Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
M arina had the most curious sense of déjà vu. Or—did it count as déjà vu when the scenery was the same, but the experience was totally different? Or maybe this was just the nature of house parties. Marina wouldn't know; this was her first.
Marina shook her head against her musings. She supposed it didn't matter what it was called, this extremely disorienting feeling of having been here before: lingering in the Haddington estate parlor, sipping after-dinner drinks, and trying not to make eye contact with the Duke of Haddington.
The truly unsettling part wasn't the repetition, it was the disparity between the reasons. Yesterday—and it felt so strange to consider everything that had happened in the mere span of a day—she'd been avoiding his eye because he'd been so unspeakably rude, and she feared her ability to hold her tongue if drawn into conversation with him.
Today, though, she was avoiding eye contact with him because if she did, she was certain she'd blush as bright as a tomato. And then everyone would know they had been up to something. And then her reputation would be ruined. And then she'd have to move to the Outer Hebrides, and Julia would never have a coming out, and Marina would end up being eaten by a bear, or whatever sort of wildlife they had in such remote outposts.
Marina took a sip of champagne to calm herself. These things were not going to happen, and she ought to stop dwelling on them. What was a real concern, however, was Martin figuring out that something was afoot. Because while ladies of the London Society set virtually never found themselves being consumed by large animals, they very frequently found themselves badgered into marriage by irritating male relatives.
In any case, Marina—who was, after all, very new to subterfuge and felt it reasonable that she might need time to adapt—decided it was safest to lurk in the corner, trying to look very busy with her champagne and a large, stern portrait of, presumably, a Duke of Haddington past.
The plan was going smashingly well, aside from the somewhat alarming stare of the man in the portrait, which seemed to follow Marina no matter how she moved, until the Dowager Duchess of Haddington decided to join Marina in the corner and Marina discovered that she was, well, cornered.
"Your Grace," Marina said, bobbing a curtsey and resolutely not thinking about how she was trying to conceal that she had spent the afternoon kissing this woman's son.
"Lady Marina," said the dowager, her smile welcoming. She was a handsome woman, the dowager, stately in her middle age, a few gentle threads of silver in her dark hair.
She had the same smile as the duke—which Marina did not notice because she had never thought about the duke's mouth, not once, and had certainly not felt it on hers for a deliciously long time.
"I am surprised to find you over here by yourself." There was no censure in her tone, but something about the assessing glint in the dowager's eye made Marina instantly certain that the woman was testing her in some way. Marina prayed that this had to do with her budding relationship with the dowager's daughter, not whatever ill-advised activity Marina was up to with her son.
Marina smiled her politest smile. "Oh, the party is lovely," she said, which was true. After a bit more time in each other's company, the members of the party had settled into a more comfortable repartee, and the various attendees were clustered in little groups for conversation.
"I was merely seeking a moment of quiet. I am," she confessed, "not entirely used to the whirl of socialization. I'm afraid I mostly keep to the family set, back in town."
The dowager nodded, as if this were sensible—an uncommon reaction. Typically, members of the ton found it strange that Marina, an earl's daughter with the good fortune to live in London year-round, wasn't in the thick of Society happenings. The less polite among them tended to probe as to why Marina wasn't more social, which always led to awkward prevarication as Marina tried to conceal her parents' issues.
"I find crowds best in moderation, myself," agreed the dowager. "It's why we spend most of the year in the country. Have you spent much time out of town, Lady Marina?"
Again, this question felt weightier than the dowager's tone suggested, though Marina could not, for the life of her, figure out why. If the woman was sniffing out Marina's character—whether to determine if she was a suitable friend for Lucy or a harlot up to no good with the duke—why would she care if Marina liked the country?
Either way, Marina was not about to let herself get snared. "I'm afraid not," she said, tone light. "But I'm finding my time here very lovely. Our walk today was so refreshing, far more so than anything you could hope to get in the busy streets of town."
The dowager made an approving sound. Evidently Marina had succeeded at whatever mysterious challenge she was currently facing. "You should spend more time out of town, if you can," she said. "Perhaps you'll come to love the idylls of nature."
Marina wasn't sure where to go from there. She was just about to open her mouth to offer an insipid, "Yes, Your Grace," when, thankfully, the room's attention shifted to where Lucy was sitting down at the pianoforte, encouraged there by the Duke of Beaumont.
"Do grace us with something ," he goaded, as Lucy laughingly demurred. "You'll recall I must leave tomorrow with the dawn. Let it be with music ringing in my ears."
Lucy gave Beaumont a sisterly, exasperated look. "I think this may be rather too big an audience for my meager talents."
"Pish posh," countered the duke. "Besides, we won't even look at you. We'll dance! Won't we?" he asked, turning out to face the assembled party guests. He was met with a chorus of affirmations and turned to Lucy with a triumphant look. "See? You've no excuse."
"Oh, very well," said Lucy on a sigh. As she sat down at the pianoforte, though, she looked very flattered.
The guests shuffled, seeking partners, and in a flash the Duke of Culton was over in their little corner. "If you'll excuse me, Lady Marina," he said, with a courteous bow, "but I must ask this lovely lady for a dance. Would you do me the honor, Your Grace?" He held out a hand to the dowager, who gave him a fond look.
Marina felt an odd pang that almost seemed like jealousy at the easy affection, evidence of a long history of knowing one another, between the Duke of Haddington's friends and his family. Though the gossip rags loved to tell tales of the four dukes, they had failed to mention that they were almost a family themselves, these four friends—kin chosen instead of born. Marina, who had spent so long keeping everyone at arm's length so she could obscure her father's absences and her mother's long bouts of melancholy, had never had that. She had her sister, of course, but Marina had spent most of her life trying to protect Julia, which had kept a barrier between them.
Marina hadn't felt particularly bothered by her lack of friends, but now, faced with the evidence of this other way of being, she felt a loss. She felt lonely.
"Joseph," the dowager said chidingly. "You don't need to be asking an old woman like me to dance when there are young ladies present. Dance with Lady Marina."
"Oh, no," protested Marina. "I should not think of absconding with your partner, Your Grace."
"And," added the Duke of Culton in his soft, kind voice, "you are not old."
With a laugh, the dowager took the duke's hand, still extended. "Oh, very well, you flatterer. Excuse us, Lady Marina."
Marina watched them go, a rueful sort of ache in her chest.
She didn't have long to simmer in her melancholy, however, for in the next moment the Duke of Haddington was there, hand extended. It was almost precisely the same thing the Duke of Culton had done, mere moments before, when he'd asked the dowager to dance—the same thing that any number of men had done at the handful of balls Marina had attended over the years. But something about the Duke of Haddington's expression made her throat catch.
"Would you do me the honor, my lady?" he asked, voice low.
Marina suddenly could not trust herself to speak. Certainly, she was blushing, just as she had feared. She nodded and took his hand, and he whisked her to the impromptu dance floor. The duke took her one hand in his; she settled her other on his shoulder as he reached around to her back. The three-quarters time of a gentle waltz began to play from the pianoforte, and Marina and the duke took the first steps into the dance.
In reality, the tune was simple. The waltz had only recently come to the country, so some of the local gentry stumbled slightly through the steps, laughing in light self-deprecation when they erred. The space was not properly equipped for dancing, and particularly not for so many bodies dancing at once. And yet, almost without effort, the party made space for the couple twirling in the center of the room.
Marina saw none of this. She did not note the other dancers, even as they sent small, knowing glances towards her and the man in her arms. She did not hear the note played wrong when Lucy's fingers tangled beneath her. She did not notice the settees to avoid or that it was carpet, not polished wood, beneath her feet.
She danced. And the duke danced with her.
He had a small smile on his face. His head bent down towards hers, and ever so slightly to the left, not for any discernible reason aside from his own habit. He had a very small freckle on the side of his nose and there were a half dozen greens in his eyes. He held her, steady and sure, as they floated through the steps of the waltz. They moved—the dance moved through them—for a second, a moment, an hour, an eon.
And then the music ended, their feet stopped, and an instant later, the spell was broken.
Marina took a step back from the duke, pulling herself out of his arms, taking a ragged inhale as she went. Why did she suddenly feel out of breath? She blinked, and the reality of her surroundings came one step further to the fore. Marina's mind whirled, as if she'd woken suddenly from a dream. Had anyone seen? Had there been anything to see? She had to forcibly resist the urge to look around her, to check to see if eyes were on them. She breathed again, this time slightly more steadily.
"Marina," the duke murmured, and a faintly hysterical voice in the back of Marina's mind wondered if he realized that he'd left off her title. There was something searching in his gaze that made Marina take another step back. "Meet me," he said, urgency in his low tone. "In the garden, later."
A dozen images flashed through Marina's brain at once. This morning, when the duke had leaned into her space. This afternoon, when his hands had been on her. Just now, his smile as they danced. And, curiously, an entirely manufactured image of how the moonlight might gleam in his eyes if they met under the cover of darkness.
Marina absolutely could not think about these things here and now.
"Thank you for the dance, Your Grace," she said, curtseying. She clung to formality like a life raft, buoying her in the tumultuous waves of feeling that crashed through her. She wanted to take his hand again, wanted to throw herself back into his arms. She wanted to flee.
Marina fled.
Well, she consoled herself as her mind continued to race. It wasn't entirely fleeing if one just…crossed the room. Right? She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman and downed half in an extremely unladylike gulp. Just breathe , she lectured herself. Nobody is looking at you . Except she couldn't lie to herself, because she could acutely feel one set of eyes tracking her every move. The Duke of Haddington was a hazard.
"That was quite fun," chirped Lucy as she crossed over to stand by Marina. "You almost never see everyone dancing at this kind of party. I should have known, however; you can always trust Richard—that is, His Grace the Duke of Beaumont—to keep things entertaining, particularly when Seth—that is, the Marquess of Fordham; I really must remember to observe the formalities if I'm going to London—when the marquess isn't here to do it." Lucy prattled happily, lit up with the glory of her musical triumph. Marina had just enough self-possession to smile and nod when appropriate, even as her own sense of unease mounted until it threatened to overwhelm her.
"Do excuse me, Lucy," Marina said when a conversational lull presented itself. "I need a moment to get some air." She said this with a pointed glance that she hoped Lucy would gather to mean that Marina intended to use the necessary—and thus not follow her—when really what Marina needed just was some air. Or rather, some privacy. A moment to collect herself.
Fortunately, Lucy gave a knowing nod. "Of course," she said, her sweet smile making Marina feel a slight twinge of guilt over the deception, however slight. She really was so nice, Lucy was. It wasn't her fault that her brother had some sort of mysterious power to make Marina lose all sense. "I've been quite monopolizing you. I shall see you later." And she gave Marina's hand a friendly squeeze. Marina returned the gesture before slipping unobtrusively out of the room.
The corridor was blissfully quiet and cool after the jovial chaos of the parlor. Marina walked a few paces down from the doorway, letting the dimmed light soothe her rattled nerves. She leaned against the wall, needing the support, wishing that her corset would allow her to sink to sit against the floor. Probably for the best that it didn't, Marina rationalized. She'd never want to get up again.
What had happened in there?
Marina felt utterly ridiculous. It was just a dance, and yet—it hadn't been just a dance at all. It had felt as intimate as their kissing had, for some absurd reason. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then held it. Maybe my corset is laced too tightly , she thought. Perhaps I've grown lightheaded. Too little dinner and too much champagne, perhaps. Or the onset of some ailment—likely tomorrow I'll have a fever and be confined to my bed and everyone will say, "Ah, yes, she did look a touch distracted last night. This explains everything."
Marina's mental voice was not particularly convincing.
As much as she hated to admit it, there was just something about the Duke of Haddington, something that spoke to Marina in a profoundly impactful way. He had some quality about him that cut straight to the core of her—a quality that would, if she wasn't careful, lodge the duke firmly in her heart.
Marina absolutely could not allow for that; he was not the type of man she was after. She wanted someone nice, genial, soothing— not someone who made her heart race due to both irritation and temptation. A man who resided in London, ideally, so Marina could keep an eye on her sister. Someone with whom Marina would always know where she stood.
And, most of all, she needed someone who was looking to marry—and that was not the Duke of Haddington.
Marina ran her hands down the front of her frock, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. That was that, she decided, trying to ignore the fact that this was not the first time she'd come to this resolution. This little game the duke was playing had to come to a stop. The only question that remained was whether or not she should meet him in the garden to tell him so—doing so was risky, of course, but it offered the opportunity to nip things firmly in the bud—or simply maintain her distance over the next few days, avoiding the duke until the party was over and they would go their separate ways.
Marina was weighing the merits of each option when her name, called sharply, disrupted her thoughts. "Marina!"
Martin strode towards her, looking disconcertingly pleased.
"Oh, hello, Martin," said Marina, hoping she hid her annoyance. "I just wanted to get some cooler air for a moment. It was getting rather warm in the parlor."
Even in the dim light, Marina could make out Martin looking at her like she was an imbecile. For all the time she spent trying not to be rude to her cousin, she thought with an inward scowl, it would be nice if just once he tried to extend her the same courtesy. Then again, Martin was a man, and the earl—why would he bother being polite to the cousin he so obviously saw as a burden?
"Never mind that, Marina," he said, tone matching his expression. "I've just come to say well done."
Marina narrowed her eyes. What did it say about her cousin that his praise made her instantly suspicious? "Well done?" she echoed.
"Yes," Martin said with clear impatience. "With the duke. I see what you're doing—it's very nice work."
Marina's blood ran cold. Of all the people to have noticed her—well, whatever that was—in the parlor, Martin was the absolute worst person to have done so.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Martin," she said, striving to keep her tone even.
Martin snorted. "You needn't play coy with me, cousin, especially not when you're finally behaving as any young woman in danger of spinsterhood might."
In danger of spinsterhood? The audacity. Marina wondered what Martin might do if she slapped him. Turn her out on the streets, most likely. Alas, she couldn't risk his temper. Instead, she aimed for another denial.
"I really don't know what you're talking about," she said again. "I don't even know which duke you're talking about—there are several here, you know."
Martin gave an annoyed huff. "Oh, very well. Play your silly little games. I don't know why you young ladies insist on acting like this." He fluttered a hand, as if shooing away a gnat. Marina thought this was likely how he saw her: an irritant, if a pitifully small and insignificant one. "But know that I approve of your pursuit of the Duke of Haddington."
Drat. Damnation. Marina swore bountifully in her head. "I am not," she said slowly, like this might break through Martin's thick head, "pursuing the Duke of Haddington."
"Of course you are," Martin said, not so much as though he disbelieved her, but more as though he could make it true by pronouncing it to be so. "And he's obviously smitten. Why else would he have danced with you —" Marina found the emphasis on the pronoun very rude. "—in the parlor? Keep at it is all I'm saying. I want you to make this connection for me."
In a long list of unbelievable things that Martin had ever said to her—in the long list of unbelievable things he had said to her right now —this one was truly incredible.
"Make this connection for you ?" Marina repeated. If she had a pound for every time she found herself repeating Martin and the truly insane things he said, she wouldn't need to marry, not for her own sake nor for Julia's. She'd be so bleeding wealthy that she could set them up for life. "You want me to pursue the Duke of Haddington—you want me to attempt to marry him -- for you?"
Martin either didn't hear the incredulity in her tone or chose to ignore it. "Yes," he said simply. "It would be a very advantageous business connection; I told you that at length in the carriage. Goodness, girl, what goes on in that head of yours? I shudder to think."
Marina's mouth dropped open. "Martin," she stammered after a moment. "Who I marry—" She really could not believe she had to say this. "—is not about you . It is appalling that you would even suggest such a thing."
Now it was Martin's turn to look shocked—shocked, and a little angry. "I'm not sure where you get these ideas, Marina," he said. His voice was condescending and under that there was the edge that Marina had come to recognize as a sign that her cousin had been pushed just a little further away from the seemingly harmless man she had first met and a little bit closer to the ambitious gentleman who would turn out his helpless female relations if it meant advancing his own gains.
"It is the duty of young ladies to marry for the benefit of their families. Your task—the one thing you are good for—is to find yourself a man who is willing to take you on, and who can lend his prestige, wealth, and connections to this family." Martin's voice was as hard as Marina had ever heard it and in that moment he was as near to frightening as he'd ever been.
He took a step closer, and Marina almost wanted to take a step back in response. She fought the urge, insisted on standing her ground.
"One day, you will give him daughters, and it will be their duty to marry to benefit their families. This is the order upon which Society is built. You will do your duty. Do you understand me?"
Just then, Marina hated him. She held his gaze defiantly for a moment, relieved when Martin took a step back.
"I'm sorry if it is not to your liking, Marina. But I did not design the world and you cannot avoid the way things are. The Duke of Haddington is on the hook. Reel him in—whatever it takes."
Before Marina could respond, Martin whirled on his heel and strode back into the parlor, a burst of light and noise escaping as he opened the door.
She needed to get back to the party, too. She'd been gone too long. Soon enough, people would start to notice her absence. Marina pressed her gloved fingers to her temples for a long moment.
That little interlude, unpleasant as it had been, had answered one thing for Marina, at least: she would not be meeting the duke in the garden. As insistent as Martin grew, as determined as he was to bully her, she would not give in and attempt to trap—for that was what Martin had been implying, hadn't it?—the duke into marriage with her.
She had more pride than that—even if, at this moment, pride felt like the only thing she had left.