Chapter One

 

“Marianne, for goodness’ sake, stop fidgeting with your neckline. You’ll draw even more attention.”

“As if that were possible, Mama.” Marianne Whitcombe cast a sardonic glance at her mother as they swept into their box at Covent Garden Opera House. “Half of London is already gaping at us as though we were exotic animals escaped from the Tower menagerie.”

Her father, Edmund Whitcombe, straightened his immaculately tailored coat—cut from cloth that cost more per yard than most men earned in a month. “Let them stare, my dear. Our money spends just as well as theirs—perhaps better.”

The box—their box, purchased for a sum that had made even the opera house directors blink—commanded an excellent view of both stage and audience. The latter, Marianne suspected, was the true attraction. Her father had not clawed his way from clerk to merchant prince only to hide in the shadows. No, the Whitcombes were here to be seen—to stake their claim among the ton, whether society approved or not.

And judging by the ripple of whispers that followed their entrance like the wake of a ship, society most decidedly did not.

Marianne smoothed her hands over her gown, a deliberate gesture that drew the silk taut across her corseted waist. The deep green suited her complexion perfectly—her lady’s maid had been insistent on that point—but it was the neckline that caused the true scandal. Daring by any measure, it was positively brazen for a merchant’s daughter making her debut in so illustrious a box.

“Shoulders back, chin up,” she murmured to herself, settling with practised grace. She had learned long ago that confidence was its own armour. “If we are to be gazed upon like curiosities, we may as well give them a proper show.”

“That’s my girl.” Her father’s approval came with a sharp smile that had terrified more than one business rival. “Never apologise for who you are.”

The opera house glittered like a jewel box turned inside out. Three tiers of boxes rose toward a painted ceiling of clouds and sky, while great chandeliers cast golden light over silk and satin, diamonds and pearls. The very air shimmered with perfume and powder—wealth and privilege made tangible.

Marianne opened her fan—another small rebellion, painted with peacocks rather than the demure blossoms fashionable this season—and surveyed the crowd with the same calculating eye her father used when assessing a new investment. There sat the Countess of Harrison, whose gambling debts were rumoured to exceed her husband’s income. Over there, Lord Ashworth, newly married to an heiress half his age to rescue his crumbling estate. Everywhere she looked, the careful choreography of social warfare played out: in cuts direct and visits paid, in who acknowledged whom—and who pretended not to see.

“The Duke of Harrowmere is in attendance tonight,” her mother whispered, leaning close enough that her breath stirred the curls at Marianne’s temple. “Third box from the left, second tier.”

Marianne’s gaze found the box before she could stop herself. She had heard of him, of course—everyone had. The Beast of Belgravia. The Scarred Duke. The Devil of Harrowmere. Adrian Blackwell seemed to acquire epithets with remarkable efficiency—and each more dire than the last.

He sat alone in his box, a shadow among shadows despite the blaze of chandeliers. Even from this distance, she could see the scar that carved a brutal path from temple to jaw, pulling his mouth into a permanent sneer. He lounged in his chair with the negligent grace of a man who had never needed to prove his place in the world, one hand resting upon an ebony cane topped with silver.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head.

Their eyes met across the glittering expanse, and Marianne felt the impact like a physical blow. His eyes—black, or perhaps the darkest brown—held hers with an intensity that stole her breath. She had expected coldness, perhaps cruelty. She had not expected the flash of keen interest—the subtle widening that suggested she had surprised him.

Any properly bred young lady would have looked away at once, would have blushed and fluttered and pretended the moment had never occurred. But Marianne had never been properly bred, had she? She was merchant stock through and through—taught to meet challenges head-on rather than retreat from them.

So she held his gaze. Lifted her chin, even, in subtle challenge.

The Duke’s scarred mouth curved into something that might have been a smile—had it not been quite so dangerous. He inclined his head slightly—not the polite nod of acknowledgement, but something closer to a salute between duelists.

A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding boxes. The Beast had acknowledged the merchant’s daughter. Publicly. Notoriously.

“Marianne,” her mother hissed. “Look away this instant!”

 

But she could not. Those dark eyes pinned her like a butterfly in a collector’s case, and she had the unsettling sense he could see straight through her careful confidence to the wild beat of her pulse, the heat climbing her chest despite the theatre’s cool air.

The Duke lifted his opera glasses, bringing them to his eyes with deliberate slowness. Instead of turning them toward the stage where the singers were taking their positions, he kept them trained on her. The gesture was so blatant, so deliberately provocative, that Marianne felt her cheeks flame despite herself.

Two could play that game.

She snapped her fan shut and gave him a small, cheerful wave—the sort of innocent gesture that could mean anything or nothing at all, depending on one’s interpretation. His opera glasses lowered just enough for her to see one dark eyebrow arch in what looked suspiciously like amusement.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” her mother whispered, her voice tight with barely contained hysteria.

“Making friends, Mama.” Marianne opened her fan again to hide her smile. “Is that not what you wanted? For me to enter society?”

“Not with him! He’s—he’s—”

“The Duke of Harrowmere,” her father interjected, his merchant’s mind already whirring. “One of the wealthiest men in England. Unmarried. No direct heir.”

“Edmund, you cannot be serious. The man is a monster! They say he—”

“They say a great many things,” Marianne murmured, stealing another glance at the Duke’s box. He had set aside his opera glasses and appeared absorbed in his programme, though the slight tilt of his head suggested otherwise. “Most of which are probably exaggerated.”

The lights dimmed, signalling the opera’s beginning, and Marianne forced herself to focus on the stage. But she could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over her bare shoulders, the exposed curve of her chest above the silk bodice. It should have felt invasive, predatory even. Instead, it sent an unfamiliar thrill racing down her spine.

Don Giovanni by Mozart unfolded in all its tragic glory, but Marianne absorbed perhaps one note in ten. Her entire being seemed attuned to the man in the box across the way. She knew without looking when he shifted in his seat, when he lifted his glass of what was undoubtedly a very expensive brandy, when his attention moved from the stage to her and back again.

It was a dance of sorts, this awareness. A battle of wills played out in stolen glances and deliberate composure. She would not give him the satisfaction of catching her looking again. But oh, how her skin prickled with the knowledge that he was watching.

When the first act ended and the lights brightened for intermission, Marianne practically fled the box.

“I need air,” she announced, not waiting for her parents’ reply before sweeping into the corridor.

The crush was immediate and overwhelming. London’s elite mingled in the hallways, the ladies’ gowns creating a sea of pastels and jewel tones, the gentlemen severe in their black evening wear. Conversations eddied and flowed around her, and she caught her name more than once, always accompanied by titters or disapproving sniffs.

“The nerve of these merchants…”

“…father made his fortune in shipping, I heard. Or was it textiles?”

“…pretty enough, I suppose, but that dress! So vulgar…”

Marianne kept her head high and her expression pleasantly neutral, a skill learned from years of being the only girl at her father’s business dinners. Let them talk, she thought. Their opinions matter as little as—

“Careful, little sparrow.”

The voice came from behind her—low, cultured, with an edge that made her skin prickle. She knew who it was before she turned. Who else would dare approach her so boldly? Who else possessed a voice like aged whisky poured over broken glass?

She pivoted slowly and found herself face to face with Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrowmere.

He was taller than she had expected, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The scar was more pronounced up close, a pale slash through otherwise bronze skin that spoke of years spent in climates far from England’s grey skies. His hair was unfashionably long, black as midnight and curling slightly at his collar. And his eyes—oh, those eyes—were the colour of bitter chocolate; dark and rich and absolutely devastating.

He had positioned himself strategically, his cane planted to one side, his shoulders angled to create a barrier between her and the crowd. They stood in a pocket of relative isolation, invisible to all but the most determined onlookers.

“Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsey that was perfectly correct and somehow still managed to convey irony. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my welfare.”

His mouth quirked—whether in amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. “Wolves hunt in these halls, Miss Whitcombe.”

That he knew her name did not surprise her; gossip travelled faster than wildfire among the ton. Yet something about hearing it in his voice, with that particular inflexion, made her pulse quicken.

“How fortunate then,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily, “that I have always been rather good with animals.”

This time, the quirk was definitely amusement. “Have you now? And what makes you think you could handle a wolf, little sparrow?”

The endearment ought to have offended her. Instead, warmth pooled treacherously in her stomach. “Perhaps the better question, Your Grace, is what makes you think I am a sparrow? I might be something altogether more dangerous.”

He moved closer—a single step, yet it somehow eliminated half the distance between them. This near, she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. Could see the faint lines around his eyes that suggested he’d once smiled more than he did now. Could feel the heat radiating from his body in the cool corridor.

“Dangerous,” he repeated, tasting the word. “You think yourself dangerous?”

“I think myself many things.” She held her ground, refusing to show even a hint of the nervousness fluttering in her chest. “Though I suspect you have already formed your own opinion.”

“Have I?”

“Haven’t you? The merchant’s daughter, playing at being quality. Wearing a gown meant to scandalise, daring to meet your eyes across a crowded theatre.” She lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. “I imagine you have quite thoroughly catalogued my sins already.”

His gaze dropped deliberately to her neckline, lingered just long enough to bring heat to her cheeks, then returned to her face. “That dress is designed to do more than scandalise.”

“Is it?” She tilted her head, all innocence. “And here I thought it simply complemented my complexion.”

“It does that too.” 

The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. His expression shuttered immediately, the moment of almost-warmth vanishing like morning mist. 

“You should return to your box, Miss Whitcombe.”

“Should I?” She took a deliberate step nearer, her skirts brushing his boots. “And which are you, Your Grace—the wolf or the cage?”

Something flared in his eyes—hot, dangerous. “What makes you think there is a difference?”

“Because wolves are wild things, driven by instinct and hunger.” She was playing with fire, she knew, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Cages, on the other hand, are contrived by civilisation to contain. So which are you? The beast they whisper of—or the bars you have built around yourself?”

He went utterly still, and for a moment, she thought she’d gone too far. The scar on his face seemed to whiten, his jaw clenching with some suppressed emotion. When he moved, it was with the controlled precision of a predator.

He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to her ear. His breath stirred the delicate curls at her temple, warm and tinged with brandy. “Careful, little sparrow,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to resonate in her bones. “You might not like the answer.”

She should have been frightened. Any sensible woman would have been. Instead, she turned her head slightly, bringing her own mouth dangerously close to his. “You assume I’m looking for something to like.”

His sharp intake of breath was immensely satisfying. For a heartbeat, they stood suspended, the space between them charged with something that made her skin feel too tight, her corset too restricting. She could see the pulse beating at his throat, rapid and telling. Could feel the tension in his body, coiled and ready to spring.

Then voices approached—loud, laughing, aristocratic voices that shattered the moment like a rock through glass. The Duke straightened abruptly, stepping back with his customary controlled grace. But his eyes remained on hers, dark and unreadable.

“Your parents will be wondering where you are,” he said; his voice had returned to its earlier cultured indifference.

“Let them wonder.” 

But even as she said it, she knew the interlude was over. Reality was reasserting itself in the form of Lord and Lady Harrison, who were bearing down on them with expressions of barely concealed delight at finding such prime gossip fodder.

“Harrowmere!” Lord Harrison boomed. “And the charming Miss… Whitcombe, is it not? How delightful!”

The Duke’s expression could have frozen fire itself. “Harrison.” The single word dripped disdain.

Lady Harrison’s gaze flicked between them, bright with calculation. “We did not mean to interrupt. Were you acquainted with Miss Whitcombe previously, Your Grace?”

“We have only just been introduced,” Marianne said smoothly, before the Duke could respond. “His Grace was kind enough to warn me about the wolves that hunt in these halls.”

“Wolves!” Lady Harrison tittered; the sound grating as nails on slate. “How dramatic! Though I suppose you would know of such things, would you not, Your Grace? All those years abroad in savage places…”

The Duke’s hand tightened on his cane—the only sign of his irritation. “If you will excuse me.” He inclined his head fractionally, the gesture somehow excluding the Harrisons even as it was directed at Marianne. “Miss Whitcombe.”

He turned and walked away, his slight limp barely noticeable—unless one happened to be watching very closely. Which she most certainly was not. Just as she was most certainly not noticing the way his evening coat stretched across his broad shoulders, or the way he commanded space simply by existing in it.

“Well!” Lady Harrison’s voice cut through her entirely inappropriate observations. “That was quite remarkable. The Duke of Harrowmere never speaks to anyone at these events. You must have made quite an impression, Miss Whitcombe.”

There was something sly in her tone, something that suggested she was already composing the gossip she would spread at tomorrow’s morning calls. Marianne summoned her sweetest smile—the one her father claimed could strip paint when properly applied.

“How kind of you to say so, Lady Harrison. Though I am sure His Grace was merely being polite. After all,” she added conspiratorially, “we merchants’ daughters are so new to these refined gatherings. He likely felt obliged to prevent some dreadful faux pas.”

Lady Harrison’s eyes sharpened. “Indeed. How… considerate of him.”

“Quite. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my parents. This is our first time at Covent Garden, you know. Father was so pleased to secure a box—he so enjoys supporting the arts.”

She gave the word just enough weight to remind Lady Harrison precisely whose coin kept institutions like this running.

She swept away before they could respond, but not before catching Lord Harrison’s muttered, “Damned mushrooms, sprouting up everywhere.”

The walk back to her family’s box felt like navigating a battlefield. Conversations paused as she passed; faces turned; whispers followed. By tomorrow, the ton would be aflame with talk of the Duke of Harrowmere’s unprecedented acknowledgement of the merchant’s daughter.

Her parents awaited her, both taut with anxiety.

“Marianne!” Her mother practically yanked her into the box. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea what people are saying?”

“Nothing that was not being said already, I imagine.” She settled into her chair, arranging her skirts with careful precision. “Though perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm.”

“This is no jest,” her mother hissed. “The Duke of Harrowmere—do you know what they call him?”

“The Beast of Belgravia, I believe. Also, the Scarred Duke, the Devil of Harrowmere, and on Tuesdays, I’m told, the Demon of Mayfair.” She opened her fan, using it to cool her still-flushed cheeks. “He seems to collect epithets the way other men collect snuffboxes.”

Her father leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “He spoke to you?”

“Briefly.” Her tone was light, though her pulse had not quite steadied. “He was concerned about wolves, apparently.”

“Wolves?”

“A metaphor, I believe—though for what, I could not say.”

That was a lie. She knew precisely what he had meant. The ton was full of predators—men who would see her merchant’s blood as permission to take liberties no gentleman would dare with a lady of breeding. The Duke’s public acknowledgement had made her infinitely more interesting to those wolves.

The only question was whether he had meant it as a warning… or a threat.

Chapter Two

 

“Stop fidgeting with your gloves, Marianne. You’ll wear holes in them.”

Marianne forced her hands to stillness, though every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Lady Weatherby’s musicale was the first invitation they had received in four days—four interminable days of silence that had felt like a social death sentence until the cream-coloured card had arrived that morning.

“I’m not fidgeting,” she lied, smoothing her skirts for the tenth time. She had chosen her gown with particular care: midnight-blue silk that brought out the colour of her eyes, cut fashionably but not scandalously so. After the green silk at the opera, she had decided a touch of restraint might be wise.

Though restraint seemed laughably impossible when every breath carried the possibility of seeing him again.

“He might not even attend,” her mother said, correctly interpreting the source of Marianne’s agitation. “The Duke rarely graces these sorts of gatherings.”

“I’m not concerned about the Duke,” Marianne replied, lying through her teeth.

Her mother gave her a look that said she wasn’t fooled for a moment. “Of course not, darling. You’re simply eager to hear Mrs Fortescue’s performance on the pianoforte.”

“Mrs Fortescue is renowned for her musical prowess.”

“Mrs Fortescue sounds like a dying cat when she plays, and everyone knows it. We attend these things for the conversation, not the catastrophe she calls music.”

Despite her nerves, Marianne laughed. Her mother so rarely revealed her wit in public, maintaining the careful façade of a proper merchant’s wife. But in private, she could be surprisingly astute.

The Weatherby townhouse blazed with light, every window golden with candle-glow. Carriages lined the street, disgorging the cream of society in their evening finery. Marianne noticed more than a few heads turn their way as they entered, and heard the inevitable whispers begin.

“The merchant’s daughter…”

“…defended her honour…”

“…the Beast actually threatened…”

She kept her head high, her expression serene. Let them whisper. At least none of them would dare say anything to her face.

The salon was already crowded, every seat taken save for a few deliberately left vacant for late arrivals of importance. Mrs Fortescue sat at the pianoforte, warming up with scales that already sounded slightly off-key. The poor woman really was dreadful, but her husband owned half of Hampshire, so everyone pretended otherwise.

“Miss Whitcombe!” Lady Weatherby descended upon them in a cloud of violet perfume and ostrich feathers. “How delighted I am that you could attend. And Mrs Whitcombe, what a pleasure. Do come in, come in. I’ve saved you seats just there, near the middle.”

Near the middle. Not at the back with the marginal guests, nor at the front with the truly important ones. A careful positioning that acknowledged their wealth while preserving the social hierarchy. Marianne accepted it with grace, settling into her assigned chair with her mother beside her.

The room filled quickly, the noise rising as conversation competed with Mrs Fortescue’s increasingly enthusiastic warm-up. Marianne found herself scanning the crowd, looking for—

“My word,” someone whispered behind her. “He’s actually here.”

She didn’t need to turn to know who they meant. She could feel the change in the air—the way conversation faltered, the subtle tightening of collective breath.

Adrian Blackwell stood in the doorway, immaculate in evening black, his scarred face set in its usual expression of controlled disdain. His dark eyes swept the room once, cataloguing and dismissing most of its occupants in a single glance.

Then those eyes found her.

The impact was as devastating as it had been at the opera. Her breath caught, her pulse leapt, and heat climbed her throat in a way that had nothing to do with the crowded room. He held her gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in those dark depths.

Then he moved.

The crowd parted before him like tide before a ship’s prow. No one wanted to stand in the Beast’s path, though a few ambitious mothers made valiant attempts to push their daughters forward. He ignored them all, his focus absolute as he crossed the room with that particular, controlled grace of his—the slight favouring of his left leg barely noticeable.

He was coming directly toward her.

No, not merely toward her—toward the empty chair beside her. The one that ought to have been taken ten minutes ago, but that no one had dared claim.

“Your Grace,” Lady Weatherby fluttered, hurrying after him. “How wonderful that you could join us. I have a seat reserved for you just here, at the front—”

“This will do.” He lowered himself into the chair beside Marianne without looking at their hostess, his gaze apparently fixed upon the pianoforte. “I prefer a less prominent position.”

Lady Weatherby’s mouth opened and closed several times, but what could she say? One did not argue with a duke—particularly not this duke. She retreated, defeated, leaving behind a trail of furious whispers.

Marianne kept her eyes forward, though every nerve in her body was aware of the man beside her. He had left perhaps an inch between their chairs—technically proper, yet far too close. She could smell his cologne, that distinctive blend of sandalwood and something darker. Could feel the heat of his body. Could hear his steady, measured breathing—so controlled compared to her own shallow breaths.

“Miss Whitcombe,” he said, his voice pitched low enough for her ears alone. “You look well.”

“Your Grace.” She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you would find musicales tedious.”

“I find most things tedious.” He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing hers through the layers of silk and petticoats. “But occasionally, something proves… interesting enough to warrant attendance.”

The word interesting carried weight—suggestion, promise. Marianne felt heat bloom in her cheeks but refused to look at him. “And what, precisely, has captured your interest tonight?”

“Fishing for compliments, Miss Whitcombe?”

“Simply trying to understand what could draw the Beast of Harrowmere from his lair.”

She felt, rather than saw, his smile. “Careful. That name might give people the wrong impression.”

“Oh? And what impression would that be?”

He leaned closer, close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple. “That I’m dangerous.”

“Are you not?”

“Incredibly.” The word was almost a purr—dark and promising. “The question is whether that frightens you or—” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “—excites you.”

Marianne’s hands clenched in her lap, her nails digging into her palms through the thin gloves. She should have been scandalised. Should have moved away, signalled displeasure—done something to discourage such inappropriate intimacy.

Instead, she turned her head slightly, bringing her mouth close to his ear. “Perhaps it’s both.”

His sharp intake of breath was immensely satisfying. For a moment, they sat frozen, the space between them thrumming with tension. Then Mrs Fortescue struck the first chord of her performance, and the spell shifted.

Or rather, it transformed into something else.

The music was, as predicted, dreadful. Mrs Fortescue attacked the keys with more enthusiasm than skill, producing something that might charitably be called an interpretation of Mozart, but sounded more like someone murdering a harpsichord. Several people winced. Someone in the back actually whimpered.

“Goodness gracious,” Adrian muttered. “It’s worse than I remembered.”

“You’ve heard her before?”

“Once. Five years ago. I’d hoped she had improved.” He paused as Mrs Fortescue hit a particularly discordant note. “I was tragically optimistic.”

Marianne bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Surely it’s not that bad.”

“It’s worse. I’ve heard dying animals make more harmonious sounds.” He shifted in his chair, and this time the contact between their thighs was deliberate, sustained. “In truth, I am convinced this borders on cruelty.”

“Your Grace,” she breathed, acutely aware that her mother sat beside her and that dozens of eyes were upon them. “You’re being inappropriate.”

“Am I?” He leaned even closer, his lips a whisper from her ear. “How shocking. Although, if we’re discussing inappropriate things, we should mention that dress.”

“What’s wrong with my dress?”

“Absolutely nothing. That’s the problem.” His voice dropped to a register that seemed to resonate in her bones. “Do you have any idea what that colour does to your complexion? You glow like moonlight. Every man in this room is imagining how you would feel beneath his hand.”

Heat flooded through her, pooling low in her belly. “You cannot know what they’re thinking.”

“Can’t I? I know what I am thinking.”

“And what is that?”

For a moment, he was silent, and she feared he would not answer. Then, just as Mrs Fortescue reached an especially vigorous flourish, he leaned close enough that his lips brushed her ear.

“I am thinking,” he murmured, his voice dark with temptation itself, “that you would fare far better in my lap than on that fragile chair.”

Marianne’s entire body went rigid. Heat surged through her—her face, her chest, places she dared not think about in a crowded salon. She ought to be outraged. Should slap him, or rise and leave, or at the very least move away.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly towards him, her own voice barely a whisper. “Be careful, Your Grace. I might accept.”

He froze—completely, utterly still. For a heartbeat, two, three, he didn’t seem even to breathe.

Then he laughed.

It was soft, scarcely more than an exhale, but it was perhaps the most genuine sound she’d ever heard from him. Dark and rich and thrilling, it arrowed straight through her, leaving her trembling in its wake.

“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the death of me.”

“What a tragedy that would be. However would society survive without its favourite beast to gossip about?”

“They’d manage. They always do.” His thigh pressed more firmly against hers, a deliberate, steady pressure that made her breath catch. “The question is—would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Survive without me.”

The arrogance of it should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself fighting a smile. “Your confidence is staggering.”

“My confidence is earned.” He shifted slightly, and somehow his hand ended up on the arm of his chair, his fingertips just barely brushing her elbow. “Tell me you haven’t thought about me since the opera.

“Your Grace—”

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “that you haven’t touched your neck where I breathed against it, trying to recapture that feeling.”

Marianne’s breath caught. Because she had. Of course she had. Every night since, she’d pressed her fingers to that spot, remembering the way his breath had stirred her skin, circling the rapid beat of her pulse.

“You are being presumptuous,” she managed.

“I am being honest. There’s a difference.”

“Is there? Because from where I’m sitting, they seem remarkably similar.”

“Ah, but where you’re sitting is the problem, isn’t it?” His fingers moved slightly, the lightest brush against her arm. “As I mentioned, you’d be much more comfortable elsewhere.”

“You are impossible.”

“I have been called worse.”

“By me, I’d imagine.”

“Not yet, though I have high hopes for the future.”

Despite herself—despite the crowded room and her mother mere inches away—Marianne laughed. It was soft, scarcely more than a breath, but it was real.

“There,” Adrian said, satisfaction in his tone. “That’s better.”

“Better than what?”

“Than the polite mask you’ve worn all evening. You’re not made for masks, Miss Whitcombe. You’re made for truth.”

“And you think you know my truth?”

“I believe I am beginning to.” His thigh shifted again, a subtle movement that sent sparks through her entire body. “You’re bored by all this, aren’t you? The careful conversation, the endless courtesies, the need to prove yourself worthy of their regard. You would rather be anywhere else.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Yes. Here you are.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something almost like admiration. “Fighting for your place with every breath, refusing to retreat even when they treat you as though you do not belong. It’s magnificent.”

The unexpected compliment caught her off guard. “I… that’s…”

“The truth,” he finished. “Which you claim to value so highly.”

Mrs Fortescue chose that moment to conclude her piece with a flourish that could only be described as enthusiastic. The audience applauded with visible relief, though several people were already edging toward the doors, hoping to escape before she began again.

“I need air,” Marianne announced, rising abruptly. The combination of the heat, the dreadful music, and the Duke’s proximity had left her light-headed.

Her mother gave a faint nod. “Don’t be long.”

Adrian’s gaze followed her as she stepped into the aisle. “You should take a turn in the garden,” he said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.

“I intend to,” she replied, not daring to look directly at him.

He inclined his head slightly, the gesture one of polite detachment for any observing eyes. “And I shall see to a glass of brandy.”

It was all perfectly proper—on the surface. Marianne left the salon first, weaving through the dispersing crowd toward the open French doors. The air was blessedly cool after the stifling heat within, and she drew a steadying breath as she stepped onto the terrace.

Moments later, she heard the faint click of a cane upon stone. Adrian emerged through a separate doorway, pausing as though merely surveying the garden before descending the steps.

Several couples had also come out to stroll among the lamp-lit paths, their laughter drifting softly through the night. Marianne moved toward the far end of the terrace, where a trellis of climbing roses cast dappled shadows.

“Better?” he asked, appearing beside her as if by coincidence.

“Much.” She drew a deep breath, letting the night air soothe her heated skin. “Though I suspect this is even more scandalous than sitting together inside.”

“Undoubtedly. By tomorrow, they’ll have us engaged or eloping, depending on which version spreads faster.”

“Doesn’t that concern you?”

“Should it?” He stepped closer, backing her gently toward the garden wall. “I’ve been socially dead for years, Miss Whitcombe. My reputation can hardly decline further.”

“But mine can.”

“True.” He braced one hand against the wall beside her head, not quite caging her but making his presence undeniable. “Is that what you want? A spotless reputation? Acceptance into their tedious little world?”

“You’re part of that world.”

“I exist alongside it. There’s a difference.” His free hand rose, his fingers tracing the air near her jaw without quite touching. “I attend when it amuses me, take what I want, and leave the rest to rot. It’s surprisingly liberating.”

“Must be nice to have that luxury.”

“It’s not luxury. It’s power.” His fingers finally grazed her cheek, a feather-light touch. “And you, Miss Whitcombe, have more power than you realise.”

“Because of my father’s money?”

“No.” His thumb traced the line of her jaw, sending a shiver through her. “Because you refuse to break. Do you know how many women would have hidden away after what happened at the opera, waiting for the scandal to fade?”

“I don’t hide.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice soft and dangerous. “You don’t. You stand your ground and dare the world to do its worst. It’s…” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Intoxicating.”

The word hung between them, heavy with meaning. Marianne’s breath quickened, her chest rising and falling in a way that drew his gaze down before he forced it back to her face.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” she whispered.

“Why not? Because it’s improper? Because someone might hear?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “Or because you like it too much?”

“Your Grace—”

“Adrian.” The name came out rough, almost desperate. “When we’re alone, call me Adrian.”

“We’re not alone. Anyone could see—”

“Let them.” His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, his fingers resting lightly against her pulse. “Let them see that you’re mine.”

“I’m not yours.”

“Aren’t you?” His thumb pressed softly over her racing pulse. “Your body says otherwise.”

“My body—” She broke off, flushing hotly.

“Yes?” He was so close now she could feel his breath against her lips. “Tell me about your body, Marianne. Tell me how it feels when I touch you. Tell me what you think about in the dark, when you’re alone with nothing but memories of my breath on your skin.”

“Stop.” The word came out breathless, unconvincing.

“Make me.” His lips brushed her ear, sending sparks through her entire body. “Push me away. Slap me. Scream for help. Do something other than stand there trembling, pressing closer when you should be running away.”

He was right. She was pressing closer, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed warnings. Her hands had somehow found his chest, though she couldn’t remember reaching for him.

“This is madness,” she breathed.

“The best things usually are.” His hand slid from her throat to her waist, pulling her against him. “Tell me to stop, Marianne. One word, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you to your spotless reputation and your empty victories.”

She should say it. Should push him away, return to the salon—to safety, to sense.

Instead, she looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes that promised such beautiful destruction. “And if I don’t?”

His grip tightened, his control visibly fraying. “Then we’re already beyond saving.”

For a moment, they stood frozen, balanced on a knife’s edge between propriety and ruin. Then voices approached—loud, drunken male voices that shattered the moment like glass.

Adrian stepped back at once, though his eyes remained fixed on hers, dark with promise and frustration. By the time Lord Harrison and his cronies rounded the corner, they were standing at a perfectly respectable distance, discussing the weather with faultless politeness.

“Harrowmere!” Harrison slurred, clearly deep in his cups. “And the lovely Miss Whitcombe. Taking the air?”

“The salon was rather close,” the Duke said coolly. “Miss Whitcombe felt faint.”

“Of course, of course.” Harrison’s leer suggested he didn’t believe a word of it. “Though perhaps she should return inside. The night air can be… dangerous for young ladies.”

“Indeed,” the Duke said, his voice carrying just enough edge to make Harrison step back. “Which is why I was just escorting Miss Whitcombe back to her mother.”

He offered his arm again, and Marianne took it, allowing him to guide her past the leering lords and back toward the house. But just before they reached the doors, he drew her into another shadowed alcove.

“This isn’t finished,” he said, his voice rough with suppressed want. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know nothing of the sort.”

“Liar.” He pressed something into her hand—a calling card, she realised. “My direction. When you’re ready to stop pretending, you know where to find me.”

“I won’t come.”

“Yes,” he said with absolute certainty, “you will.”

Then he was gone, striding back into the salon and leaving her alone in the shadows, her heart racing and her skin aflame.

She looked down at the card in her hand. Just his name and address—nothing more. Such a simple thing, yet it felt like holding a lit match over gunpowder.

When she finally returned to the salon, her mother took one look at her and went pale.

“We’re leaving,” she announced, gathering their things with unprecedented haste.

Marianne didn’t argue. She couldn’t have sat through another moment of Mrs Fortescue’s torture, not with her blood still singing from Adrian’s touch, his words echoing in her mind.

As their carriage pulled away, she caught a glimpse of him through the salon windows. He stood alone despite the crowd around him—a dark figure among the glittering throng. As if sensing her gaze, he turned, and even from that distance, she felt the weight of his attention.

“You’re playing with fire,” her mother said quietly.

“I know.”

“He’ll ruin you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Marianne—”

“I know, Mama.” She clutched his card tighter, feeling the edges bite into her palm. “I know exactly what he is, what he represents, what he could do to me.”

“And yet?”

Marianne thought of dark eyes and dangerous promises, of a thumb against her pulse and lips against her ear. Of a man who saw through her composure to the wildness beneath, who made her feel alive in a way she never had before.

“And yet,” she said softly, watching the city blur past the window, “I can’t seem to care.”

Her mother sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Your father’s letter went out this morning—an invitation to dine with the Duke. He insisted on extending it to him after the… incident at the opera.”

Marianne turned sharply. “And did he accept?”

“Within the hour.”

Something in Marianne’s chest tightened with anticipation and fear. Adrian Blackwell at her father’s table, in her home, surrounded by her family’s merchant practicality. It would be a disaster.

She could hardly wait.

That night, she stood at her window, his card still in her hand. The address seemed to burn into her palm—a temptation and a threat all at once. She thought of his words in the garden, his certainty that she would come to him.

The arrogance of it should have infuriated her. Instead, she found herself tracing the letters of his name, imagining what would happen if she did. What rooms lay behind that address? What would he do if she appeared at his door?

You’d fare better in my lap than that frail chair.

Heat surged through her at the memory—the sheer impropriety of it, the way he’d whispered it like a secret, like a promise. And her response—what on earth had possessed her to say such a thing?

But she knew what had possessed her. The same force that made her breath catch when he entered a room, that set her skin aflame when he touched her, that made her feel wild and reckless and alive.

Desire.

She had read about it, of course—in novels, in hushed conversations overheard at parties. But she had never understood it. Never felt that pull that made sensible people do mad, impossible things.

Until now. Until him.

A soft knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. Her maid entered with a box.

“This just arrived, miss. No card, but the footman who delivered it wore Harrowmere livery.”

Marianne’s heart jumped. She took the box with hands that trembled slightly, waiting until the maid had gone before opening it.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a single golden locket—exquisite in its simplicity, the gold worked into delicate filigree. But it was what lay within that stole her breath.

A tiny piece of paper, folded impossibly small. She unfolded it carefully to reveal a single line in that bold, masculine hand:

For when you’re ready to stop pretending.

Chapter Three

 

“He’s early.”

Marianne nearly dropped the vase she’d been arranging, her mother’s words sending her heart into a ridiculous gallop. “How early?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Her mother peered through the drawing room curtains like a spy in a penny novel. “That is either very rude or very eager—and I cannot decide which is worse.”

“Perhaps he’s simply punctual.” Marianne forced herself to finish with the flowers—white roses and deep-purple dahlias, a combination that had seemed elegant this morning but now felt overdone. Everything felt overdone. The dining room gleamed with their best china; the silver had been polished twice, and Cook had prepared enough food to feed a regiment.

“Dukes are never punctual,” her mother declared. “They arrive precisely when they mean to—which is invariably late enough to make everyone uneasy.” She turned from the window, smoothing her best silk gown for the dozenth time. “Your father’s still in his study. Should I fetch him?”

“Let Papa finish his brandy. He’ll need it.”

Her mother gave her a sharp look. “As might we all. Marianne, are you quite certain about this? You might still sit out the evening—say you are feeling a little out of sorts—”

“And let the Duke imagine we are uneasy in his company?”

Her mother’s lips tightened. “Well… are we not?”

Marianne touched the hidden weight of the locket beneath her bodice, its presence a constant reminder of last night’s whispered promises. “No, Mama. We’re not.”

The doorbell rang, echoing through the house like a gunshot. They both froze, then laughed at their own nerves.

“Well,” her mother said, squaring her shoulders. “Into battle, then.”

But Marianne was already moving, drawn as though by magnetic force toward the entrance hall. She arrived just as their butler, Jenkins, opened the door.

Adrian stood on their threshold like a dark prince from a gothic romance—severe in black, the lamplight catching the sharp lines of his scar. He carried a bottle of what was undoubtedly an obscenely expensive wine, and his eyes found hers immediately over Jenkins’s shoulder.

“Miss Whitcombe.” His voice held that particular timbre that made her name sound both an endearment and a warning.

“Your Grace.” She dropped into a curtsey that might have been a shade more ironic than proper. “How kind of you to be so… prompt.”

His mouth quirked. “I was taught that keeping one’s hosts waiting is the height of rudeness. Though I understand that particular lesson has rather fallen out of fashion among my peers.”

“Along with common courtesy and basic decency, from what I’ve observed.”

“Marianne.” Her mother’s warning tone carried from behind her.

Adrian’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Mrs Whitcombe. Thank you for the invitation. I have brought a small token—something from my own cellar.”

Her mother accepted the bottle, her merchant’s eye immediately cataloguing its worth. Her eyebrows rose slightly. “A Sauternes from the nineties? Your Grace, this is… extremely generous.”

“It’s a fitting choice,” he said quietly, his gaze still on Marianne. “Some evenings merit the best one has to offer.”

Before anyone could respond to that loaded statement, her father’s voice boomed from the dining room doorway. “Your Grace! Come to brave the merchant’s table, have you?”

Edmund Whitcombe stood with his hands on his hips, studying Adrian with the same assessing look he used when considering a profitable but dangerous investment. The two men faced one another across the entrance hall, and Marianne held her breath.

Adrian inclined his head slightly. “Mr Whitcombe. Good of you to have me.”

“Good of you to come,” her father returned. “Though I admit, I’m curious as to why you accepted.”

“Edmund!” her mother gasped.

“It’s a fair question,” Adrian said evenly. “I suspect you’re a man who values directness.”

“I’m a man who built his fortune on reading intentions. And yours, Your Grace, are decidedly obscure.”

The tension stretched taut as a wire. Then Adrian smiled—not his usual sardonic curl, but something more genuine, and therefore more dangerous.

“Then we have that in common, Mr Whitcombe. Your daughter is rather… unexpected.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed, then he barked out a laugh. “That she is. Come then, let’s eat before Cook takes to her bed with nerves. She’s been fretting over this meal since dawn.”

The dining room had never felt smaller. Adrian’s presence seemed to fill it, making their carefully laid table suddenly intimate despite its formality. He pulled out Marianne’s chair before the footman could, his fingers brushing her shoulder as she sat. The contact lasted no more than a second, yet it sent electricity racing down her spine.

“Wine, Your Grace?” her father asked, already pouring without waiting for assent. He had chosen one of their better bottles—though nothing approaching the Sauternes the Duke had brought, which had been whisked away for some future, more momentous occasion.

“Thank you.” Adrian accepted the glass, his gaze sweeping the room with idle interest. “You have a fine home.”

“We have an expensive home,” her father corrected. “Cost a small fortune to buy from Lord Ashfield when his gambling debts came due. Still finding empty brandy bottles in the oddest places.”

“Edmund, really,” her mother murmured.

“What? It’s the truth.” He took his seat at the head of the table, fixing Adrian with that penetrating stare. “I assume you made your inquiries before accepting our invitation.”

“Of course.”

“And?”

Adrian sipped his wine, considering. “You began as a clerk in a shipping office. Within ten years, you owned the company. Within twenty, you controlled half the merchant fleet operating out of London. You’re known for fair dealing, but ruthless negotiation. You’ve never defaulted on a contract, never betrayed a partner—but you’ve destroyed men who crossed you.”

Her father smiled, showing teeth. “And what does that tell you?”

“That your daughter comes by her steel honestly.”

The compliment hung in the air like a challenge. Marianne felt the heat climb her cheeks but kept her expression composed as the first course arrived—a delicate soup Cook had practised three times to perfect.

“And what of your family, Your Grace?” her mother asked, clearly attempting to steer the conversation toward safer waters. “I understand you have a younger sister?”

Something flickered across Adrian’s face—gone too swiftly to name. “Lady Catherine. She’s abroad at present. Italy, last I heard.”

“How lovely. And your parents?”

“Dead.” The word was flat, final. 

An awkward silence fell. Marianne found herself speaking before she could think better of it. “Is that when you went to India?”

His eyes shifted to her, a flicker of surprise breaking his composure. “You have been making enquiries about me?”

“Only fair, is it not? You took the trouble to make yours about us.”

“I see. And what else did you uncover in your… investigations?”

She felt the weight of her parents’ attention but pressed on. “That you spent five years in the East. That you returned with a fortune no one can quite explain, and scars no one dares ask about. That you’ve had three mistresses but no official courtships. That you fence at Angelo’s on Tuesdays and keep a box at the opera you rarely use.”

“Marianne!” Her mother’s horrified whisper did nothing to stop her.

“It’s all right,” Adrian said, his gaze steady on Marianne. “I admire thoroughness. Though you missed a few details.”

“Oh?”

“I also breed horses at my estate in Kent. I speak four languages fluently. And I’ve been thinking of you every moment since the opera.”

The last was spoken so softly she almost missed it. Her father did not.

“Right,” Edmund said, setting down his spoon with a decisive clink. “Cards on the table, Harrowmere. What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

“Edmund, for goodness’ sake—”

“No, Margaret, this needs saying.” He leaned forward. “My daughter is not some pampered miss who’ll swoon at plain speaking. She has a spine of steel and a mind sharp enough to run my entire operation if society would let her. So, I’ll ask again: what is it you want with her?”

Adrian was silent for a long moment, his fingers turning the stem of his glass. When he looked up, his eyes went directly to Marianne.

“I want,” he said slowly, “what I haven’t wanted in a very long time—something real in a world of façades. Someone who looks at me without flinching, who gives as good as she gets, who makes me feel…” He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. “Alive.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Marianne couldn’t breathe; she could only stare as her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

“Well,” her father said at last, “that’s either the prettiest speech I’ve ever heard or the most honest. I can’t quite tell which.”

“Both, perhaps,” Adrian replied, his gaze still locked with Marianne’s.

Her father leaned back. “Then the question is what you intend to do about it. Because if you mean to trifle with her—”

Adrian’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “I would never dishonour her so.”

“Wouldn’t you? A duke and a merchant’s daughter—it’s not exactly a likely match.”

“Edmund, enough,” her mother said sharply. “You’re being deliberately provocative.”

“I’m being protective. There’s a difference.” But he subsided, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d read in Adrian’s face.

The second course arrived—roasted fowl with all the accompaniments. Conversation turned to safer topics: the theatre season, the new railway lines being built, the price of silk from China. But underneath the polite discourse, tension thrummed like a plucked string.

Adrian’s knee brushed Marianne’s beneath the table. She couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or accidental, but she didn’t move away. The contact was minimal, barely there, but it made every nerve in her body sing with awareness.

“More wine, Your Grace?” She reached for the bottle at the same moment he did; their fingers tangled briefly before he took it. “Allow me,” he murmured, refilling her glass. His thumb lingered, tracing the back of her hand in the smallest, most deliberate caress.

Her father noticed everything. “Marianne,” he said mildly, “perhaps you might show His Grace the conservatory after dinner. We’ve had some new specimens sent from the colonies.”

“I’d be delighted,” Adrian said before she could answer.

The third course came and went in a blur. Marianne barely tasted any of it, too aware of Adrian beside her, of the heat radiating from his body, of the way his long fingers held his wine glass with such controlled grace. She thought of those fingers on her throat in the garden, and had to take a large sip of wine to cool her suddenly dry throat.

“Careful,” Adrian murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Wine on an empty stomach can be treacherous.”

“I’ve eaten plenty.”

“Have you? You’ve done a fine job rearranging your food, but very little of it has actually passed those lovely lips.”

The casual observation, delivered in that dark velvet tone, made her cheeks warm. “You’ve been watching me eat?”

“I’ve been watching you breathe.” His admission was quiet, unsettlingly sincere. “I can’t seem to stop.”

“Your Grace—”

“Adrian,” he corrected softly, leaning fractionally nearer. “You promised to call me Adrian when we are alone.”

“We are most assuredly not alone.”

“No,” he agreed, his gaze lingering—far too boldly—on her mouth. “But we will be.”

The promise in those words tightened something low in her chest—a flutter of anticipation and something that might have been fear. Or desire. With him, it was increasingly difficult to tell the difference.

Dessert was served—an elaborate confection of cream and berries that Cook had laboured over for hours. Marianne managed three bites before her father pushed back from the table.

“Right then. Margaret, shall we retire to the drawing room? Leave these young people to their conservatory tour?”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Edmund, surely—”

“Surely our daughter can show a guest our plants without incident,” he replied. “Glass walls on all sides. Perfectly proper.”

Marianne caught the look that passed between her parents—her mother’s concern, her father’s calculating assessment. He was testing something, though whether it was her or Adrian, she couldn’t tell.

“The conservatory it is,” she said lightly, rising before anyone could object further.

Adrian stood immediately, offering his arm. She took it, acutely aware of the strength beneath fine wool, of how even that small contact unsettled her composure.

The conservatory was her father’s pride—a gleaming glass structure heavy with the scent of earth and growing things. Orchids clung to trellises, palms created dappled alcoves, and lamplight shimmered through the leaves like reflected fire.

“It’s like another world,” Adrian said quietly, genuine appreciation in his voice.

“Father says it reminds him of the ports his ships visit—places he’ll never see himself but can imagine through these.”

“And you? What do you see when you look at it?”

Marianne considered, running her fingers along a broad leaf. “Freedom. These plants were taken from their homes and forced to grow in foreign soil. Yet they survive. Some even thrive.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Adapting to foreign soil?”

“Aren’t we all?” She turned to face him, finding him closer than expected. “Even you, Your Grace. The ton isn’t your natural habitat any more than it is mine.”

“No,” he agreed, moving closer still. “My natural habitat is altogether more… dangerous.”

“Are you trying to frighten me again?”

“I’m trying to warn you.” His hand came up, fingers ghosting along her jaw. “Your father’s right to be protective. I’m not a good man, Marianne. I’ve done things that would horrify you.”

“In India?”

His hand stilled. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me.” She caught his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Stop hiding behind warnings and threats and tell me something real.”

For a moment, she thought he’d pull away. Then, so quietly she had to strain to hear: “I killed men in India. Many men. Some deserved it. Some were simply in the way.”

“Soldiers?”

“Some. Others were…” He pulled his hand free, turning away. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, your father’s right. You should be afraid of me.”

“But I’m not.”

He spun back, eyes blazing. “Then you’re a fool.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I see what you refuse to.” She took a slow step closer, drawn by some force she couldn’t name. “You’re not the beast they paint you as, Adrian. A true beast wouldn’t wrestle with its own conscience. Wouldn’t care enough to push me away for my sake.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Don’t I?” She was close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat, to feel the tension radiating from him. “Then prove me wrong. Be the beast they say you are.”

His control snapped. She saw it happen—the careful walls crumbling, replaced by raw hunger. He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him hard enough to steal her breath.

“You want the beast?” His voice was rough, dangerous. “Fine.”

His mouth crashed down on hers, and Marianne’s world exploded.

This was nothing like the careful, chaste kisses she’d imagined. This was fire and demand, his tongue claiming her mouth with devastating thoroughness. She should have been shocked, should have pushed him away. Instead, she melted against him, her hands fisting in his jacket as she kissed him back with equal fervour.

He groaned against her mouth, the sound sending heat straight to her core. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, tangling in her carefully arranged hair. He walked her backwards until she hit the glass wall, the cool surface a shock against her heated skin.

“This is what you’ve awakened,” he said against her lips, his breathing ragged. “This hunger. This madness. I want to devour you, Marianne. Want to have you right here—against the glass, heedless of who might see.”

“Adrian—”

“Say it again.” His mouth moved to her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. “Say my name.”

“Adrian,” she breathed, her head falling back as he found a spot below her ear that made her entire body shiver.

“You will be ruined,” he warned, even as his grip on her waist tightened. “Your reputation destroyed. Society will tear you apart.”

“Let them.” She pulled his head up, meeting his wild gaze. “I don’t care.”

“You should.” But he was kissing her again, deep and desperate, like a drowning man seeking air. His hand slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her corset, and she made a sound she’d never made before—needy and wanton.

“Your Grace? Miss Whitcombe?”

They broke apart at Jenkins’s voice, both breathing hard. Adrian’s hair was dishevelled where her fingers had tangled in it, his eyes still wild with want. Marianne knew she must look equally undone.

“Your parents request your return to the drawing room, miss,” Jenkins called, carefully refraining from stepping into the conservatory proper.

“Tell them we shall be there directly,” Marianne managed, her voice steadier than she felt.

They waited until his footsteps receded. Adrian stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to restore order.

“This was a mistake,” he said.

“Was it?”

“Your father trusted me alone with you.”

“My father,” Marianne said, smoothing her skirts with only the faintest tremor, “is a businessman. He trusts no one. He was testing us both.”

“And we failed.”

“Did we?” She moved past him toward the door, pausing to glance back. “Or did we pass—with distinction?”

His laugh was dark, disbelieving. “You’re going to destroy me.”

“Quite possibly.” She smoothed her hair, knowing it was hopeless but trying anyway. “But what a spectacular destruction it will be.”

She left him there among the shadowed leaves and perfumed air, her lips still burning from his kiss.