Chapter Fourteen
The ballroom at Weatherby House glittered like the inside of a jewel box, and Marianne felt like the most fraudulent gem in the collection.
“Stop fidgeting,” Adrian murmured against her ear, his breath warm, his tone carrying that unmistakable note of ducal command. “You look magnificent.”
She did look well—Sarah had outdone herself with an evening gown of midnight-blue silk that shimmered with every movement, and her mother’s sapphires blazed at her throat like captured stars.
But looking the part and feeling it were entirely different matters, especially when she could sense the weight of several hundred curious eyes upon their entrance.
“They’re all staring,” Catherine whispered from Adrian’s other side, her fingers trembling where they rested on her brother’s arm.
“Let them,” Adrian said with perfect indifference, though Marianne felt the tension in his body—the careful control that kept him from either fleeing or baring his teeth at the assembled crowd. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
It had been two weeks since their dramatic departure from Worthington Manor.
Two weeks of relative peace at Harrowmere—quiet mornings, passionate nights, Catherine slowly blooming back to life, Adrian learning to soften his edges.
But London would not be ignored forever, and the Weatherbys’ ball—their first public appearance since what society now called ‘the Worthington Incident’—would decide their standing for the remainder of the Season.
“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Harrowmere, and Lady Catherine Blackwell,” the majordomo announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly hushed ballroom.
The silence that followed felt eternal. Then, deliberately, Lady Weatherby herself crossed the floor, her smile genuine rather than society-bright.
“Your Graces, Lady Catherine—how wonderful that you could attend.” She dropped into a curtsey a shade deeper than necessary—a subtle but unmistakable declaration of allegiance. “We have been so looking forward to your presence.”
“Lady Weatherby.” Marianne matched her curtsey perfectly, having practised until she could execute it in her sleep. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Nonsense, my dear. After that dreadful business at Worthington’s, we’re all simply relieved to see you looking so well.
” Lady Weatherby’s voice carried just enough to be overheard by the nearest guests.
“Such shocking behaviour from one we all thought we knew. But you handled it with such grace. We were all most impressed.”
The political calculus was clear but welcome—Lady Weatherby was publicly taking their side, casting Venetia as the villain and them as the dignified victims who had prevailed. Others would follow her lead, Marianne knew. The only question was how many.
“You are too kind,” Marianne replied, but Lady Weatherby was already turning to Catherine with motherly concern.
“My dear girl, you look lovely. That colour quite becomes you.” Catherine’s gown of soft rose silk had been chosen to make her appear serene rather than tragic. “Emma will be delighted you’re here. She’s been asking after you since she heard you’d returned.”
“Emma’s here?” Catherine’s face lit with genuine pleasure. Emma Weatherby—now Mrs Carstairs—had been one of her few true friends before the accident.
“Indeed. She’s by the refreshment table with her husband—newly married and quite intolerably happy about it.” Lady Weatherby’s eyes twinkled. “Do go speak with her. She’ll be thrilled.”
As Catherine moved away, guided by a discreetly summoned footman, the older woman turned back to Adrian and Marianne.
“Now then,” she said, lowering her voice, “you should know there’s been talk. Quite a lot of it, in fact.”
“I am shocked,” Adrian said drily.
“Yes, well, the remarkable part is that most of it is in your favour.” Lady Weatherby unfurled her fan, shielding her lips from would-be lip-readers.
“Venetia made more enemies than she realised. Your little confrontation merely gave them permission to admit it. Lady Thornton has been particularly vocal in her gratitude—for your intervention with her daughter’s… situation.”
“How is the poor lady?” Marianne asked, genuine concern in her tone.
“Recovering. Her mother has secured proper medical help—discreetly, of course—and she’s responding well. Thanks largely to your quick thinking that night, they say.” Lady Weatherby’s expression softened. “You did a good thing, my dear. Several good things, in fact.”
Before Marianne could reply, a stir at the entrance drew their attention. Lord and Lady Harrison had arrived, fashionably late as always, and Lady Harrison’s eyes found Marianne’s across the ballroom with surgical precision.
“Ah,” Lady Weatherby murmured. “Your first test. She’s been most vocal about the upstart merchant duchess who dared to challenge her betters.”
“Has she?” Adrian’s voice carried that low, silken danger that made Marianne’s pulse quicken even as her instincts urged caution.
“Adrian,” she murmured, touching his arm lightly—a gesture that looked like affection but was pure restraint. “I can handle Lady Harrison.”
“I know you can.” His hand covered hers, warm and steady. “That doesn’t mean I have to like watching it.”
Lady Harrison approached like a ship under full sail, her purple turban nodding with every step, her expression one of exquisitely controlled disdain. Her husband trailed behind, already eyeing the card room with longing.
“Lady Weatherby,” she said coolly. Her gaze slid to Adrian and Marianne. “Your Graces.”
The slight pause before the title was deliberate, just long enough to be insulting but not quite enough to be called out for it.
“Lady Harrison,” Marianne returned sweetly. “How delightful to see you again. I trust you’ve recovered from the excitement at Worthington Manor?”
“I wasn’t aware there was excitement. I departed before any… unpleasantness occurred.”
The lie was transparent; everyone knew she’d been present for Venetia’s downfall.
“How fortunate for you. Though you missed quite a revealing evening. Lady Venetia was most... instructive on the nature of society friendships.”
Lady Harrison coloured. She had been one of Venetia’s devotees—laughing at her cruelty when it served her, recoiling now that it no longer did.
“I hardly knew the woman,” she insisted.
“Really? How strange. I could have sworn I saw you together quite often. But then, perhaps my merchant eyes are unaccustomed to the subtleties of society vision.”
Adrian made a sound that might have been a cough but came dangerously close to laughter. Lady Weatherby’s fan fluttered in alarmed amusement.
“Your… merchant background does, perhaps, limit your understanding of certain nuances,” Lady Harrison said stiffly.
“Oh, undoubtedly. For instance, in trade, when one finds oneself indebted, there is at least the courtesy of repayment. In society, however, I understand such obligations are… more fluid—particularly when one’s creditor becomes a duchess, and thus in no further need of trifles like coin.”
The colour drained from Lady Harrison’s face. It was common knowledge she had borrowed heavily from Venetia to cover gambling losses—debts paid, in part, through gossip and complicity.
“I don’t know what you’re implying—”
“I imply nothing. I state facts. Something we merchants are rather good at—keeping ledgers straight.” Marianne tilted her head slightly.
“Though I suppose Lady Venetia’s recent engagement has balanced more than one account.
How fortunate that certain obligations should vanish with a change of name. ”
“You go too far—”
“Do I?” Marianne stepped closer. Though several inches shorter, she carried herself with a composure that made the older woman retreat.
“I think, rather, I have not gone nearly far enough. You stood by while Lady Venetia amused herself at the expense of others. You laughed at her malice. You watched her attempt to ruin my family and found it diverting. And now you presume to question my place in society?”
“You are a merchant’s daughter—”
“I am the Duchess of Harrowmere,” Marianne interrupted, her voice clear and carrying, drawing the attention of half the ballroom.
“I am the wife of a peer of the realm, the sister-in-law of Lady Catherine Blackwell, the daughter-in-law of the late Duke and Duchess of Harrowmere. My blood may come from trade, but my title comes from church and crown. So when you address me, Lady Harrison, you will use my title with the respect it commands—or not address me at all.”
The ballroom fell silent, a ripple of awe and alarm spreading through the glittering crowd. Lady Harrison looked around for allies, but none met her gaze. The tide had turned—Marianne’s triumph at Worthington had become legend, and now even those who once mocked her stood quietly on her side.
“I... Your Grace...” Lady Harrison’s capitulation came out strangled. “I meant no offence.”
“Of course not,” Marianne said graciously, now that victory was secured. “We all sometimes speak without thinking. I’m certain it will not happen again.”
Lady Harrison fled with what dignity she could muster, her husband hurrying after her with obvious relief. The ballroom slowly returned to normal conversation, though Marianne caught several approving nods—and even a few smiles—directed her way.
“Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you?” Adrian murmured, his lips barely moving, pride glinting beneath the teasing tone.
“I learned from the best.”
“Clearly.” His hand settled at the small of her back—a gesture that appeared merely proper but burned through the silk of her gown. “Dance with me.”
“The dancing hasn’t started—”
“It has now.”
He led her onto the floor with ducal certainty that brooked no argument, and a moment later the musicians hastily struck up a waltz.