Chapter Fifteen #6
“You might not,” Adrian snapped. “You might explain why you imagined taking liberties with my sister could ever be acceptable.”
“I took no liberties,” Timothy said evenly. “As Lady Catherine stated—”
“She is protecting you.”
“She is telling the truth,” he returned, unflinching. “I would never presume so far without invitation. I was making my sentiments known—prematurely, perhaps—but I was not the instigator of the… physical expression of regard.”
“‘Physical expression of regard’?” Adrian repeated, acidly. “Is that the phrase?”
“Would you prefer ‘moment of passion’? ‘Surrender to feeling’? ‘Temporary madness induced by moonlight and proximity’?”
Despite himself, Adrian’s mouth twitched. “Do not attempt wit, boy. You’re not equipped for it.”
“Adrian,” Catherine said, moving to stand at Timothy’s side, a declaration in itself. “I am two-and-twenty. I have spent five years in exile, afraid of shadows. Timothy makes me feel alive. Surely that is worth a single kiss?”
“After a week?” The word broke from him. “You have known him a week, Catherine!”
“A week—yes. But what a week.” Her smile was soft, radiant. “We have discussed architecture and mathematics, art and philosophy. He showed me drawings of impossible buildings; I shared calculations of proportion in nature. We have said more in seven days than many couples do in seven months.”
“Conversation,” Adrian said flatly. “And now kissing.”
“One kiss. Barely ten seconds.”
“I was not timing it.”
“I was,” Marianne admitted. When everyone looked at her, she shrugged. “It seemed relevant information.”
Timothy cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I understand your anger. Were someone to take such liberty with one of my sisters, I should react similarly. But my intentions toward Lady Catherine are entirely honourable.”
“Honourable,” Adrian echoed, sceptical. “And what, precisely, are these honourable intentions?”
Timothy straightened his shoulders, looking every inch the gentleman despite his mussed cravat—Catherine’s doing, Marianne noted with interest. “I intend to court her properly, with your permission. To show her, through actions rather than words, that she is valued, cherished, and respected. And, if she’ll have me, to eventually ask for her hand. ”
“Her hand? You have known her a week!”
“You proposed to Marianne after but a handful more,” Catherine pointed out, with fatal accuracy.
“Well, it was longer still,” he snapped. “And that was—”
“Quite different, yes. Your hypocrisy is duly recorded.” Catherine’s voice gentled. “The point stands: you fell quickly and acted. Why is it tolerable for you but forbidden to me?”
“Because you are my sister,” he said, the fight draining from him. “My responsibility. I am meant to keep you safe.”
“From what? From joy? From love?” Her tone softened to match his. “From feeling whole, rather than a collection of shards held together by good manners?”
The naked truth of it unstrung him; his shoulders sagged.
“I am trying to keep you from harm,” he said quietly. “From a mistake that could undo you.”
“Like the mistake of living?” She stepped closer, took his hand. “I know you are frightened for me. But Timothy is not going to hurt me.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.” She held his gaze. “Because he sees me. Not the tragedy, not the scandal—me. Imperfect, improving. Scarred, not ruined. And he thinks I am worth the trouble.”
Adrian looked to Timothy, who had stood back, steady as a pillar. “Is that true?”
“Every word,” Timothy said simply. “I won’t pretend to understand all she has endured. But whatever forged her into who she is, I am grateful—even the painful parts. They are part of her story, and her story brought her to me.”
“Pretty words,” Adrian muttered, with far less venom.
“True words,” Timothy answered. “I am no poet, Your Grace. I am an architect. I deal in foundations and structures—what bears weight and weathers storms. What I feel for your sister is not fancy. It is bedrock.”
Marianne blinked against sudden tears. Even Adrian seemed moved, though he disguised it with a cough.
“You will court her properly,” he said at last. “With chaperonage. In daylight. No more garden assignations.”
“Of course,” Timothy agreed at once.
“For a lengthy engagement. Six months at minimum.”
“Three,” Catherine countered immediately.
“Five,” Adrian returned, glowering.
“Four,” Timothy offered diplomatically. “It allows sufficient time to prove my constancy, without risking our old age in the process.”
Adrian looked between them, recognising the inevitable defeat. “Four months. But your finances will be reviewed by my solicitor. Proper settlements drawn. References obtained—from your family, your tutors… your tailor, if necessary.”
“Adrian,” Marianne murmured, slipping her hand through his arm, “perhaps the particulars might wait? Lady Ashford will begin imagining duels.”
“Let her imagine,” he muttered, but he permitted her to turn him toward the house.
“Adrian?” Catherine called.
He turned.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “For not murdering him.”
“The night is young,” he grumbled, yet humour softened the words.
“He is a good man,” Catherine added quietly. “He makes me feel brave again.”
Adrian was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. “Then I suppose I’ll have to let him live. But Catherine—no more kissing in gardens.”
“What of conservatories?” she asked, innocently.
“Catherine!”
“Drawing rooms?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Libraries?”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
She only smiled.
As they approached the terrace, Timothy stepped nearer to Adrian. “Your Grace, I want you to know—”
“If you harm her,” Adrian said conversationally, “I shall ruin you so completely that future scholars will debate whether you ever truly existed. They will discover fragments and assume you a myth.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Adrian paused at the threshold, brow furrowing. “You truly love her? After a week?”
“I loved her after an hour,” Timothy confessed. “The week merely confirmed my folly.”
Adrian exhaled as though pierced. “Mercy spare us all.”
They stepped inside—and discovered the entire dinner party arranged before the windows like a Greek chorus. Lady Ashford did not even pretend embarrassment at being caught.
“Well!” she declared, hands clasped. “How delicious! Young love in my garden. It’s like a novel!”
“More like a farce,” Adrian muttered darkly.
“Now, then—wedding plans,” Lady Ashford continued blithely. “A Christmas ceremony would be charming. Holly, evergreen garlands—”
And just like that, the scandal dissolved into merriment.
Guests talked over one another about flowers and trousseaux and the virtues of a winter wedding.
Catherine and Timothy sat together, not touching but glowing; Adrian accepted a glass of brandy from Lord Ashford with the expression of a man who had survived battle only to discover he must now host a ball.
“It becomes easier,” Lord Ashford murmured. “Watching them grow up and away.”
“Does it?”
“No. Not in the least,” Lord Ashford admitted. “But the brandy helps.”
Adrian swallowed his glass in one draught. “Then pour another. It will be a very long four months.”
Later, as their carriage rolled home through dark London streets, Adrian pulled Marianne against his side.
“Everything’s changing,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Catherine is to be married. You are to have a child. Society is—somehow—no longer sharpening knives in our direction.”
“Miracles abound.”
“I’m terrified,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“But also—content? Happy, even? Tell me—am I permitted happiness?”
She turned to cup his face. “Yes, my love. Not merely permitted. Required.”
“By whom?”
“By me. And by this little one.” She guided his hand to her stomach. “We insist upon it.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, voice low. “Very well then. I suppose I must obey. Physician’s orders, after all.”
“That is not at all what Mr Peterson—”
“Shh. Do not ruin my newfound dedication to medical advice.”