Page 19 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

Marianne felt cold all over. She saw a thin lady flapping around as if she was being attacked by bees.

“Oh no.”

Her instincts were right. On the chair that the lady had just vacated was a smug-looking Serafina, tail quivering.

There was nothing filthy about her cat. In fact, its fur gleamed like polished silver. But the real spectacle was the way the tabby’s claws sank into the lady’s skirt as if claiming it as its territory.

The sight was both absurd and horrifying. The lady yelped, her hands flailing, trying to dislodge the creature, while the cat hung on with feline determination.

Marianne couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up from deep within her, escaping before she could stifle it. The absurdity of the moment hit her all at once, and she was unable to keep her composure.

“Serafina certainly has a taste for fine fashion,” Wilhelmina commented, her eyes full of mischief.

Why is she back from her room again?

Marianne could only sigh.

“Stop it,” she begged, covering her mouth with one hand while her body shook with the laughter she was trying to suppress.

“You must have that creature put down,” the lady demanded viciously, even as Marianne easily removed the cat from her skirt.

“She merely sat on the chair. This is her home, after all,” Marianne reminded her.

“Hardly an offense, much less mortal,” Wilhelmina murmured.

Before the sisters could even begin to feel triumphant, they heard the unmistakable clearing of their father’s throat. It was a sound they had long learned to recognize. Marianne’s gaze met his cold, unblinking eyes.

He moved toward them with an elegant, measured grace—surprising for a man of his build. Every step was calculated, every movement deliberate. He was the very picture of control, of restraint, and it made Marianne’s stomach twist in a way she had come to dread.

“My apologies, Lady Etheridge, for the unpleasant experience,” he said in his cultured, almost kind voice.

“Oh no, Lord Grisham,” the thin lady replied, her voice sweetened with forced charm. “I do understand why the girls wished to keep the feline. It is simply that I do not appreciate it soiling my gown. It was imported from France, you see.”

She flashed a smile, all warmth and sweetness, though there was an edge to her tone.

The Marquess turned to his eldest daughter with a dark expression on his face she’d known most of her life.

What was it about tonight and brewing storms?

“Take your cat and leave, Marianne,” he ordered calmly but authoritatively.

It was the sort of voice that made everyone pause, musicians included. Her father’s eyes narrowed, complete with a warning. It was one look, but she understood it clearly.

Leave, or else your sisters will suffer for this.

Her father had a silent language, one that spoke volumes without a single word. It was a language she and her sisters had learned to speak fluently over the years.

“Of course, Father. My apologies, Lady Etheridge,” she said obediently, bobbing a low curtsy, even as her cheeks burned at the idea of the shrill lady looking at her smugly.

Elizabeth tried to reach for her, but Marianne gave her a subtle shake of the head.

No. Not here. Perhaps later, but not in front of them.

Again, they were fluent in this secret language, one that helped them survive the years at Grisham Manor.

Holding Serafina close in her arms, Marianne left the drawing room. It might have been her imagination, but her footsteps became louder and louder the further away she walked, echoing like a far-away church bell.

Barely breathing, she walked through the hallway with her cat in her arms. She waited until she could no longer hear the buzz of conversation or the music of the quartet. It was only then that she let herself lean against a wall, feeling drained, but at least the tension had subsided. Serafina seemed to have the same idea, purring when they were out of sight and out of earshot.