leave—”
“After she’d already implied I was little better than a lightskirt pretending to be a lady!”
The carriage rocked into motion, throwing her off balance. Adrian caught her, pulling her against him.
“She’s not worth your anger,” he said, his voice softer.
“She’s had you.” The words came out before she could stop them. “She knows what you like, what you need. She’s right—I’m inexperienced, common, nothing like the women you usually—”
He kissed her, cutting off her spiral of insecurity. It was fierce, claiming, his tongue demanding entrance, his hands tangling in her carefully arranged hair.
“She had my body,” he said against her lips. “Never more than that.”
“Adrian—”
“You want to know what she was to me? A convenience. A woman who understood the rules and wanted nothing beyond physical release and expensive gifts.” His hand traced a path up her thigh, the silk of her gown whispering beneath his fingers.
“She never had my rings on her finger. Never wore my locket against her skin. Never made me lose control the way you do.”
“I make you lose control?”
“Constantly.” His fingers found the edge of her stockings. “Even now, when I should be furious with you for that scene, all I can think about is how magnificent you looked putting her in her place.”
“You said you were furious.”