Chapter Fourteen #3
“Instead, I find myself… cautiously hopeful.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You are a dreadful influence, wife. You are giving me sentiments that are not rage or possessiveness.”
“How awful for you.”
“Unspeakable,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
When they returned home, Catherine bade them goodnight—clearly weary, yet alight with quiet happiness. As she ascended the stairs, she turned back.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Both of you. For making me brave enough to try.”
After she disappeared, Adrian turned to Marianne with dark intent in his eyes.
“Now,” he said, easing her back against the panelled wall, “about that promise of the evening not being over...”
“Adrian, the servants—”
“Are asleep. And even if they were not…” His mouth found the delicate hollow at her throat, a tease that stole her breath. “I am the duke. I may kiss my wife senseless in a corridor if I so choose.”
“Kiss?” she managed, laughing, already undone.
“Thoroughly.” His fingers were already at the fastenings of her gown with alarming efficiency.
“I’ve been thinking of it all evening. Every time you put someone in their place with that sharp tongue of yours, every time you smiled that little smile that means you’re about to destroy someone with words alone—”
“You have a very specific set of interests, Your Grace.”
“I have a very specific interest in you, Your Grace.” He lifted her effortlessly; her legs found his waist without thought. “My brilliant, bloodthirsty, beautiful duchess.”
What followed was indeed thorough, though they did eventually make it to their bedchamber—after he had made good on his threat against the wall, then again upon the stairs when Marianne, laughing, had challenged his stamina.
By the time they collapsed into bed, dawn was brushing the sky with silver.
“We shall be exhausted when Lord Timothy calls,” Marianne murmured, her head upon his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Worth it,” he said, tracing idle patterns along her bare shoulder.
“Adrian?”
“Mm?”
“Tonight, when you were watching me dance with Lord Harrison from the card room…”
“How did you know I was watching?”
“I always know when you’re watching. I can feel it.” She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to guard me every moment, you know. I can manage perfectly well on my own.”
“I know.” His hand came up to cup her face. “That’s not why I watch you.”
“Then why?”
“Because I cannot help it. Because seeing you move through a room—conquering it with words and wit—makes me feel... proud. Possessive. Grateful. A dozen things I lack words for.”
“You’re becoming quite fluent in emotion for someone who claimed not to possess any.”
“Another terrible influence of yours.” He drew her down for a kiss, slow and certain. “I love you, Marianne.”
The words, spoken so simply in the grey light, made her heart stutter. He’d said them before in passion, but never like this—calm, sure, unguarded.
“I love you too,” she whispered.
“Even though I’m possessive, difficult, and spent half the evening plotting the demise of any man who looked at you?”
“Because of those things, not despite them,” she said, kissing him again. “Though perhaps you might consider ways of expressing devotion that do not involve duels or homicide.”
“I make no promises.”
They lay in comfortable silence as the room grew brighter, both thinking of last evening’s successes. They’d faced society’s judgment and emerged stronger. Catherine had found a potential suitor. Marianne had established herself as a force to be reckoned with.
“We did well at Lady Weatherby’s,” she said at last.
“We did.” Adrian’s arm tightened around her. “Though I still say Lady Harrison deserved a lesson.”
“A lesson in deportment, perhaps—not annihilation.”
“Semantics,” he murmured.
“Adrian!”
“What? I merely meant that a little fear can be an excellent tutor.”
“You can’t solve everything with force.”
“No,” he agreed, “but force can be remarkably effective when properly applied.” He rolled suddenly, pinning her beneath him.
“For instance, if I were to apply just the right amount of force here...” He nipped at her shoulder.
“And here...” His mouth moved lower. “I could make you forget all about your civilised objections.”
“That’s not violence, that’s seduction.”
“Occasionally, they overlap.” He looked up at her with dark eyes full of promise. “Shall I demonstrate?”
What he demonstrated over the next hour had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with worship, but Marianne wasn’t inclined to correct him. Not when his hands and mouth were making such compelling arguments.
Later, as they finally drifted toward sleep with the full morning sun streaming through the curtains, Marianne reflected on how much had changed since that first night at the opera.
Then, she had been her father’s daughter—bold, curious, determined to claim her place in a world that did not yet see her.
Now she was a duchess in truth, not just in title—secure in her position, confident in her power, and beloved by a man who’d thought himself incapable of the emotion.
“What are you thinking?” Adrian murmured, more asleep than awake.
“That we’ve come rather far from that first night at the opera.”
“Mm. You refused to look away.”
“You noticed me.”
“I did more than notice you.” His voice was fading into drowsiness. “You haunted me from the first moment.”
“Good,” she whispered, but he was already asleep, his breathing deep and even.
The new day would bring new challenges—Lord Timothy’s visit, more social obligations, the slow work of establishing their place in society. But at last night’s ball, they had proved something vital: the Blackwell family could face anything.
Even Lady Harrison’s atrocious purple turban.
The thought made her giggle, which made Adrian mumble something unintelligible and draw her closer. Marianne fell asleep smiling, secure in the knowledge that whatever came, they would meet it together—united, resilient, and perhaps a touch bloodthirsty.
It was, she decided drowsily, a perfectly sound foundation for a marriage.
***
Morning came far too soon, with Sarah arriving to wake them at the horrifyingly early hour of eleven o’clock.
“Your Grace, Lord Timothy will arrive in three hours, and Her Grace needs time to prepare.”
Adrian groaned, burying his face in Marianne’s hair. “Send him away. Tell him we’ve died.”
“Adrian!” Marianne swatted at him, though she was no keener to leave their warm cocoon. “We can’t disappoint Catherine.”
“Catherine can entertain her own suitor.”
“Not without a proper chaperone, she cannot.”
“Damn propriety,” he muttered, but released her, watching as she rose and wrapped herself in her dressing gown.
“I shall bathe first,” she said primly—only to yelp as he rose and swept her into his arms. “Adrian! What are you about?”
“Conservation,” he said, entirely unrepentant. “We shall bathe together.”
“That is hardly conservation of anything save water, and you know it.”
“Then let us conserve water,” he replied, carrying her toward the bathing chamber despite her token protests. “Besides, you bear a mark upon your shoulder from last night that requires my attention.”
“And whose doing was that?”
“Mine,” he murmured with quiet satisfaction, his lips brushing her ear. “And I repent nothing.”
What followed was indeed a bath—though it took twice as long as any two sensible baths ought, and left more water upon the floor than in the tub.
When Sarah entered to assist her mistress afterwards, she paused long enough to note the damp chaos, the duchess’s flushed cheeks, and His Grace’s unrepentant expression before withdrawing with the air of one severely tested.
“You will have the household quite scandalised,” Marianne accused, as Adrian fastened the small buttons along the back of her day dress—a soft green muslin that set off the brightness of her eyes.
“I mean to scandalise everyone,” he replied smoothly. “It shall be my chief occupation henceforth.” He bent to kiss the nape of her neck. “And I shall begin—and end—with you.”
She laughed, leaning back against him. “I fear you overstate the case. I was hardly uncorrupted to begin with.”
A knock interrupted them. “Your Grace,” came the butler’s voice. “Lady Catherine is in the morning room—quite anxious about Lord Timothy’s visit.”
***
They found Catherine pacing the room like a restless cat, already dressed in pale blue that made her look both fresh and fragile.
“Do I look well? Is this appropriate? Should I change? What if he’s changed his mind? What if—”
“Catherine.” Adrian caught her shoulders, stilling her. “Breathe.”
“I can’t. What if last night was only politeness? What if in daylight he remembers I’m the mad sister—”
“You’re not mad,” Adrian said firmly. “You’re recovering. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Society doesn’t seem to recognise such fine distinctions.”
“Lord Timothy does,” Marianne said gently. “Or have you forgotten he called your strength remarkable?”
Some of the panic faded from Catherine’s eyes. “He did say that, didn’t he?”
“He did. And he meant it.”
“Besides,” Adrian added with brotherly pragmatism, “if he proves false, I’ll destroy him. Simply. Efficiently. Permanently.”
“Adrian!” both women exclaimed.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being homicidal,” Marianne corrected.
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Despite herself, Catherine laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m protective,” he said mildly. “There’s a difference. Now sit. Stop pacing. If Lord Timothy doesn’t value what’s before him, he’s not worthy of you anyway.”
***
At precisely two o’clock, Lord Timothy was announced. He entered bearing a large portfolio and a bouquet—not roses, but wildflowers, freshly gathered.
“Lady Catherine,” he bowed, offering them with an apologetic smile. “You mentioned Roman wildflowers were your favourite to sketch. These seemed the closest English approximation.”
Catherine’s face lit as she accepted them. “They’re perfect! How thoughtful of you.”
“You described them so vividly last night, I thought I ought to try.” He faltered slightly, remembering the others in the room. “Your Graces. Thank you for receiving me.”
“Lord Timothy,” Adrian said with even civility. “Pray, sit.”
What followed was perhaps the most thoroughly chaperoned tea in the history of London society. Adrian watched the young man with hawk-like focus, noting every movement. Marianne attempted polite conversation, but it was Catherine who finally broke the tension.
“Oh, stop it, Adrian,” she said. “You’re terrifying him.”
“I’m evaluating him.”
“You’re glaring as though choosing where to bury him.”
Lord Timothy choked on his tea. Marianne bit her lip to hide a smile.
“I am not—” Adrian began indignantly.
“You are,” Catherine insisted. “Lord Timothy, I apologise for my brother. He’s protective to the point of absurdity.”
“It’s quite all right,” Lord Timothy managed, still pale. “I have sisters myself. I understand the instinct.”
“Do you?” Adrian asked. “And what would you do if someone hurt one of them?”
“That would depend on the nature of the harm,” Lord Timothy said carefully. “But I imagine my response would resemble yours—swift and decisive.”
Something in Adrian’s face eased. “Good answer.”
The atmosphere lightened, and Lord Timothy, sensing victory, opened his portfolio. “I brought something I thought Lady Catherine might enjoy—Piranesi’s Carceri. The imaginary prisons.”
Catherine leaned forward, forgetting her nerves. “The perspective work is extraordinary.”
“Exactly! Most people see only the artistry, but the mathematical principles underlying the construction...”
They were soon lost in animated discussion, heads bent over the sketches. Adrian watched them, something like wonder softening his expression.
“She seems happy,” he murmured to Marianne. “Genuinely happy.”
“Lord Timothy seems quite taken with her.”
“He seems taken with her mind,” Adrian said quietly. “And that… may be precisely right.”
Lord Timothy stayed exactly the proper length of time—long enough to please, not so long as to offend. As he rose to go, he turned to Adrian.
“Your Grace, might I have permission to call again? Lady Catherine mentioned an exhibition at the Royal Academy.”
“With proper chaperonage,” Adrian said gravely, “yes.”
Lord Timothy’s face brightened. “Thank you, Your Grace. Lady Catherine, would Thursday suit?”
“Thursday would be lovely,” she said, barely containing her smile.
After he left, Catherine threw her arms around Adrian. “Thank you for not murdering him!”
“The day is young,” he said dryly, though the smile in his eyes betrayed him.
“He’s kind, isn’t he? And clever. And he doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”
“No,” Adrian agreed. “He looks at you like a fascinating theorem he intends to solve.”
“Is that good?”
“For you? Ideal.”
That evening, as they prepared for bed, Marianne said, “You did well today.”
“I didn’t threaten him once.”
“You threatened him with your eyes the entire time.”
“Eyes don’t count. Only verbal threats count.”
“That’s not how the law works.”
“It’s how my law works.” He drew her close, his voice low. “And speaking of my law...”
“Mm?”
“I’ve decided we’re not leaving this room on the morrow.”
“We have engagements—”
“Cancel them.”
“Adrian—”
“I shared you with society last night. I shared you with Catherine and Lord Timothy today. Tomorrow, you’re mine. All day. No interruptions.”
“That’s scandalous.”
“That’s marriage,” he corrected softly. “Our marriage.”
She looked up at him, equal parts love and exasperation. “You can’t lock me away every time you feel possessive.”
“Watch me.”
“Adrian—”
He kissed her—thoroughly, triumphantly—and when he finally drew back, both breathless, he said, “One day. Give me one day that belongs only to us.”
The vulnerability in his voice undid her. “All right. One day.”
“Good.” He swept her into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. “Starting now.”
“It’s evening—”
“Then we’ll count until tomorrow evening. Even better.”