Chapter Thirteen #2
“Actually, he doesn’t.” A new voice cut through; Worthington had hobbled into the room, every eye following his slow progress. His evening attire was immaculate; the old man’s amusement was evident.
“Your Grace,” Venetia’s voice trembled. “I did not know you were—”
“Listening?” Worthington’s smile was thin. “Oh, I have been listening all evening. Fascinating theatre.” He regarded Marianne with something like approval. “When a pretty young woman suddenly agrees to marry a decrepit husband, one naturally wonders about her motives.”
“What do you mean?” Venetia began. “I… My feelings are real—”
“Please.” He raised a hand, cutting her off. “Let us not insult each other’s intelligence. You require money to cover debts—yes, I am informed of those as well. Substantial, aren’t they? I wanted a pretty wife to irritate my meddling kin. A business arrangement, nothing more.”
Venetia’s composure cracked. “Then why—”
“Why let you carry on with this charade? Curiosity, mostly. I wanted to see what you’d do, how far you’d go.” He looked at Marianne with something like approval. “I must say, Your Grace, you’ve handled yourself admirably. That comment about my virility was particularly amusing.”
Marianne felt her cheeks heat. “Your Grace, I apologise if I—”
“Nonsense. The first interesting thing to happen at one of my gatherings in years.” He turned back to Venetia. “However, I cannot have my future duchess acting like a common blackmailer. It’s undignified.”
“I was not—”
“You were,” Worthington interrupted, blunt as ever.
“And poorly, I might add.” He sighed. “This is what shall happen. Our engagement remains—I have already announced it and detest being made a fool. You shall return to London tomorrow. The house party will proceed without you. You will spend the coming months in quiet preparation for the wedding, and afterwards you will behave as a dutiful duchess ought—no more intrigues, no more scheming.”
“You cannot—” Venetia began in a shriek.
“I can. Unless you’d prefer I call in your debts immediately? I purchased them all yesterday. Fascinating how eager your creditors were to sell.” His smile was winter cold. “Choose quickly, my dear. Comfortable captivity or social and financial ruin?”
Venetia looked around the room wildly, seeking support, but found only averted eyes and uncomfortable silence. Even her creatures, like Thompson, had stepped back, distancing themselves from her downfall.
“This is not finished,” she hissed at Marianne.
“It is,” Marianne said quietly.
At that moment, something remarkable happened. Lady Thornton stepped forward, then Mrs Thompson, then a handful of other guests, creating an unspoken ring of support around Marianne and Catherine. No declarations were needed—their solidarity spoke plainly: Venetia stood alone.
“I believe you have packing to supervise, my dear,” Worthington observed mildly. “The carriage will be ready at first light.”
Venetia fled, her skirts a swish of fury. The room waited a heartbeat, then burst into excited chatter.
“Well!” Lady Thornton fanned herself with theatrical relish. “Much more diverting than cards, I dare say.”
“Your Grace,” Mrs Thompson approached Marianne, voice small with contrition. “We ought to have spoken sooner. We all knew what she was, but we were too timid to confront her.”
“Standing against someone with influence is never simple,” Marianne replied, measuring her words while noting, with the keen mind of a strategist, who had been willing to watch her burn and who had eventually offered support.
“Duchess.” Worthington hobbled over, his face creased in what might have been amusement. “I owe you gratitude. You’ve shown me exactly what I am to wed. Better to know now than be surprised later.”
“You’ll still marry her?”
“Oh yes.” He tapped her hand with a papery finger. “Though now we proceed with eyes open. At my age, even a viper in the bed is preferable to an empty one—at least it’s interesting.”
Before Marianne could compose an answer to that disconcerting philosophy, Adrian was at her side.
“We’re leaving,” he said quietly. “Tonight.”
“Adrian—”
“Please.” The word was rough, urgent. “I need to get you and Catherine away from here.”
She looked into his eyes and saw the storm there—not merely anger, but a tide of protection and shame and barely controlled ferocity.
“One hour,” she agreed. “Let me help Catherine pack.”
The next hour became a blur. Sarah and Adrian’s valet worked at astonishing speed, trunks filling as if by enchantment. Catherine moved like someone still half in a dream, repeating over and over, “I stood up to her. I actually stood up to her.”
“You were magnificent,” Marianne assured her, folding a lavender gown. “You found your voice at the right moment.”
“Adrian will be horrified,” Catherine fretted. “Everything spilled—our family affairs, our past.”
“Adrian is proud of you,” Marianne said. “Both of us are.”
As they prepared to depart, various guests approached with quiet words of support or approval. Lady Thornton pressed Marianne’s hand with genuine warmth. Even Colonel Morrison offered gruff congratulations on “routing the enemy.”
But it was Worthington who provided the final surprise. As their carriage was being loaded, he appeared with a leather portfolio.
“Harrowmere,” he said to Adrian. “I believe you should have these.”
Adrian opened it, his expression darkening as he scanned the contents. “These are—”
“Every forged document, every bribed affidavit, every stitch of contrived ‘evidence’ Venetia collected,” Worthington said. “Consider it a wedding gift—or an apology.” He tipped his hat to Marianne. “Anyone who can turn a plot on its head deserves respect.”
“Why?” Adrian asked, bewildered.
“Because I may be marrying a viper, but I’m not without honour. And because your duchess behaved admirably tonight.” He inclined his head. “I hope next time we meet it will be under pleasanter circumstances.”
“As do I,” Marianne said, though privately she hoped never to see Worthington Manor again.
The coach rolled away in a taut silence. Catherine dozed, exhausted. Adrian sat rigid, his hand wrapped about hers until the knuckles whitened.
“Say something,” she whispered at last.
“What would you have me say?” His voice was raw. “That I led you into peril? That my past threatened those I—” He broke off.
“Those you what?” she pressed.
He turned in the dim light, his scarred profile painfully open. “Those I love.” The words were small and astonishing, and they hung between them like a fragile heirloom.
“Adrian—”
“I know I said I did not know how to love,” he murmured, thumb tracing the rim of her wedding ring. “That I could not. But seeing anyone hurt you or Catherine... it makes me feel as if I’m being flayed alive.”
“That sounds like love,” Marianne said softly.
“Does it?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “It feels like madness.”
“Perhaps they are the same thing.”
She reached up to touch his scarred cheek, and he leaned into her palm with a vulnerability that made her heart ache.
“You handled her perfectly—Venetia, I mean,” he murmured.
“I had a good teacher.”
“He must be a wise man, then.”
“Arrogant beast, more like.”
Despite everything, he smiled—a true smile that transformed his face. “Your beast, though.”
“Yes,” she said, warmth blooming in her chest. “Mine.”
They stopped at an inn before midnight, too exhausted to travel farther. Adrian arranged rooms with his usual quiet efficiency, but when it came time to part for the night, he lingered at her door.
“Stay,” she said simply.
They came together with the tenderness of survivors—no frenzy, only fierce relief. Every touch spoke of endurance, every breath of belonging. Adrian mapped her body like territory reclaimed from war, whispering endearments against her skin that would have shocked society with their raw honesty.
Afterwards, as they lay tangled in the inn’s simple sheets, Marianne traced patterns on his chest.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That Venetia was wrong.”
“About?”
“Everything,” he said, catching her hand and pressing it to his heart. “But especially about you being just another obsession. Obsessions fade. This—whatever this is—only deepens.”
“Even after tonight? After all the danger and scandal?”
“Especially after tonight.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, studying him.
“Do you know what I saw? Not the Beast of Belgravia. Not the scarred duke society whispers about. I saw a man who protected his family, who faced his past with dignity, who trusted his wife to fight her own battles while standing ready to fight beside her.”
“You see me through a softened lens.”
“I see you clearly,” she said. “The darkness and the light together.”
He pulled her down for a kiss that said what words could not. When they finally slept, it was deep and dreamless, their limbs entwined like shipwrecked souls who had finally found safe harbour.
***
The next morning brought unexpected consequences. As they took breakfast in the inn’s private parlour, Catherine appeared with colour in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that had been absent for years.
“I’ve been thinking,” she announced.
“Dangerous pastime,” Adrian murmured over his coffee.
“I want to return to society properly. No more hiding.” She straightened. “What happened at the house party—yes, it was horrible. But I survived it. I spoke my truth and did not shatter.”
“Catherine—”
“I know there will be whispers—about the laudanum, about my absence. But I’m tired of letting fear and guilt dictate my life.” She looked between them. “Will you help me? Present me? Stand by me?”
Marianne reached across to squeeze her hand. “Of course.”
Adrian was silent for a long moment, studying his sister with eyes that missed nothing. At last, he nodded. “If that is what you want.”
“It is. I want to live, Adrian. Truly live—not merely exist in the shadow of what happened.”
“Then we’ll see it done.”