Chapter Fifteen
“You are spying on your sister. In broad daylight. Through a hedge.”
Adrian did not even have the decency to look abashed as Marianne discovered him crouched behind the neatly trimmed boxwood, peering through the foliage at the Royal Academy’s sculpture garden, where Catherine and Lord Timothy stood examining a marble Venus.
“I am not spying,” he said with ducal dignity, somewhat undermined by the leaf in his hair. “I am observing.”
“Through a hedge.”
“It affords excellent cover.”
“Adrian, you are the Duke of Harrowmere, not a Bow Street Runner.” Marianne tugged at his arm, attempting to draw him away. “Do come away before someone sees you.”
“I must know his intentions.”
“His intentions are plain to anyone with eyes. The man is utterly besotted.”
“Besotted men can still be dangerous.” Adrian shifted, finding a better vantage through the leaves. “Look how close he stands.”
Marianne sighed and, despite herself, leaned to look. Lord Timothy was indeed near Catherine, but his posture was irreproachable—hands clasped neatly behind his back, head inclined to hear her observations upon the sculpture.
“They are discussing art,” she said. “In public. Beneath the watchful gaze of half of London.”
“Exactly. The perfect disguise for—”
“For what? Subversive sculpture appreciation?”
He turned to glare at her, an expression rendered ineffective when she reached up and plucked the leaf from his hair. His mouth twitched, the faintest hint of surrender.
“I am being ridiculous,” he admitted.
“Yes.”
“I cannot help it. She is my sister. My responsibility.”
“She is a grown woman who has finally found someone who sees her as more than her misfortunes.” Marianne’s tone softened. “Lord Timothy makes her laugh, Adrian. When was the last time you heard her truly laugh before he came along?”
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze returning to where Catherine now sketched something in her notebook while Lord Timothy watched with open admiration.
“Five years ago,” he said at last. “The morning of the accident. She was laughing at her dancing master’s ridiculous moustache.”
The pain in his voice made Marianne’s heart ache. She slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently.
“Then let her laugh again,” she whispered. “Let her have this.”
“What if he hurts her?”
“Then you will ruin him, and I shall assist you in concealing the evidence. But what if he does not? What if he makes her happy?”
Before Adrian could respond, a wave of dizziness swept over Marianne. The world tilted alarmingly, and she had to grip Adrian’s arm to keep from swaying.
“Marianne?” His voice sharpened with concern, his hand coming to her waist. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I only—The sun—it is rather warm today.”
“It is overcast.” His frown deepened. He touched her forehead. “You’re clammy. And you were unwell this morning.”
“A touch of bad fish, perhaps—from last night’s dinner.”
“You did not have fish last night.”
“Then perhaps—” Another surge of nausea cut her short, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
“We are leaving,” Adrian said at once, his tone brooking no dispute. “Now.”
“But Catherine—”
“Has Lord Timothy and half of society to attend her. You require a physician.”
“I do not—”
“Marianne.” The quiet force in his voice silenced her. “Please.”
Too light-headed to argue, she nodded. Adrian guided her swiftly through the Academy, his arm steady about her waist. Curious glances followed them—Lady Weatherby, Mrs Thompson, others who had lately become allies—but Adrian’s ducal authority ensured none dared delay them.
Within minutes, their carriage was brought round, and Marianne found herself gathered in his arms as it rattled through the streets toward Harrowmere House.
“I am being dramatic,” she murmured against his chest. “It is nothing.”
“You have been tired for days. Light-headed yesterday morning. And you barely touched breakfast all week.”
She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “You noticed all that?”
“I notice everything about you.” His thumb brushed her cheek, his voice low and roughened. “Every change. Every breath. Every silence.”
“That sounds rather obsessive.”
“We have long since established my obsessive tendencies.” He attempted a smile, though worry still shadowed his eyes. “Tell me what you are hiding.”
“Nothing! I am only fatigued from too much society and too little sleep. It is no mystery.”
He regarded her with that piercing scrutiny that missed nothing. “If something is amiss—”
“Nothing is amiss,” she said gently. “Truly.”
He did not look convinced, but further discussion was prevented by their arrival at Harrowmere House. Adrian practically carried her inside, ignoring her protests that she could walk perfectly well.
“Send for Mr Peterson,” he barked at the butler. “Immediately.”
“Adrian, really—”
“Bed. Now.”
“You are being tyrannical.”
“I am being anxious,” he countered, carrying her upstairs. “There is a distinction.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m sitting—or rather, being carried—they seem remarkably similar.”
He deposited her on their bed with gentle care that belied his commanding tone. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’ll have Sarah bring tea and—”
“Adrian.” She caught his hand before he could turn away. “I am perfectly well.”
He sat beside her, cupping her face in his palm. “You frightened me. When you swayed like that, I thought—” His jaw tightened.
“What did you think?”
“I thought I might lose you.” The quiet intensity of it made her throat tighten. “I cannot lose you, Marianne. I have only just learned how to love you. I need more time. A lifetime.”
“You have me,” she said softly, pressing his hand to her cheek. “I am not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He kissed her then, slow and desperate, as though anchoring himself. When he drew back, his forehead rested against hers.
“The physician will still see you.”
“Adrian—”
“Non-negotiable.”
She sighed, resigned. “Very well. But when Mr Peterson declares me in perfect health, you will owe me an apology.”
“Gladly,” he said, brushing a kiss across her brow. “Rest now.”
He stood. “I’ll check on Catherine.”
“Don’t terrify Lord Timothy.”
“I make no promises.”
After he left, Marianne lay back against the pillows, her hand drifting to her stomach.
The nausea had subsided, replaced by a fluttering nervousness that had nothing to do with bad fish or exhaustion.
She had been refusing to name the possibility, but the signs were growing impossible to ignore—the missed courses, the morning queasiness, the newfound aversion to breakfast.
Yet it was surely too soon. They had been married but a little while, and Adrian—dear, overprotective Adrian—was only just learning to temper his guardianship of Catherine.
How would he bear the prospect of a child?
The image of him hovering for nine months, catastrophising every faint or flutter, was at once endearing and alarming.
After some time, a knock interrupted her thoughts.
“Your Grace? Lord Timothy is asking to speak with His Grace privately. Something about an important matter. I thought you would wish to know.”
Marianne sat up too quickly, and the motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness through her. “Where are they?”
“In His Grace’s study, Your Grace.”
She rose carefully, steadying herself against the bedpost. If Lord Timothy wished to speak with Adrian on some important matter, there was only one subject it could concern. And she most certainly was not going to miss that conversation—dizziness or no.
She made her way downstairs with the stealth of one long practised in navigating her husband’s moods. The study door was slightly ajar; the voices within carried clearly.
“—understand your concerns, Your Grace,” Lord Timothy was saying, his tone respectful but steady. “But I assure you, my intentions toward Lady Catherine are entirely honourable.”
“Define honourable,” came Adrian’s reply—pure ducal frost.
“I wish to court her properly, with the ultimate intention of marriage, should she be willing.”
“You have known her for a week.”
“A week, yes. But I have admired her far longer. My art instructor in Rome, Signor Benedetti, often spoke of an English lady who spent hours among the ruins, calculating the mathematics of beauty. He showed me the sketches she left behind—they were brilliant.”
There was a pause, then Adrian’s voice, slightly less frigid: “She left sketches in Rome?”
“She did. Signor Benedetti prized them. When I learned that Lady Catherine was that same English lady, I was determined to meet her.”
“So you are enamoured of her artwork?”
“Not enamoured—inspired. And now that I know her, it is something far deeper. She is extraordinary, Your Grace. Not for her beauty, though she has that in abundance, nor for her title, though I respect it—but for the way her mind works. She sees order where others see chaos, finds elegance in mathematics, passion in proportion. She discusses architecture with more spirit than most ladies discuss gowns.”
Marianne’s heart softened as she listened.
“And her past?” Adrian’s tone held steel. “The gossip, the speculation?”
“Is irrelevant to the lady she is now. Whatever she endured shaped her into someone remarkable. I do not seek to mend or rescue her. I only wish to know her—to share ideas, to make her smile.”
“Pretty words,” Adrian said darkly.
“Honest ones,” Lord Timothy answered. “I am no poet, Your Grace, merely a second son with a modest income and a passion for buildings. I can offer her comfort, companionship, and constancy. It may not sound like much—”
“It is everything,” Adrian said quietly.
A startled silence followed.
“Your Grace?”
“My sister needs no fortune—she has that. No consequence—she was born to it. What she needs is a man who sees her, not the scandal, not the title. You seem to see her.”
“I do. Or I try to.”