Chapter Fourteen #2
Other couples joined them, but Marianne was aware only of Adrian—the heat of his hand at her waist, the surety of his movements, the intensity in his gaze that made her breath catch.
“You’re looking at me as though you mean to devour me,” she whispered.
“I do.” His grip tightened fractionally. “Watching you destroy Lady Harrison with words alone was... magnificent.”
“You’re supposed to disapprove of such unladylike conduct.”
“I’m supposed to do many things I don’t.” He spun her, using the movement to draw her closer than was strictly proper. “My wife defending our family’s honour? Nothing could be more ladylike.”
“Our family,” she repeated softly, tasting the words.
“Yes.” His expression gentled in a way that would have astonished anyone who had known him before. “Ours.”
The waltz ended, but before they could leave the floor, Lord Ashford—Reginald—approached with a younger man at his side—the resemblance unmistakable despite the ink stain on the youth’s cuff.
“Your Graces,” he said, bowing.
“Lord Ashford.” Adrian inclined his head. “How was Bath? I trust the waters proved beneficial.”
“Indeed,” Reginald replied, visibly pleased. “Lady Ashford’s health improved markedly. We are much restored.” He gestured to the young man beside him. “May I present my son, Lord Timothy? Newly returned from his studies in Rome.”
“Rome?” Adrian’s interest sharpened. “Architecture, I presume?”
Lord Timothy’s face brightened. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been studying the classical forms—particularly the mathematics of proportion and harmony.”
“Fascinating,” Adrian said, and meant it. “My sister has only just returned from Rome herself. She spent considerable time among the ruins.”
“Lady Catherine is here?” The young man’s eagerness was unguarded. “I had heard she’d returned to England. I would be honoured to pay my respects.”
Marianne and Adrian exchanged a quick glance. His interest seemed genuine—not in the scandal, but in Catherine herself.
“She’s speaking with Mrs Carstairs,” Marianne said, gesturing toward the refreshment area. “I’m sure she would be pleased to meet a fellow admirer of Rome.”
Lord Timothy bowed and crossed the room with barely contained enthusiasm. His father watched him go with paternal amusement.
“He’s been intrigued by Lady Catherine since he learned she’d studied art in Rome,” Reginald confided. “Apparently, they share acquaintances among the expatriate circle. I trust you don’t object to his interest?”
“That depends entirely on the nature of that interest,” Adrian said coolly.
“Entirely honourable, I assure you. Timothy’s a good lad—obsessed with his buildings, perhaps, but steady. And he cares little for gossip.”
They turned to watch as the young man greeted Catherine. Marianne saw her sister-in-law’s surprise, then the quick, radiant smile that followed. Within moments, they were deep in animated discussion, Emma Carstairs looking on with obvious delight.
“Well,” Marianne murmured. “That’s unexpected.”
“But not unwelcome,” Adrian murmured back, though his eyes remained fixed on his sister with protective intensity.
***
The evening progressed with surprising smoothness.
The initial confrontation with Lady Harrison seemed to have fixed her place beyond challenge; several matrons even sought her out with deliberate warmth.
She spoke of investments with one group, charitable subscriptions with another, and endured a discussion of fashion without embarrassing herself.
Adrian never strayed far. She began to notice the small, telling courtesies— a fresh glass of champagne appearing as hers emptied, a subtle shift of his stance to shelter her from a draught she had not felt, his hand at her elbow as they navigated the crush.
Tiny gestures others might miss, but to Marianne, they spoke volumes.
This was Adrian’s way of loving: protection and meticulous attention.
Catherine, meanwhile, hadn’t left Lord Timothy’s side. They had progressed from discussing Roman architecture to debating the finer points of perspective—both, it seemed, were amateur artists—and were now animatedly recalling their favourite views of the Colosseum.
“She looks happy,” Marianne observed during a brief moment alone with Adrian.
“She looks young,” he said, but his tone was wondering rather than critical. “I had forgotten she could look like that—enthusiastic about something besides guilt.”
“Lord Timothy seems genuinely kind.”
“He seems genuinely smitten.” Adrian’s jaw tightened. “If he hurts her—”
“You will make him rue the day he tried, yes, I’m aware.” Marianne touched his arm gently. “But perhaps allow him a chance first?”
“Perhaps,” Adrian conceded grudgingly.
As though conjured, Lord Timothy approached with Catherine on his arm, both a little flushed.
“Your Graces,” he bowed. “Might I have permission to call upon Lady Catherine tomorrow? We have discovered a mutual admiration for Piranesi’s architectural fantasies, and I have a folio she may like to see.”
Adrian studied him with a predator’s stillness. To his credit, the young man neither fidgeted nor looked away, though his free hand tightened at his side.
“You may call,” Adrian said at last. “At two. For tea.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Relief brightened the youth’s face. He turned to Catherine with an eager smile. “Lady Catherine, it’s been an absolute pleasure. I look forward to tomorrow.”
When he was gone, Catherine turned shining eyes upon her brother. “He does not care about the scandal. He said anyone who survived what I did must be remarkably strong.”
“And you believed him?”
“I… yes. He seemed sincere.” The light dimmed a fraction. “Was I wrong to?”
Adrian hesitated, then sighed. “No. He appeared genuine enough. Only—be cautious. Not everyone is what they appear.”
“I know. But isn’t it worth the risk to find out?”
Before Adrian could reply, the musicians struck up a waltz and Lord Harrison materialised at Marianne’s elbow.
“Your Grace, may I have the honour? I owe you an apology for my wife’s behaviour.”
Marianne glanced at Adrian; he gave the smallest nod. Lord Harrison was harmless, and the gesture would read as generous.
“Of course, Lord Harrison.”
As he led her onto the floor, she caught Adrian moving toward the card room—but not before she saw him position himself where he could watch her through the doorway. Even in a crowded ballroom with no real threat, he couldn’t help but guard her.
“Your Grace,” Lord Harrison said as they began to dance, “I truly do apologise. My wife can be... difficult.”
“We all have our moments, Lord Harrison.”
“Yes, but she was deliberately unkind, and after what you did for the Thornton girl...” He shook his head. “It was badly done.”
“Let us think no more of it,” Marianne said diplomatically.
“You are more gracious than she deserves.” He guided her through a neat turn—surprisingly light on his feet. “May I offer a word of advice?”
“Please.”
“Society forgets scandal quickly, but it remembers strength. What you did tonight—standing your ground—will last. You have proved you are not a simpering miss who chanced upon a title. You are a duchess in truth.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
“It is practical of me to say.” His smile was crooked. “I have three daughters to bring out. I would rather they look to you than to the Venetia Carlisles of the world.”
The music ended. He returned her to Adrian, who emerged from the card room with suspicious punctuality.
“Harrowmere.” Lord Harrison bowed. “Your duchess is a credit to your house.”
“I am aware,” Adrian said simply, his hand settling at Marianne’s waist with quiet possession.
As Harrison departed, Adrian bent close. “What did he want?”
“To apologise for his wife and offer political alliance, I think.”
“Clever man. His wife made an enemy; he would prefer not to be one.”
“Should I have refused the dance?”
“No. You handled it perfectly.” His thumb traced her waist through silk and stays. “You have handled everything perfectly.”
“The night is not over.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice dropping to that velvet register that undid her. “It is not.”
Before she could answer, Catherine appeared, radiant. “Adrian, did you see? Lord Timothy asked to call on the morrow!”
“I was present, Catherine. I gave permission.”
“Yes, but—you do not mind? Truly?”
Adrian’s expression softened in a way Marianne had rarely seen. “If you are happy, and he comports himself as a gentleman ought, then no, I do not mind.”
Catherine flung her arms about him—an impropriety that startled several nearby—and Adrian froze, then carefully returned the embrace.
“Thank you,” she whispered, just loud enough for Marianne to hear. “For letting me try to be normal again.”
“You were never anything else,” Adrian said gruffly. “Only… temporarily displaced.”
Catherine laughed, pulling back with tears in her eyes. “I love you too, brother.”
The remainder of the evening blurred into conversations, dances, and the pleasant machinery of politics. After midnight, they departed, victorious and—at last—at ease.
In the carriage, Catherine dozed, spent. Adrian drew Marianne close, his arm around her shoulders—scandalous in public, perfect in the soft dark.
“You were magnificent,” he murmured into her hair.
“We all were. Even you, my reclusive beast, managed to be almost charming.”
“Almost?”
“Well, you did nearly cow Lord Timothy to death with that stare.”
“Good. A little fear keeps young men respectful.”
“Adrian...”
“I know. I shall attempt to be less terrifying. Slightly less,” he amended at her sceptical sound.
“What do you think of him—truly?”
He toyed with a curl at her nape. “He seems genuine. Educated. Kind. He looked at Catherine as if she were interesting, not damaged.”
“That is good, is it not?”
“It is unexpected. I had prepared myself to despise anyone who paid her court.”
“And instead?”