Chapter Sixteen #3
“You look like a princess, ma chère,” Marianne murmured when Catherine stepped from behind the screen.
“I look like a wedding cake. A very expensive, very elaborate wedding cake.”
“A beautiful wedding cake. Timothy will forget all about mathematics when he sees you.”
“That seems unlikely. He will probably calculate the volume of ruffles. Actually, I might calculate them myself—it would give me something to focus on during the ceremony besides everyone staring at me.”
Madame Delacroix flew about with pins, tutting gently. “The waist—another inch, yes? La nervosité has taken your appetite.”
“I forget meals when we are drawing plans,” Catherine confessed. “Yesterday I ate nothing till tea—we were disputing kitchen placement.”
“Kitchen placement!” Madame cried, scandalised. “This is not romance. Romance is flowers, poetry, stolen kisses by moonlight!”
“We had one stolen kiss,” Catherine said. “Adrian almost murdered Timothy over it. There was shouting. And threats with particulars.”
“Ah, protective brothers. They kill romance. So I am told.”
“Adrian has threatened at least five men who showed me attention. Six if you count the curate who asked me to dance at the harvest fête when I was seventeen.”
They were interrupted by the shop bell’s delicate chime, and Lady Weatherby entered with her daughter Emma, both looking perfectly put together despite the threatening rain outside.
“Catherine! How wonderful! And Your Grace, positively blooming! You look like a fertility goddess!”
“I look as though I have swallowed a pumpkin,” Marianne said cheerfully.
“A most becoming pumpkin,” Emma said, settling beside her with the careful grace of someone who’d recently been through pregnancy herself. “How are you feeling? Any odd cravings yet? I desperately desired pickled herring with strawberry jam for three months.”
“That’s revolting,” Catherine said from her pedestal where Madame Delacroix was attacking the hem with pins.
“It was delicious at the time. My poor husband would send servants all over London at midnight searching for herring.” Emma turned to Marianne. “Has Harrowmere been properly attentive?”
“Excessively. He proposed hiring someone to carry me upstairs so I should not ‘strain’ myself.”
“Men become absurd when their wives are breeding,” Lady Weatherby observed. “Lord Weatherby once tried to wrap me in cotton wool. Literally. He had read a medical text that suggested padding to prevent injury.”
“Adrian’s been reading medical texts,” Marianne admitted. “I caught him with one about childbirth last week. He went white as parchment and had to have three brandies.”
“Never let them read the medical texts,” Lady Weatherby advised. “They can’t handle the details. Better they think babies arrive by stork.”
The talk ran on—pregnancy, matrimony, the coming wedding—while Madame Delacroix pinned and smoothed. Emma, married herself, immediately began dispensing advice with the authority of someone who’d survived the ordeal.
“The secret is delegation,” she declared. “Let… well—let Marianne manage the particulars. You concentrate on not panicking.”
“Too late,” Catherine said, muffled by bodice adjustments. “I began panicking two months ago. I have lists. Categorised by topic and severity.”
“Perfectly normal. I nearly climbed out of a window the morning of my wedding.”
“What stopped you?” Catherine asked with interest.
“The gown would not fit through. Also, my husband was waiting below with a ladder, having anticipated the attempt. He knows me rather well.”
“How romantic,” Lady Weatherby said dryly. “Nothing says eternal love like escape prevention.”
“At least Catherine is not trying to flee,” Marianne said, then paused. “You are not, are you?”
“Not actively. Though Timothy and I have calculated the best escape routes from the church. But only as an intellectual exercise.”
“Of course,” Emma said, smiling. “All brides do. Tradition.”
“You won’t run,” Lady Weatherby said with conviction. “Not with the way Lord Timothy looks at you—like a most fascinating theorem he’ll devote a lifetime to solving.”
“Everyone keeps saying that!”
“Because it is true. At the Hendersons’ dinner last week, he spent twenty minutes—at least—explaining why your method of proportion was revolutionary. He had diagrams. Poor Lord Henderson fell asleep in his soup.”
“He discussed my calculations at a dinner party?” Catherine brightened at once.
“In excruciating detail,” Lady Weatherby assured her. “If that is not romance in your language, my dear, I do not know what is.”
Marianne met Catherine’s eyes in the glass.
“As to your other anxiety—speak plainly with Timothy, as you do about arches and angles. Begin with what you know: that you trust him. The rest will follow. And if awkwardness appears, you may laugh together and try again. Trying again is its own kind of intimacy.”
Catherine’s shoulders eased. “You make everything sound possible.”
“It is,” Marianne said softly.
***
When they returned to Harrowmere House—the rain having held off just long enough for the journey—they found Adrian and Timothy in the study, apparently deep in discussion. The room smelled faintly of brandy and tobacco, though neither man appeared to be drinking or smoking.
“—and if you hurt her,” Adrian was saying in his most ducal tone, “even unintentionally—”
“You’ll destroy me so thoroughly that future archaeologists will debate my existence,” Timothy finished, sounding like a man well acquainted with repetition. “Yes, Your Grace, you’ve mentioned. Several dozen times. This morning alone.”
“I wish to be perfectly clear.”
“Crystal clear. Transparently clear. Architecturally sound in your clarity. You’ve practically had it engraved on a tablet and submitted to the Times.”
“Don’t be glib, boy.”
“I’m not being glib—I’m being mathematically precise about your threats. You’ve delivered exactly forty-seven since our engagement. I’ve been keeping count.”
“Only forty-seven? I’m losing my touch.”
Marianne cleared her throat from the doorway. “Are you two bonding?”
Both men turned at once, looking like schoolboys caught pilfering sweets.
“We were discussing settlements,” Adrian said with attempted dignity.
“You were discussing threats,” Catherine corrected, sweeping into the room with the newfound confidence of an impending bride. “We heard you from the entrance hall.”
“Threats are part of settlements,” Adrian said. “A threatening clause—quite standard. Ask any solicitor.”
“There’s no such clause,” Timothy said mildly, “though perhaps there ought to be. It would save considerable time.”
“Exactly! The boy understands. We could standardise them—have printed forms. ‘I, blank, do hereby acknowledge that should I harm blank, I shall be destroyed by blank in the following manner...’”
“Adrian, you cannot create legal documents for threatening,” Marianne said, moving to his side and slipping her hand into his. He immediately pulled her closer, his other hand going to her stomach in what had become an unconscious gesture.
“Why not? I’m a duke. Surely that comes with some privileges.”
“Not that particular one.”
“It should. Much more efficient.”
“Darling, perhaps you could postpone the threatening until after dinner? We must finalise the wedding breakfast menu. Cook needs to know how many courses to prepare.”
“More wedding details,” Adrian groaned, but his thumb was stroking gently over where the baby had been particularly active that morning. “Can’t we just serve everyone cake and send these two away?”
“To their honeymoon, which you’ve insisted be chaperoned.”
“Not chaperoned. Merely... observed. From a respectable distance.”
“Adrian!” Catherine’s tone was scandalised.
“What? They’re going to the Lake District. I have a hunting lodge there. Coincidentally. Which I suddenly recall requires urgent inspection.”
“You are not following us on our honeymoon,” Catherine said firmly, folding her arms.
“I’m not following. Merely being in the vicinity. For hunting. In December. When there’s nothing to hunt.”
“Adrian—”
“Fine! But I expect letters. Daily ones. Detailed. About architecture and mathematics only. No mention of any... other matters.”
“We’ll write when we can,” Timothy said diplomatically.
“Daily.”
“Weekly.”
“Daily.”
“Every three days,” Catherine countered with the weary skill of one long practised in managing her brother.
“Fine. But I expect lengthy letters. With diagrams. And proofs of your continued virtue.”
“You wish for diagrams from our honeymoon?” Timothy asked mildly.
“I wish for proof that you’re not merely... honeymooning.”
“Adrian,” Marianne said, fighting laughter, “that is literally what honeymoons are for.”
“Not my sister’s honeymoon. Hers is for appreciating architecture. Separately. In different rooms. With a locked door. Preferably two. And a guard.”
Catherine and Timothy exchanged glances that suggested the door would be anything but locked.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Timothy said with exaggerated meekness.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re humouring me.”
“Extensively.”
“I could still call off the wedding.”
“No, you cannot,” Catherine said serenely. “The invitations are sent, the church reserved, the flowers ordered, and my gown fitted. Also, I’ll never forgive you, and Marianne will banish you to the study until the baby’s born.”
“I would,” Marianne said sweetly. “Possibly longer.”
“You’re all against me,” Adrian muttered, though he pulled Marianne closer, resting his chin atop her head. “Fine. But I’m adding another threatening clause to the settlements.”
***
The evening continued with what Adrian called “wedding conspiracies,” though his complaints were half-hearted at best. Marianne could see his quiet contentment in every gesture—the way he drew her close, his hand resting protectively on her stomach, the small smile he tried to hide whenever Catherine and Timothy argued amiably over the geometry of floral arrangements.