Page 9 of Destined to be a Duchess (Lust and Love in High Society)

"He really is quite good,” Marianne said from beside Anthony, her neck craning to watch Patrick at the pianoforte. She smiled and took another sip of her cherry ratafia—the little after-dinner drink that Marianne had taken a liking to. “And he certainly seems to think it too. Look at the furrow of concentration in that brow! It’s all a show. I can see him smiling.”

Anthony grinned and turned to watch Patrick play. They had all settled into the drawing room that night after their dinner, on strict orders from his mother to establish a solid plan for the party at Hagram Park. Marianne was not the only one who needed to prepare herself to meet the ton. After two years abroad, Catherine was worried that Anthony had become, in her own words, “a Continental boor.”

He had been forbidden from droning on about his art—and the topic of the recently ended war, she had said, was strictly off the table, too. God forbid their old friends think Anthony had become a Napoleon sympathizer during his time in Paris.

“Wherever did he learn to play like that?” Marianne asked Anthony.

Her impressed smile almost took his breath away. His mother still continued to treat Marianne like a little doll, dressing her up in lavish gowns and bedecking her with jewels. Her sapphire earrings twinkled in the candlelight, lapping against the side of her neck like the surf against the shore.

Anthony momentarily lost his train of thought, admiring that swathe of flawless, creamy skin. She didn’t need to worry about her manners or conversation at Hagram Park.

The gentlemen there would be tripping over themselves for a chance to speak with her just because she was beautiful. Anthony prickled with surprising jealousy as he imagined them fighting to refill her drink, bribing Warren to let them sit beside her at dinner, and more. It was only natural to feel protective of her, he thought, given how much his mother had taken to her.

“You should ask the maestro himself if you want the full story, provided you have a few hours to spare,” Anthony replied. “Patrick is the third son of Viscount Bowers, who resides in Bath. You won’t know much about the politics in aristocratic families, but a third son is considered about as useful as a fifth wheel on a carriage. Patrick took an interest in music when he was young, and his father sent him to Italy at twelve to study at a conservatory in Rome.”

“That’s so young,” Marianne murmured, her smile fading. “I couldn’t have imagined spending even a day without my mother at twelve. And I think she felt the same way. We were joined at the hip for the better part of our lives.”

“You never travelled?” Anthony asked, genuinely curious. He was curious about everything when it came to Marianne, the Moorhaven anomaly. “What exactly did life look like for you before you came here?”

“Never travelled, never went to school …” She shrugged one-shouldered, returning her attention to the pianoforte. “Most people don’t do either of those things, you realize. For as long as I can remember, I helped my mother tend the shop. There was no end to the things that needed doing.

When we weren’t working on gowns directly, taking measurements, creating patterns, that sort of thing, I was ordering fabrics or making deliveries. My favourite task was studying magazines for new patterns. I had to read so many newspapers to try and gauge the latest fashions that by the end of the morning, my eyes had fuzzed over. I would have died of embarrassment if a young woman came into the shop asking for a cut or a pattern I’d never heard of.”

“And in your free time …? What exactly did you do when you were not working?”

“There was no free time—well, hardly any.” Marianne shook her head and laughed. “We opened the shop around eight in the morning and closed just after seven o’clock. In the mornings, we would cater to working women like us. It was in the afternoons that the gentlewomen took their appointments with us. After that, we mostly had dinner in the public house at the end of the road, which earned us a few stares but saved a tremendous amount of time.

In the evenings, I would work on new gowns or prepare the shop for the next morning. If I had some time before bed, I would sometimes read and sometimes speak with Mama. Our neighbour Sarah was a former governess. She was the one who taught me to read. We would spend some evenings with her, too, gossiping and such. But yes, more often than not, I just went to sleep.”

Anthony refrained from passing judgement out loud, even though he wanted to say that it wasn’t fair that Marianne had been forced to live and breathe her job just to make ends meet. Her love for sewing was obvious. He thought a moment about his own passion, wondering whether he would ever have the discipline to pursue art as tirelessly as she had worked on her own craft.

Anthony never felt more alive than when deep in a painting, playing with composition, colour, and perspective as effortlessly as he breathed. That might have changed if he had been forced to rely on art to keep a roof over his head. The fact that Marianne could still speak about dressmaking with so much passion stood as a testament to her strength and spirit.

“You look concerned,” Marianne said, tilting her head to the side. “It wasn’t all doom and gloom. There were events to attend in Lambeth, walks to go on with friends when I could be spared from the shop.

But until I came here, I had no idea some people genuinely led lives of leisure. It’s one thing to read about the ton in the papers or hear stories from the women who came in for dresses. It’s quite another to see first-hand how different life is for you all. How … easy … it is.”

Was there a note of disdain in her voice? Anthony couldn’t be sure, scowling all the same. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. It shouldn’t have bothered him that Marianne might have thought his family and everyone like them were lazy. She was probably right. In theory, the estate met all his needs, and Anthony had relative freedom to spend his days as he saw fit.

But a duke had a duty to uphold, one which was ceremonial and social in nature if nothing else, just like Mr Acaster had said. Their lives might have been considerably easier than most other people, but they weren’t without their own difficulties.

He side-eyed his mother, where she sat by the fire. It wouldn’t be long before she started talking about marriage and children for him again now that he had returned to England. His lifestyle, like everything, came with a price. It wasn’t Marianne’s fault that she couldn’t see that. She had spent her own life just trying to survive.

“It’s a miracle you aren’t climbing up the walls for want of something to do then,” Anthony joked, attempting to sound as neutral as possible. He pressed his lips together, trying hard not to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “If you disagree with our way of life, why have you agreed to become a lady when you could have returned to London?”

Marianne looked offended, and Anthony immediately shrank into himself. Her irritation passed quickly as she took another sip of her drink—then looked deeply into her glass and frowned like she saw the reflection of a hypocrite staring back at her.

“Because I don’t think I have a choice,” she said, sucking in her cheeks. “And so I may as well make the best of things. I won’t try to live easily. I will try to make a difference where I can, no matter what people think of me.”

Anthony leaned forward, wanting to apologize and ask her to explain more. Except Patrick chose that exact moment to conclude his piece. He finished with a flourish to the applause of Anthony’s mother and Miss Barclay. Anthony sighed and joined in, burning to speak with Marianne again as soon as possible.

His mother had other ideas. She called his name energetically, stopping Patrick from leaving the piano stool with a raise of her hand. His friend stood halfway, then sank back onto the stool like a well-disciplined child.

“I think it’s time you fulfilled your promise to Marianne,” Catherine said teasingly to Anthony, clasping her hands in front of her. “Why, we would be fools not to make the most of Patrick’s talent while he is here. And what a talent it is. We should discover before you set off whether Marianne has two left feet. There will be dancing at Hagram Park, don’t you think?”

“I hadn’t given the matter much thought,” Anthony muttered. He rose out of his seat, stealing a glance at Marianne. If she was seething, she was doing so quietly. “But perhaps now is not the time for—”

“Nonsense, darling,” Catherine interrupted, waving Marianne out of her seat as well. “You’ll be leaving in four days. We cannot waste a second more chatting when we could be giving Marianne her lessons. It certainly took you long enough to find your rhythm.”

Anthony felt his ears burn, memories of frustrated dance teachers flashing behind his eyes. He had never been a natural dancer, and he bridled at the thought of embarrassing himself in front of Marianne, especially when she was upset with him.

“Is that not all the more reason to delay this lesson until we’ve procured a decent teacher for her?” He gestured towards Patrick. “Why not have Patrick pair with her, and I will play the pianoforte? He is obviously more musically inclined than I am.”

“Anyone would think you didn’t want to dance with the poor girl,” Patrick joked from the piano, playing a few discordant notes as though he was trying to rile Anthony up. “I’ve seen you on a few dance floors, engaged in a country reel or two. You aren’t completely hopeless, old chap.”

“And with that encouraging recommendation, I think the matter has been laid to rest,” Catherine said. She clapped for Marianne and Anthony to take their places. “Let’s start with something simple. I’ve always considered a quadrille easy enough to pick up. A glissade here, a jeté there … You’ll have it mastered in no time, my dear.” She turned to Miss Barclay. “Frida, fetch Gourdoux-Daux’s ‘Principes de la danse’ from the library in case we all need a refresher.”

Miss Barclay dashed out of the room more quickly than Anthony could stop her. He straightened the lapels of his jacket out of awkwardness, proceeding to the empty space by the windows his mother was pointing toward. He heard the tell-tale clacking of slippers behind him, equal parts relieved and dismayed to find Marianne following suit. Patrick was already working the ivories, quietly rehearsing a minuet while they waited.

Catherine grabbed Anthony under the arm, then did the same for Marianne, placing them in their starting positions like two begrudging dolls. Ignoring Anthony’s muttering, she skipped across the drawing room to speak with Patrick about the music.

Anthony seized his courage the moment she was gone. “I really didn’t mean—” he tried to say, only to be cut off immediately by Marianne.

“I know what you meant,” she whispered, looking up at him guiltily. “I shouldn’t have replied to you with so much bitterness. It was uncalled for. I instigated the fight with my comment on your easy life.”

“I wouldn’t have dubbed that a fight,” Anthony murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You should still accept my apology.”

“Surely it is up to the recipient of the apology to decide whether or not they should accept it?” Marianne smiled now, too, mischievously. “I do accept, and I apologize as well.”

“Good.” Anthony swallowed hard, rolling his eyes as his mother began her journey back to them. “If we are to survive this dance, we will need to be allies, not enemies,” he whispered in Marianne’s ear.

Miss Barclay reappeared at the door within seconds, handing his mother a small cloth-bound book. Catherine flicked through the pages until she found whatever she was searching for, then cleared her throat to begin instructing Anthony and Marianne on their first quadrille.

“Now, if I know Lady Hindborough, she will have instructed Eliana to favour one of the more fashionable dances,” Catherine declared. “When we met for the Season, she mentioned a preference for Paine’s First Set. I see no reason we shouldn’t begin there with Le Pantalon.”

“The Trousers,” Anthony translated, seeing Marianne frown in confusion. “Not that I imagine that helps.” He pinched the sides of his trousers. “You will want to hold your skirt and round out your arms for a start.”

“Is that why it’s called The Trousers?” Marianne asked. “Because you hold the hem of your trousers off the ground?”

Anthony held back a laugh. “No. Only the women hold their skirts. The men will be positioned like this.” He performed the bras bas position, making an oval shape with his arms, before dropping it quickly out of embarrassment.

“The names are mostly irrelevant. They will only help you to identify a dance on your card. You will hear lots of terminology tonight—my mother will want to show off her knowledge to you. But you need only try to replicate the steps. A quadrille typically involves eight dancers in a square. Sometimes, just four. For now, you will have to satisfy yourself with me.”

“That doesn’t sound like too difficult a task.” She smiled, and Anthony almost thought the expression was flirtatious. She stared down at her slippers. “I’ve performed a few country dances before, so I’m not entirely out of my element. Show me how to position my feet before we begin.”

With a sigh, Anthony did just that.

The next half an hour passed by in a blur of clumsy footwork and wayward glances. Anthony had been forced onto a few dance floors during his time abroad. On the Continent, he had been considered charming for the simple fact of being a foreigner.

He couldn’t count on his charm to carry him through a quadrille now that he was back in England. The sequences came back to him slowly. He performed the dance as well as he could—which was to say rigidly. If anything, Marianne seemed to pick up the steps more quickly than he did.

He watched her carefully as she performed a traverser beside him. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she skipped along, taunting him with her head thrown over her shoulder as they separated again. It was easy to lose himself for a few moments, forgetting his mortification as she dazzled him with another laugh.

Patrick played the music to its end, and Anthony released Marianne for their final step. He let her go breathlessly, having been too occupied trying not to trip over his feet to notice the warmth of her hand in his. He noticed the coldness now that she was gone and felt a shiver run down his spine in response.

Marianne hopped to a stop and clasped her hands under her chin, looking towards his mother for her approval as Catherine and the others clapped. Her cheeks were flushed slightly from the effort of their clumsy quadrille, fine hairs curling around her ears in natural ringlets. It would have made a perfect sketch if Anthony had had any business recording these moments of Marianne.

“A brilliant beginning, my darlings,” his mother cooed, sashaying over to give Marianne a side hug. “Of course, I’m not surprised the dance came easily to you, Marianne. Poise and grace are in your blood. Nicholas was a peacock on the dance floor, though he never would have admitted as much himself.”

Anthony let out the breath he had been holding during their dance, turning back towards the sofa. His mother grabbed him with an iron grip, yanking him back.

“We’re not done yet,” she exclaimed, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Frida, find the chapters on waltzes. It’s imperative that Marianne learns a waltz!”

“I highly doubt we will be performing waltzes at Hagram Park,” Anthony argued, horrified at the idea of dancing so intimately in front of his mother.

“How do you know?” Catherine shot back, still holding Marianne close. “I told you—Ladies Hindborough and Eliana will only accept the most fashionable dancers in their ballroom. There is no guarantee that there won’t be waltzing, and I won’t have Marianne be left out when everyone is paired together. Now, stop complaining and get into position. It’s the quickest of all the dances to learn.”

“Because it is the least technical and yet the most taxing,” Anthony murmured under his breath. He could barely look Marianne in the eye, wondering whether she knew what was in store for them. “I apologize in advance for this,” he said, waving her over with all the excitement of a farmer herding cattle. “My mother is rather abusing my goodwill.”

“What can be so terrible about a dance?” Marianne asked, laughing softly.

She was about to find out, much to Anthony’s misery. His mother seized the dance manual from Miss Barclay, pausing on a page towards the back. She cleared her throat before reading the latest instructions, then barked orders at Patrick, calling for one of Mozart’s L?ndlers to be played. Catherine must have found the instructions lacking, because she promptly threw the manual face down on the nearest sofa and returned to her two students.

“A waltz requires two things of its participants …” she began.

Catherine placed her hand on the small of Marianne’s back as she pushed her towards Anthony. He took an instinctive step back and returned to his starting position with his mother’s hand on his wrist.

She took both their hands, pressing them together. Anthony gritted his teeth at the feeling of Marianne’s touch, feeling his stomach clench. She blushed a deep shade of red, obviously beginning to understand what they were in for with his mother’s waltz.

“Trust and humility,” Catherine concluded, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I have never believed the waltz to be as lascivious as they say. Like any dance, it depends on teamwork, highlighting the connection between the dancers in a way other dances simply cannot.”

Anthony wished he felt less connected to Marianne at present, cursing himself for reacting like a schoolboy to the feeling of her gloved hand against his. Despite his travels abroad, Anthony had never been inclined to become a rake.

And it had left him innocent, too vulnerable to the other sex. He had been too concerned about trying to perfect his art to engage in pointless romances. In that regard, he was much like his father—traditional. The risk of a dalliance had never been worth the reward. If he were going to fall in love, he would make sure that it counted.

Marianne’s fingers twitched against his own, commanding Anthony’s attention. She was flushed madly, looking at her feet as his mother explained their first move. Under her instruction, Anthony placed his hand on Marianne’s back, tucking her into him. Her perfume coloured the air around them, and Anthony held her tighter on instinct. His mother directed Marianne to place her arms correctly around Anthony, forming a loose embrace.

His heart hammered in his chest. How was he going to survive a dance with her when he could barely endure a second with her body pressed against his?

Face to face with her, eyes locking, Anthony’s hammering heart lodged in his throat.

Trust and humility, he thought. The two qualities Marianne challenges most in me. It remains to be seen where this dance will lead. But I doubt I will be the same once it is over.

Marianne hummed as she swept down the hallway, performing a few steps when she was sure the coast was clear. In the two days since Catherine had taught her how to dance, her mind had been full of music, replaying her waltz with Anthony until she couldn’t tell where her memory had ended, and her imagination had begun.

Dancing with Anthony had felt strangely exciting, eliciting prickly, unsettling feelings within her. She had never danced a waltz before—had never come close to having a man hold her that way. The dance had left her breathless, dizzy, and tingling all over. Marianne guessed that any woman would have felt the same, being swept off her feet by a handsome duke.

Despite his protestations, she had found Anthony to be a decent dancer in the end. He was far from a natural, holding her like he was afraid she would break in his embrace. She had found it strange that a man who claimed to love art could be so hesitant on the dance floor. Both pursuits required a passionate soul. Maybe something else had accounted for Anthony’s hesitation.

I imagine his mother watching his every move probably didn’t help matters, she thought, twirling as she approached the drawing room.

The sequence was cut short. Voices emanated from within. A hot summer rain pattered against the windows, obscuring the conversation. Marianne started just before the archway, her chest constricting. She didn’t want to disturb Anthony or Catherine during one of their social calls. They had just been teaching her good manners. She picked up her skirts and prepared to sneak back the other way.

A shadow passed over the threshold of the drawing room, stopping her in her tracks.

“I was just coming to find you,” Anthony said, inspecting her from head to toe. The shoulders of his jacket were speckled with rain, as though he’d just come in from outside. “There has been … a development.” He glanced into the drawing room, his expression unreadable. “I think it’s better you see for yourself. Come.”

Marianne would have followed him anywhere, even though his expression scared her half to death. She swallowed down her fear and nodded before Anthony escorted her inside.

Three people were in the drawing room, but she only recognized Catherine among them. A gentleman was sitting by the fireplace with his hand over his mouth. He had dark blond hair, not dissimilar in shade to Marianne’s.

From a distance, Marianne estimated that he was young, maybe a few years older than Anthony, who was twenty-five. Sporting a brown travelling jacket and a stiff eggshell cravat, he looked every part the handsome dandy that the magazines back in London often featured in their illustrations.

A woman was sitting opposite Catherine. Unlike the gentleman, she leaned forward with an inquisitive, warm manner. Her hair and complexion were much fairer than the gentleman’s colouring, long tresses spun into an exquisite chignon at the crown of her head. Her features were angular and refined, perfectly complemented by her white day gown.

“Marianne. He found you,” Catherine said, rising out of her seat. She pressed her hands against her abdomen, looking nervous for the first time since Marianne had met her. “Pray, come in quickly. There is much that we must discuss.”

The strangers stood in turn—the woman moving more energetically than the male. When Marianne hesitated, she felt Anthony shift his weight behind her, wordlessly encouraging her inside.

He locked eyes with her and led her to their seats, sitting beside her. His presence was an immediate comfort, but Marianne still felt sick with nerves at the sight of the two strangers. They were the first ton members she would meet outside of the Colline family, and she didn’t even know who they were.

“This is Gideon Manners, the Earl of Foxburn,” Catherine introduced formally, gesturing towards the gentleman. “And this is his sister, Miss Lavinia Manners.” She paused, turning towards Marianne. “Allow me to introduce Lady Marianne Chambers.”

I suppose that answers that question, Marianne thought, gaping at her long-lost cousins.

“So we’ve been told,” Lord Foxburn replied, not missing a beat. He fixed Marianne with a merciless look, obviously trying to determine whether she was who she claimed to be. “When I received Her Grace’s letter, I decided to come as quickly as I could. I do not habitually call upon others unannounced, so you will have to pardon my impudence on this occasion.”

“All is forgiven,” Catherine replied, though Marianne had a sneaking suspicion she had not taken kindly to the interruption that afternoon. “These are highly irregular circumstances. One can completely understand the necessity of foregoing good manners at such a time.”

“I so wondered what you would look like …” Miss Manners murmured, narrowing her gaze at Marianne. She conducted a brief inspection, her eyes widening as she turned to her brother. “Isn’t she just the picture of her father, Gideon?”

Lord Foxburn said nothing in response.

“Did you know my father?” Marianne asked to fill the silence. She fisted the fabric of her skirts in her hands, trying to steady her breathing. Her curiosity triumphed over her fear. “You can imagine how curious I am about him, all things considered.”

“Sadly, we didn’t know him at all,” Miss Manners replied. She averted her eyes to the ground, sounding apologetic. “We have a portrait gallery at home, featuring many of the earls who came before Gideon.

There is a painting of Nicholas Chambers and his father among them. According to the date, it was commissioned for Nicholas’ twentieth birthday.” She raised her gaze back up at Marianne. “I suspected I would know the moment I looked at you whether you were telling the truth. Your eyes look like they’ve been plucked directly from that painting. It really is incredible …”

“Or it is simply a coincidence,” Lord Foxburn interjected. He sighed and straightened in his seat. “Forgive me for being the voice of reason, but you must understand that I cannot accept these lavish claims without definite proof of your birth.

It is not my desire to antagonize you—any of you—by requesting some sort of evidence to back up these stories. As far as I was aware, Lord Foxburn’s line ended with his only son, and Nicholas had no children. That is how I came into the title. The late Earl of Foxburn’s brother was my grandfather. My mother was Nicholas Chambers’ cousin.”

Marianne tried to imagine the complicated family tree in her mind. More dead relatives were appearing by the minute, and she couldn’t help feeling cheated out of a family she had never known.

She would not allow the current Lord Foxburn to prevent her from meeting those who remained. Her nerves subsided slowly, replaced by a desire to regain what was rightfully hers.

“I will not pretend to understand much about heirs and titles,” Marianne said, leaning forward to ensure Lord Foxburn heard her. “I imagine Her Grace has explained some of my situation to you. Until last week, I had no idea that any of you existed—and I certainly had no desire to try and usurp the Foxburn title. From what I gather, nothing substantial will be gained from my coming forward, regardless. My father left nothing to me upon his death. I have no claim to the properties and titles that have become yours.

By revealing myself to be a Chambers, I am exposing myself to more danger than if I had remained a seamstress in London. Why would I bother subjecting myself to the ton’s scrutiny, potentially making a pariah of myself, for such little reward, if I were not telling the truth?”

She glanced up at Catherine, catching her breath. The duchess watched her proudly, nodding in agreement. Anthony shifted beside her, making her skin tingle. Marianne observed Lord Foxburn and his sister carefully for their reactions now that the duke wanted to speak.

“Lady Marianne is right,” Anthony said. The sound of his voice was an immediate relief. “When she arrived here upon the invitation of Her Grace, I had similar doubts. In the short time she has been here, Lady Marianne has proved herself to be one of the most honest, principled individuals I have ever met.

If our support of her is not sufficient to prove to you that she is the legitimate daughter of Nicholas Chambers, I can assure you we will work tirelessly to provide you with enough evidence to ensconce you in an office with your solicitor for weeks.”

Marianne had no idea that he thought so highly of her. There was a chance that he was just saying all this to defend his own honour. His voice commanded respect. And in all the time Marianne had been hosted at Moorhaven Manor, Anthony had never spoken to her like she was not worth his esteem.

Not like he was speaking to Lord Foxburn now. A threat was hidden behind his words, and Marianne knew just enough about the ton to understand. If Lord Foxburn denied Marianne as his relative, he would be denouncing Anthony and his mother—a duke and duchess in mourning, no less—as liars.

Lord Foxburn smiled mirthlessly, returning his hand to his mouth and looking towards his sister. Something passed between them, though Marianne couldn’t tell what, leaving the rest of them waiting as they deliberated what to do with the news.

“You mentioned letters,” Lord Foxburn said at last. “I would like to see them, Your Grace.”

Marianne sagged in relief, holding back a victorious smile as Catherine ordered one of the maids to collect her mother’s letters from Catherine’s solar. The maid returned within minutes, and the stack of letters were soon exchanged. They ended up in the hands of Lord Foxburn. Licking his thumb, he unfolded the first note and began reading with his brows knit in concentration.

“The letters are organized chronologically,” Catherine explained, regaining her seat beside Miss Manners. “At the top of the pile are letters sent to me from Nicholas. They should detail the beginning of his infatuation with Anne Buller—though I suppose we really should be calling her Mrs Chambers.”

She leaned over to flick through the pile, visibly setting Lord Foxburn’s teeth on edge. “At the bottom of the pile, you will find letters sent to me from Anne herself. These chronicle Nicholas’ death, the life she led after him, and most notably, the birth and upbringing of their only child, Marianne.”

Catherine paused a moment, and the room filled with silence. She took a deep breath before procuring a note from the table beside her. It had been hidden behind a vase of flowers. That had been no accident.

“Here is a letter from the vicar of Costessey parish, located a few miles south of here. In the letter, the vicar testifies to the existence of a marriage record for Nicholas and Anne Chambers at their church. He has invited us to investigate the records ourselves, given that there is little chance of locating the marriage licence. It is anyone’s guess where the document ended up.”

She smiled sadly, turning to Marianne. “I served as a witness at your parents’ wedding and knew all along where it had been held. There was little reason to bring the matter up until now. However, if a visit to Costessey is necessary, then that is where we will go.”

Marianne’s lips parted in surprise. She imagined Catherine twenty years younger, dressing her mother for her wedding to Nicholas before serving as their witness. Her chest filled with warmth as she imagined the scene, knowing she would never be able to pay Catherine back for her kindness.

The Earl of Foxburn didn’t look nearly as moved by Catherine’s loyalty. He was still searching through Nicholas’ letters for something that would invalidate her parents’ marriage, or so Marianne guessed.

A few minutes passed in relative quiet. Lord Foxburn and Miss Manners pored over Catherine’s correspondence, whispering to each other. Marianne stared into the fire, her eyes glazing over until the earl cleared his throat to speak.

“It seems that the letters corroborate your story,” Lord Foxburn said joylessly. “However, I will require further proof before I can claim you as a member of this family. Some evidence of your birth, for instance …”

“Such evidence is on its way to us from France as we speak,” Catherine replied, looking as relieved as Marianne felt.

“I shall have to take you at your word on that count, Your Grace.” Lord Foxburn fell silent, driven to speak again by a scowl from his sister. “I apologize for my necessary unpleasantness earlier, Marianne.”

“Thank you for the apology,” Marianne replied, earning herself a slight smile from the earl. “Many would have done the same in your shoes, I’m sure.”

Unsure what to do next, Marianne tensed as Catherine rose from her seat. The dowager duchess glanced between Marianne and Lord Foxburn as rain pattered against the windows.

The overcast sky made the room dark, shadows dancing in the glow from the fire. It cast a grim light on Catherine, dressed in black, who turned to her son. Marianne stared at him, surprised by the expression he wore. Was that … fear? Anger? There was no time to ask before Catherine spoke.

“Now that we are all better acquainted, I would like to invite you to take tea with us. You should remain at least until the rain subsides. Anthony,” she called, “if you would accompany me outside for a moment?”

Anthony seemed reluctant to leave. He sighed and leaned into Marianne with the others watching, making her cheeks burn. “Will you be fine on your own for a while?” he whispered.

She nodded, warmed by his concern. Catherine’s motivations became clear as she asked them all to get along in her absence. She wanted Marianne to spend some time with her cousins, and hopefully endear herself to them. The two of them soon departed. Anthony paused at the doors to take a final glance at Marianne, imbuing her with courage.

“Her Grace is a formidable presence,” Miss Manners said once they were gone. She swapped seats, placing herself beside Marianne. “You could not have asked for a better friend to guide you through this difficult transition.”

“I’ve often thought the same myself.” Marianne leaned back, perturbed by Miss Manners’ eagerness to be close to her. “Had you never met her before?”

“Oh, never. Frankly, it was not until recently that Gideon and I spent much time with the haut ton. Our grandfather became the Earl of Foxburn after the death of your grandfather. When was that …?” She tapped her fingers against her lips.

“Perhaps ten years ago now. Our grandfather passed last year, leaving the title to Gideon. We’ve chosen to remain at our home in Bury St. Edmunds for now. The ancestral seat is presently being rented by a lovely family from London. Until recently, we hadn’t had a reason to take the house back from them. But with your apparition …” She pursed her lips. “Who knows what may happen next?”

“We are almost as new to this as you are,” her brother interrupted. He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you are who you say you are, that is. How could it be that you did not know you were related to an earl?”

Marianne shrugged. “I could only know what my mother told me. And I had no reason to think she would lie to me.” She paused, glad to see that the earl was willing to speak with her. “I meant it when I said that I don’t intend to ask anything of you. Knowing that you both exist, that I have a history of my own at last … it’s all that really matters.”

“You genuinely mean that, don’t you?” Miss Manners said, beaming with affection. “How lovely you are, Marianne. I can call you that, can’t I? For I would very much like you to call me Lavinia. And Gideon …” She glanced over her shoulder at her brother. “Well, he’s a cold fellow, but I’m sure you’ll defrost him before long.”

Gideon looked unconvinced. Both the earl and his sister were absurdly attractive, and Marianne began to consider what the rest of their family may have looked like.

“This is a lot to ask,” Marianne said, “but I would love to peruse that gallery you mentioned. I have never actually seen a painting of my father.”

“Well, then you must come to Saltsman House,” Lavinia exclaimed, taking Marianne’s hands. “That is where we live. We have so many paintings dating all the way back to the fourteenth century. You’ll be able to see your father and your father’s father, and so many other ancestors that it will make your head spin. And then, of course, we should have you for dinner because really—”

“Lavinia.” Gideon’s tone was firm. “We should not get carried away.”

His sister shot her eyes heavenward. “I think now is the perfect time to get carried away.” She laughed, and Marianne laughed too. “When will you be free to come and visit us?”

“Oh …” Marianne puffed out her cheeks. “His Grace has been invited to a hunting party by the Marquess of Hindborough.” She thought that was the right name. Gideon’s nod of approval confirmed it for her. “I have been invited to join him, but I’m unsure how long we will stay there. Perhaps a week?”

“I am somewhat familiar with the marquess’ daughter, Lady Eliana,” Lavinia said. “She is a …” Her lips formed a hard line. “You will see for yourself what she is. There are other ladies I could introduce you to if you would like. And there are gentlemen you could meet too if you catch my meaning …”

The brother and sister shared another look.

“Have you given any thought to attending the Season next year?” Lavinia asked.

“Oh.” Marianne understood her meaning now. “Goodness, no. Not really, at least. The duchess said a few things, but … I’ve barely had time to catch my breath since Her Grace invited me here, let alone, well … Gentlemen have been quite far from my mind.”

“You should strike while the iron is hot,” Lavinia suggested. “Once we announce you, the whole of Norfolk will be abuzz with news of you. And news spreads quickly to London. Men will flock to you in droves just out of curiosity. Though, of course,” she paused to laugh, “I always think that one should search closer to home for that sort of thing.”

“Now you really are pushing your luck,” Gideon warned. “You have known the woman for all of ten minutes, and already you’re playing matchmaker. Leave her well be.”

“It was only a bit of friendly advice.” Lavinia’s voice lilted, teasing them. “You’ll see, Marianne. Once you are out, everything will fall into place. I’m sure of it.”

For her part, Marianne was not convinced. Love and marriage were the last things on her mind. She needed to establish herself first and start implementing her philanthropy plans.

But how can I do that, she thought, without money or connections? Marrying someone with both could be the quickest way to reach my goals. Catherine has said as much already.

Her eyes darted to Gideon. He was watching her intently.

Is that what Lavinia meant? Marianne gulped, panicking. Does she intend to pair me up with her brother?

Her gut roiled at the thought. They were cousins, for heaven’s sake. And not just cousins, but perfect strangers too. She was likely getting ahead of herself, imagining the worst. She opened her mouth to change the topic, except Anthony and Catherine chose that moment to re-enter with the maids.

“I hope we’re not interrupting anything important,” Catherine said, directing a maid to set the tea service between them.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Lavinia replied, grinning at Marianne. “We were all just getting to know one another. And that’s what we should strive for, isn’t it? To become one big, happy family.”