The Duke’s Mother Chose Eight Suitable Brides — But the Quietest Guest Refused to Compete

Part 1

By the time the soup was removed, Adrian Vale, Duke of Ashbourne, had learned that Lady Beatrice Harcourt adored Italian music, Miss Eleanor Finch considered foxhunting unnecessarily cruel, Lady Rosamund Bell had strong opinions about conservatories, and Miss Lydia Crane believed—with suspicious intensity—that Ashbourne Hall possessed the finest western façade in England.

Adrian had also learned that none of them had noticed he had eaten almost nothing.

He sat halfway down the immense dining table beneath the portraits of eleven dead dukes, every one of whom appeared to regard his unmarried state as a personal failure.

His mother had arranged the seating.

Naturally.

The Dowager Duchess of Ashbourne sat opposite him in black silk and old diamonds, directing conversation with the calm efficiency of a general moving troops across a battlefield.

She had called the gathering a country visit.

Adrian had called it an ambush.

Eight unmarried women had arrived at Ashbourne Hall with mothers, aunts, trunks, evening gowns, riding habits, accomplishments, and family histories respectable enough to survive inspection by the College of Arms.

Adrian was thirty-seven.

He possessed three estates, a London house, an ancient title, and sufficient income to make even dull conversation seem charming to ambitious people.

He also possessed a mother who had recently begun mentioning mortality whenever marriage arose.

“I should like grandchildren before I am too old to recognize them,” she had said.

“You are fifty-nine.”

“Exactly. Death approaches.”

“You rode six miles yesterday.”

“One must keep ahead of it.”

So Adrian had surrendered.

For ten days.

He had promised ten days of dinners, rides, musicales, picnics, and carefully accidental opportunities to discover whether one of his mother’s chosen ladies might become Duchess of Ashbourne.

It was only the second evening.

He already wanted to flee to Scotland.

“Your Grace?”

Lady Beatrice was speaking.

Adrian turned.

She was beautiful, undeniably so, with dark curls arranged to appear less carefully arranged than they were.

“I wondered whether you prefer London during the winter,” she said.

“I prefer London whenever Parliament makes my presence unavoidable.”

She laughed.

He had not made a joke.

Across the table, someone lowered her gaze abruptly.

Adrian noticed because she was suppressing a smile.

Miss Marianne Ellison.

She sat near the end of the table beside an elderly aunt who had spent most of dinner discussing rheumatism with the rector.

Marianne had been introduced to Adrian the previous afternoon. He remembered gray eyes, brown hair, and a curtsy performed correctly without appearing rehearsed.

He also remembered his mother describing the Ellisons afterward.

“Old family. Respectable. Unfortunate circumstances.”

In his mother’s vocabulary, unfortunate circumstances meant no money.

Marianne’s father had once owned a modest estate in Sussex. A disastrous investment and several years of poor harvests had reduced the family’s circumstances considerably. They remained gentlefolk, but only just.

Which made Marianne an unusual addition to his mother’s collection of heiresses and aristocratic daughters.

Adrian had wondered why she had been invited.

He suspected Marianne wondered the same thing.

She had made remarkably little effort to answer the question.

At breakfast she had spoken to the vicar.

During the afternoon ride she had remained beside her aunt.

At dinner she had not addressed Adrian once.

It was refreshing.

Lady Rosamund was now telling him that she had always admired men devoted to public duty.

Adrian wondered whether she had ever met one.

Then came questions about the estate.

The tenants.

His horses.

His preferred painters.

Whether he intended to reopen the old ballroom.

Whether he enjoyed children.

That one nearly made him choke on his wine.

His mother looked delighted.

Adrian put down his glass.

The room had grown warm. Candlelight reflected from silver and crystal. Footmen moved noiselessly behind the chairs.

He felt the familiar pressure beginning behind his eyes.

His secretary had awakened him before six with correspondence concerning a flooded tenant farm. He had spent the morning with the estate steward, the afternoon entertaining guests, and the last two hours being examined like a valuable horse at auction.

He pressed two fingers briefly against his temple.

When he looked up, Marianne Ellison was watching him.

Not smiling.

Watching.

Their eyes met.

She looked away first.

Dessert arrived.

Lady Beatrice began describing Vienna.

Adrian stopped listening somewhere between the opera house and an Austrian countess.

Then, during the first genuine silence of the evening, Marianne spoke.

“Your Grace?”

Eight faces turned toward her.

Adrian almost felt sorry for her.

“Yes, Miss Ellison?”

She hesitated.

Her aunt stiffened beside her, clearly recognizing that Marianne was about to do something unscripted.

Marianne looked directly at Adrian.

“Would you like us to stop talking to you?”

Silence descended.

Absolute silence.

Adrian stared.

His mother’s eyebrows rose.

Lady Beatrice’s expression suggested someone had dropped a dead pheasant onto the table.

Marianne appeared to reconsider her wording.

“That sounded rather rude.”

“It did,” Adrian said.

“I apologize.”

“Please don’t.”

A dangerous amusement had begun moving through him.

Marianne glanced at his untouched plate.

“You look exhausted.”

The amusement disappeared.

Nobody spoke.

She continued more quietly.

“Everyone has spent two hours asking what you enjoy, what you intend, what you believe, and where you prefer to spend Christmas. But you stopped eating after the soup, and I thought perhaps the more useful question was whether you wanted to answer any of us at all.”

Her aunt closed her eyes.

Adrian looked down at his plate.

Then he laughed.

Not the restrained sound society required.

A real laugh.

It escaped him so unexpectedly that even his mother looked startled.

Marianne’s expression changed from apprehension to reluctant amusement.

“I am,” he admitted.

“Tired?”

“Profoundly.”

“Then I am sorry for asking another question.”

“It is the first one tonight that improved my condition.”

Lady Beatrice smiled thinly.

His mother hid something behind her wineglass.

Conversation eventually resumed.

But Adrian noticed Marianne did not capitalize on her success.

She did not ask another clever question.

She did not attempt to charm him.

She ate her pear tart.

Twenty minutes later, when the ladies withdrew, Adrian waited an appropriate interval before escaping the gentlemen and going in search of air.

Instead, he found Marianne in the portrait gallery.

She stood before a painting of the seventh duke, a notoriously unpleasant ancestor whom the artist had somehow made look even worse.

“You escaped,” Adrian said.

Marianne turned.

“So did you.”

“I own the house.”

“Then your escape is less impressive.”

He smiled.

She glanced toward the doorway.

“Should you not be drinking port?”

“Probably.”

“And discussing politics?”

“Almost certainly.”

“You are neglecting your responsibilities.”

“I have discovered I possess a rebellious nature.”

“I had heard terrible rumors.”

He came to stand beside her.

The seventh duke glared at them.

Adrian nodded toward the portrait.

“My great-great-grandfather.”

“He looks disappointed.”

“He generally does.”

“Perhaps you should apologize.”

“For what?”

“Whatever you have done.”

Adrian laughed again.

Twice in one evening.

He could not remember the last person who had managed that.

“You truly thought I looked tired?”

Marianne’s expression became more thoughtful.

“Yes.”

“No one else did.”

“I think they did.”

That surprised him.

“Then why did no one say anything?”

“Because they were watching you for a different reason.”

He waited.

Marianne seemed reluctant to continue.

Finally she said, “They were watching to see whether you noticed them.”

“And you?”

“I was watching to see whether you noticed anyone.”

Adrian looked at her.

Something in Marianne’s expression shifted.

She realized how intimate the words had sounded.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

That earned him a brief smile.

He leaned against the window ledge.

“You know why my mother invited you.”

“I possess enough intelligence to have formed a theory.”

“And yet you have made no effort to impress me.”

“My aunt would dispute that. She spent forty minutes choosing my gown.”

“Then I shall compliment your aunt.”

“Please don’t. She will become unbearable.”

Adrian studied her.

“Do you not want to become a duchess?”

Marianne looked toward the dark windows.

Beyond them lay lawns silvered by moonlight.

“I do not know.”

Most women in her position would have denied ambition while communicating it in every other possible way.

Marianne simply looked uncertain.

“You don’t know?”

“I have never been one.”

“I understand the duties are extensive.”

“I imagine the chairs are uncomfortable.”

He laughed.

Then she became serious.

“I know what people think I should want. My family has very little money. You have rather a lot.”

“So I have been told.”

“You have a title.”

“Another rumor.”

“My aunt believes this invitation is providence.”

“And you?”

Marianne folded her hands.

“I think marrying a stranger because his income might repair one’s circumstances is a dangerous definition of providence.”

Adrian’s amusement faded.

There was no flirtation in her voice.

“What would persuade you?”

“To marry?”

“Yes.”

She considered.

“Being known.”

The answer was so simple he nearly missed its weight.

Marianne continued.

“I would rather be known by one man than admired by a hundred. Admiration is often directed at whatever people imagine you to be.”

“And being known?”

“That is more dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because then they can reject the truth.”

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the gallery.

Marianne stepped away.

“My aunt is probably searching for me.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

“Terrified.”

“She is approximately five feet tall.”

“So are many poisonous plants.”

Adrian smiled.

She curtsied.

“Good night, Your Grace.”

“Good night, Miss Ellison.”

He watched her leave.

For the first time since the house party began, Adrian was not thinking about which woman might be suitable to marry.

He was thinking about one woman.

And wondering what truth she was afraid someone might reject.

The following morning he found Marianne walking alone in the walled garden.

“You are avoiding me,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder.

“I had not realized you were here.”

“That makes the insult worse.”

“I shall try harder next time.”

He fell into step beside her.

For nearly a minute, neither spoke.

Adrian became aware of something strange.

He did not feel compelled to fill the silence.

Marianne stopped beside a stone bench.

“You should replace these.”

“The benches?”

“Yes.”

“My family has owned them for two centuries.”

“That explains their condition.”

“You insult my possessions frequently.”

“I am trying to provide useful service in exchange for your hospitality.”

“Yesterday it was my ancestors.”

“He deserved it.”

Adrian looked toward the house.

“What else?”

Marianne followed his gaze.

“What else what?”

“What would you change?”

“Ashbourne Hall?”

“Yes.”

She studied the immense limestone façade.

“The dining table.”

Adrian turned.

“My dining table has seated kings.”

“That does not make it pleasant.”

“What is wrong with it?”

“It is too large.”

“It is supposed to be large.”

“Exactly.”

She began walking again.

“You could sit beside someone for three hours and never actually speak to them. Everyone performs across it. Perhaps that is why your dinners exhaust you.”

Adrian said nothing.

Marianne glanced at him.

“I have offended you.”

“No.”

“You have become quiet.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“What are you thinking?”

“That nobody has ever criticized my dining table with philosophical conviction.”

“Someone had to.”

He smiled.

Over the next four days, he sought her out repeatedly.

Not deliberately, he told himself at first.

Then the lie became too ridiculous to maintain.

He discovered Marianne loved old maps, disliked embroidery, could play the pianoforte well but hated performing for audiences, and possessed a habit of reading the final page of novels before reaching the middle.

“That is monstrous,” Adrian told her.

“It is practical.”

“It destroys suspense.”

“It prevents disappointment.”

That answer stayed with him.

He began noticing other things.

When Marianne laughed, she covered it by looking away.

Whenever money arose in conversation, she became still.

She was kind to servants without displaying the kindness for witnesses.

And when Adrian spoke about estate matters, she asked questions not about the size of his holdings but about the people who lived on them.

He found himself telling her things he had not intended to tell anyone.

That he hated London seasons.

That his father’s death had left him the dukedom at twenty-four.

That everyone had begun treating him differently within hours.

That he sometimes missed being addressed simply as Adrian.

One evening they sat in the library while rain struck the windows.

“Then why allow this?” Marianne asked.

“This?”

She gestured toward the drawing room beyond, where seven women and their relatives were playing cards under his mother’s supervision.

“The competition.”

“I did not call it that.”

“No one calls unpleasant things what they are.”

Adrian looked into the fire.

“My mother believes I need a wife.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Marianne waited.

He corrected himself.

“I need an heir.”

“That is not the same answer.”

“No.”

“Do you want a wife?”

Adrian looked at her.

No one had asked.

Not his mother.

Not his solicitor.

Not the family trustees.

Not the elderly peers who made jokes about continuing the line.

He had been asked what kind of woman he ought to marry.

Never whether he wanted the marriage itself.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I want someone with whom silence does not feel like failure.”

Marianne’s face softened.

“That sounds less impossible.”

“Does it?”

“Much.”

Their eyes held.

And for one dangerous moment, Adrian understood exactly what he wanted.

Then Lady Beatrice entered the library.

The moment ended.

But not before she saw it.

By breakfast the next morning, the atmosphere at Ashbourne Hall had changed.

Nobody said Marianne had become Adrian’s favorite.

Nobody needed to.

At luncheon Lady Beatrice smiled across the table.

“You have been very clever, Miss Ellison.”

Marianne put down her fork.

“That sentence rarely ends pleasantly.”

A few women laughed.

Beatrice’s smile remained.

“While the rest of us foolishly tried to entertain His Grace, you discovered that appearing uninterested was considerably more effective.”

Adrian felt the room tighten.

Marianne’s face went still.

“I have not been appearing uninterested.”

“Of course.”

The words were perfectly polite.

Their meaning was not.

Beatrice continued, “It is quite ingenious. Refuse to compete and thereby make oneself the most noticeable competitor.”

Marianne looked at her.

Then she said, “Perhaps I did not realize there was a prize.”

Adrian nearly smiled.

Beatrice did not.

That evening, however, Adrian remembered the exchange.

And when he did, something old and unpleasant stirred inside him.

Because Lady Beatrice had touched the one suspicion he had spent years teaching himself never to ignore.

People wanted things from dukes.

Money.

Position.

Influence.

Security.

He had learned that lesson at twenty-four.

He had never entirely unlearned it.

And Marianne Ellison, he suddenly remembered, needed security more than any woman in the house.

Part 2

The doubt embarrassed Adrian.

That did not prevent it from growing.

For five days he had admired Marianne because she seemed untouched by the contest surrounding him.

Now a poisonous possibility entered his thoughts.

What if avoiding the contest had been her method of winning it?

He hated himself for considering it.

He considered it anyway.

The following afternoon he saw Marianne speaking with her aunt near the morning room.

The door stood partly open.

Adrian would have passed without listening if he had not heard his own name.

“You are being absurd,” Mrs. Ellison said.

“I am being honest.”

“Honesty will not pay your father’s creditors.”

Adrian stopped.

Marianne lowered her voice, but he could still hear.

“I will not marry Ashbourne because we need his money.”

“You may never receive another opportunity like this.”

“Then I would rather lose the opportunity.”

“Your father could lose the house.”

Silence.

Mrs. Ellison continued.

“Do you understand me? The house. Your mother’s home. Everything. If the duke asks you, you must think of more than yourself.”

Adrian walked away before hearing Marianne’s reply.

His pulse had become strangely cold.

Money.

The house.

Opportunity.

The words arranged themselves into the shape of his oldest fear.

At dinner Marianne sat three places away.

Usually Adrian would have found some reason to draw her into conversation.

He did not.

Lady Beatrice sat beside him.

He allowed it.

When Marianne made a dry remark about Lord Fenwick’s hunting story, Adrian smiled but kept his eyes on his wine.

He felt her notice.

The next morning he did the same.

By evening Marianne cornered him in the gallery.

“Have I done something?”

Adrian stopped.

“No.”

“That is a poor answer.”

“It is an accurate one.”

“No. It is a convenient one.”

He looked at her.

She stood beneath the portrait of the seventh duke—the same place where they had spoken on the first night.

“Three days ago,” she said, “you appeared incapable of crossing a room without discovering some urgent reason to speak to me. Yesterday you barely looked at me.”

“I looked at you.”

“Then apparently you disliked what you saw.”

“Marianne—”

It was the first time he had used her Christian name.

Under other circumstances, the intimacy might have mattered.

Now it only made her expression more guarded.

Adrian forced himself to ask.

“Was any of it deliberate?”

She frowned.

“Was what deliberate?”

“Your refusal to participate. Your indifference to the gathering.”

“Indifference?”

“You knew everyone else would compete for my attention.”

Understanding came slowly.

Then disbelief.

“You think I decided not to pursue you because that would make you pursue me.”

When she said it aloud, Adrian heard how ugly it sounded.

“I am asking.”

“No. You are asking after already deciding there is something to ask about.”

He stiffened.

“I heard you speaking with your aunt.”

Marianne’s face changed.

“The opportunity.”

“Yes.”

“And your father’s creditors.”

“Yes.”

She looked away.

Adrian felt vindicated for perhaps half a second.

Then Marianne laughed.

There was no humor in it.

“You should have stayed for the rest.”

“What rest?”

“The part where I told her I would rather leave Ashbourne Hall than allow my family’s debts to become the reason I remained.”

Adrian said nothing.

Marianne looked back at him.

“My father made investments he did not understand. We are in greater difficulty than I told you.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Because I did not want your pity.”

“Or because you feared I would question your motives.”

Her eyes hardened.

“Yes. That too.”

The answer struck him.

She continued.

“My aunt believes marrying you would save my family. She is correct. It probably would.”

“Then—”

“Do not.”

Her voice remained quiet, but Adrian stopped immediately.

“Do not make the mistake of believing that because your fortune could rescue us, I therefore came here intending to obtain it.”

“Why did you come?”

“Because my mother asked me to.”

“That is all?”

“At first.”

The final two words changed everything.

Adrian stared at her.

Marianne’s anger faltered.

“When I arrived, you were a duke I had never met. A wealthy stranger being displayed to eight women like some absurd matrimonial trophy.”

Despite everything, his mouth almost moved.

She did not smile.

“Then I met you.”

Adrian’s breath slowed.

“And?”

“And you were tired.”

The words hurt more than accusation.

“You were tired,” she repeated, “and lonely, and so accustomed to people wanting things from you that you had almost forgotten how to believe anyone could simply enjoy your company.”

“Marianne—”

“I began to care about you.”

He went still.

“That is why I told my aunt I wanted to leave if money became the reason I should stay.”

She swallowed.

“Because I did not want to wonder whether I had chosen you freely.”

Adrian felt shame move through him.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

It settled like weight.

“I did not know.”

“No.”

Her voice softened.

“You assumed.”

He looked away.

“My position requires caution.”

“I know.”

“People have deceived me before.”

“I know that too.”

“My father trusted the wrong men. After he died, half of London arrived with proposals for ventures, marriages, alliances—”

“I know.”

“Then surely you understand.”

“I understand why you are cautious.”

Marianne’s eyes shone, but she refused to look away.

“What I do not understand is why caution permitted you to judge me without speaking to me.”

He had no answer.

She stepped backward.

“The first evening, everyone else was trying to make you notice them.”

Adrian remembered the untouched soup.

The candles.

Her voice from the far end of the table.

“You noticed I was tired,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Now you have decided that because I need something, everything I gave you must have been an attempt to obtain it.”

“That is not what I—”

“It is exactly what you did.”

The truth silenced him.

Marianne’s expression held no fury.

Only disappointment.

Somehow that was worse.

“I think I should go home.”

Alarm sharpened through him.

“Because of one mistake?”

“Because it was not a small one.”

“I apologized.”

“You have not.”

Adrian realized she was right.

He had explained himself.

That was not the same thing.

“I am sorry.”

Marianne closed her eyes briefly.

“So am I.”

She turned.

“Marianne.”

She stopped.

Adrian wanted to command the situation back into order.

Tell her to stay.

Promise to repair her father’s finances.

Offer protection.

Offer marriage.

He could do all of it.

And suddenly he understood that every one of those gestures would prove she had been right.

So he asked the only question he had earned the right to ask.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Marianne looked at him.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Let me leave.”

She departed Ashbourne Hall the following morning.

Adrian did not see her go.

That was her choice.

A servant delivered a note after breakfast.

It contained two lines.

I hope you find the quiet you wanted.

I am sorry it could not be with me.

Adrian read it three times.

Then he folded it and placed it inside his coat.

The house party lasted another forty-eight hours.

Those were the longest forty-eight hours of his adult life.

His mother found him in the library on the final afternoon.

“You have canceled tomorrow’s picnic.”

“Yes.”

“And tonight’s musicale.”

“Yes.”

“Lady Beatrice’s mother is offended.”

“She has considerable practice. She will survive.”

The dowager closed the door.

“Adrian.”

He looked up.

His mother’s expression had changed.

She was no longer the strategist who had assembled eight prospective duchesses.

She was simply his mother.

“What happened?”

“I insulted Miss Ellison.”

“That is unlike you.”

“I did it very politely.”

“That sounds exactly like you.”

He almost smiled.

She sat opposite him.

“Tell me.”

So he did.

When he finished, his mother was silent.

Finally she said, “You were afraid she wanted your money.”

“Yes.”

“Does she?”

“No.”

“You sound certain now.”

“I should have been certain before.”

His mother studied him.

“Do you love her?”

Adrian looked toward the fire.

“I don’t know.”

“That is inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Constantly.”

“Do you trust her?”

He did not answer immediately.

Then:

“Yes.”

His mother sighed.

“You always were slow.”

Adrian looked at her.

“You organized an inspection of eligible women in my dining room.”

“I never claimed to be subtle.”

“No.”

She leaned back.

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go after her.”

“No.”

His mother blinked.

“No?”

“She asked me to let her leave.”

“Women sometimes say things they hope men will disregard.”

“Marianne does not.”

The dowager’s expression softened.

“No. I suppose she does not.”

Adrian waited until every guest had departed.

Then he went to London.

Not to Marianne.

To his solicitor.

For two days he examined the debts attached to the Ellison estate.

His solicitor assumed he intended to purchase them.

Adrian refused.

He could have erased the family’s problems with a signature.

He did not.

Because doing so secretly would make Marianne indebted to him.

Doing it openly would humiliate her.

Instead he learned the truth.

The Ellison estate was not beyond rescue.

Marianne’s father had been persuaded into a speculative canal venture by a financier named Bartholomew Creed. Several other country families had suffered similar losses.

Creed’s contracts were legal.

Barely.

But the venture itself had been misrepresented.

Adrian knew the name.

Creed had once approached him.

Adrian had refused him.

He spent another week gathering correspondence.

Then he discovered something unexpected.

Marianne’s father had kept copies of several letters demonstrating that Creed had knowingly overstated the value of the enterprise.

The letters had never reached the other investors.

Why?

Because Mr. Ellison was ashamed.

He had hidden them rather than admit how completely he had been deceived.

Adrian could have solved the matter himself.

He did not.

Instead, he wrote to Marianne.

Not a love letter.

Not a proposal.

A letter containing one apology and one fact.

He told her that he had been wrong to distrust her.

Then he told her what he had found.

He enclosed the name of a solicitor representing two other injured families and explained that her father’s papers might help them all.

He did not offer money.

He did not ask to visit.

He ended with:

You once told me you would rather be known than admired. I failed you precisely where that mattered most. I cannot undo it. I can only try never to make that failure again.

No answer came.

A week passed.

Then two.

Adrian returned to Ashbourne.

Winter settled over the estate.

He resumed work.

Tenants needed roofs repaired. A bridge required rebuilding. Parliament demanded his presence.

Life continued with astonishing indifference to personal misery.

Then, on a cold December morning, a letter arrived.

Marianne’s handwriting.

His hands were less steady than he would ever admit.

Your information was correct.

My father has agreed to give the papers to the solicitor. Three other families have now joined the claim.

Then:

Thank you for helping without attempting to rescue me.

Adrian read that sentence twice.

At the bottom she had added:

I am still angry with you.

For the first time in weeks, Adrian laughed.

He answered:

That seems reasonable.

Her next letter arrived six days later.

You agree too easily.

He wrote back:

I have been informed that argument is dangerous when one is guilty.

Three days.

Who informed you?

You did.

Five days.

Then for once you listened.

That was how they began again.

Not with declarations.

With letters.

By February, Marianne agreed to receive him.

Adrian traveled to Sussex through rain that turned the roads into mud.

The Ellison house was smaller than Ashbourne’s stable block.

He liked it immediately.

Marianne received him in a drawing room with faded curtains and a fire that smoked whenever the wind changed.

“You came,” she said.

“You permitted it.”

“That has not always stopped dukes.”

“I am attempting reform.”

She almost smiled.

Adrian remained standing.

“I have no speech.”

“Good.”

“I had one in the carriage.”

“What happened to it?”

“It became worse each time I rehearsed it.”

“That sounds fortunate.”

He looked at her.

“I am sorry.”

This time there was no explanation after it.

No defense.

No history.

Marianne studied him.

“I know.”

“I do not expect forgiveness because I apologized.”

“Good.”

“I would like to see you again.”

She folded her hands.

“Why?”

“Because I miss you.”

“That is not sufficient.”

“No.”

He swallowed.

“Because when I am with you, I am less interested in being impressive.”

Something changed in her face.

“And because,” he continued, “you make me notice when I am behaving like an idiot.”

“That seems a demanding occupation.”

“I would provide excellent references.”

A laugh escaped her.

Small.

Real.

Adrian felt absurdly victorious.

Then Marianne grew serious.

“If you come again, you come as yourself.”

“I am not sure I know how.”

“Then perhaps you should learn.”

He nodded.

“And Marianne?”

“Yes?”

“I am not here to choose you.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“No?”

“No.”

He took a breath.

“I am here because I hope one day you might decide whether I am worth choosing.”

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then:

“You may come again.”

It was not forgiveness.

It was better.

It was a beginning.

Part 3

Adrian returned twelve days later.

Then again three weeks after that.

Spring approached slowly.

The lawsuit against Creed expanded as more correspondence emerged. Marianne worked beside her father and the solicitors, sorting papers, dates, contracts, and letters.

Adrian offered assistance only when asked.

This required heroic restraint.

“You hate not controlling things,” Marianne told him one afternoon.

They were walking beside a stream behind the Ellison house.

“I do not hate it.”

“You are grinding your teeth.”

“It is cold.”

“It is April.”

“A particularly cold April.”

She smiled.

Their courtship—if it could be called that—looked nothing like the spectacle at Ashbourne Hall.

There were no competing ladies.

No formal entertainments.

No dowager arranging seats.

Sometimes Adrian arrived and Marianne was busy.

He waited.

Sometimes she disagreed with him.

He survived.

Once she told him his argument concerning tenant leases was “astonishingly foolish.”

He thought about it overnight.

The next morning he admitted she was right.

Marianne stared at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look alarmed.”

“I was not prepared for this degree of progress.”

He laughed.

Gradually, they learned each other beyond the circumstances that had introduced them.

Adrian discovered Marianne hated waking early and had spent the entire Ashbourne visit pretending otherwise because her aunt considered sleeping past eight a moral weakness.

Marianne discovered Adrian rode in rain because bad weather emptied the roads.

He learned she feared poverty less than dependence.

She learned he feared betrayal less than the humiliation of discovering he had trusted someone who considered him foolish.

That distinction mattered.

One evening Marianne asked, “Who taught you that?”

They were sitting in the Ellison library.

Adrian knew exactly what she meant.

“A woman named Caroline Mercer.”

Marianne waited.

“I intended to marry her.”

She had not known.

Adrian stared at the fire.

“I was twenty-five. My father had been dead less than a year. Caroline was the daughter of a viscount. Intelligent. Beautiful. I thought she understood how much I disliked the attention that came with the title.”

“What happened?”

“I discovered letters between her and her mother.”

Marianne’s expression tightened.

“They discussed the marriage as if negotiating the purchase of an estate. Which houses she would control. What allowance she should demand. Which of my political acquaintances could advance her brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The worst part was not that she wanted those things.”

Adrian looked at Marianne.

“It was discovering that every private moment I had believed belonged to us had been discussed afterward as part of a strategy.”

Marianne understood.

“And when Lady Beatrice suggested I had a strategy…”

“I allowed an old wound to answer for you.”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“I have regretted it every day since.”

Marianne looked down at her hands.

“Do you still think about her?”

“Caroline?”

“Yes.”

“Only when I am trying to understand why I became the man who doubted you.”

“That is not what I asked.”

He considered.

“No.”

Marianne nodded.

Adrian watched her.

“And your turn.”

“My turn?”

“You once said you feared being known and then rejected.”

Her expression changed.

“I was engaged.”

Adrian went still.

“To whom?”

“Henry Talbot. The younger son of a baronet.”

“What happened?”

“He loved me while my father appeared wealthy.”

The bitterness in her voice was faint but unmistakable.

“When the canal investment failed, Henry’s family learned the extent of our losses before I did. He visited the following week.”

“To end it?”

“Yes.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“He said affection could not compensate for imprudence.”

“What did you say?”

“That he was right.”

Adrian stared at her.

“You agreed with him?”

“I wanted him gone before I cried.”

That answer hurt.

Marianne looked toward the fire.

“I spent years telling myself he had done me a favor. Perhaps he did. But afterward I could never quite separate being loved from being evaluated.”

Adrian finally understood the full cruelty of his accusation at Ashbourne.

He had done exactly what Henry Talbot had done.

Circumstances had changed.

And Adrian had reevaluated her.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“No. Not for Ashbourne this time.”

Marianne looked at him.

“For reminding you of him.”

Her eyes filled.

She blinked quickly.

Adrian did not move closer.

Months earlier, he would have.

He would have assumed comfort meant touch.

Now he waited.

Marianne crossed the distance herself.

She placed her hand in his.

That was the moment she forgave him.

Neither of them said so.

They did not need to.

By early summer, Creed’s enterprise collapsed under the weight of testimony from six families.

A settlement returned enough of the Ellisons’ lost capital to save their home.

Mr. Ellison wept when the papers arrived.

Marianne did not.

She walked outside.

Adrian found her beneath an old beech tree.

“It is over,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You saved the house.”

“My father’s letters saved it.”

“You found them.”

“You found the other families.”

Adrian shook his head.

“You would have managed without me.”

“Eventually.”

She looked at him.

“But I am glad I did not have to.”

He understood the gift hidden inside those words.

Not dependence.

Trust.

He stood beside her beneath the leaves.

“Will you return to Ashbourne?”

Marianne’s expression changed.

“For how long?”

“A week.”

“Why?”

“My mother wishes to see you.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“She has promised not to assemble any unmarried men for your inspection.”

Marianne laughed.

“I shall consider it.”

She came in July.

Ashbourne Hall looked different to her.

Or perhaps she was different.

There were no carriages filled with eligible women in the courtyard.

No mothers whispering over tea.

No invisible competition waiting behind every conversation.

Only Adrian.

And the dowager.

The older woman embraced Marianne before remembering that duchesses were supposed to possess dignity.

“I owe you an apology,” she said.

Marianne blinked.

“You do?”

“I invited you here as though my son were a position to be filled.”

Adrian, standing behind her, said, “I have made the same complaint.”

“You benefited from it.”

“I was traumatized.”

“You were bored.”

“Severely.”

Marianne smiled.

The dowager took her hands.

“I wanted him settled. I did not consider what he actually needed.”

Marianne glanced toward Adrian.

“I think he needed sleep.”

His mother laughed.

That evening the three of them dined at the same enormous table where everything had begun.

Only this time Adrian had ordered the footmen to set three places together at one end.

Marianne noticed immediately.

“What happened to tradition?”

“I rebelled.”

“The kings?”

“They are dead.”

“The ancestors?”

“Also dead.”

“You have become reckless.”

“I blame you.”

After dinner, Adrian took her into the portrait gallery.

They stopped before the seventh duke.

Marianne regarded him solemnly.

“He still disapproves.”

“Of you?”

“Of everyone.”

“I have considered having him moved.”

“You cannot.”

“Why?”

“I would miss him.”

Adrian smiled.

Then he said, “Come with me.”

He led her through the library and out onto the terrace.

The summer night was warm.

Beyond the balustrade, the lawns descended toward dark woods.

For a while they stood without speaking.

Months earlier, Adrian had told her he wanted someone beside whom silence did not feel like failure.

Now the silence felt full rather than empty.

Marianne glanced at him.

“You are doing it again.”

“What?”

“Thinking too loudly.”

“I was unaware that was possible.”

“It is with you.”

He reached into his coat.

Marianne narrowed her eyes.

“If that is a ring, put it away.”

Adrian froze.

Then slowly removed his hand.

She stared.

“It was a ring.”

“No.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I have many excellent qualities.”

“Adrian.”

He sighed.

“It may have been a ring.”

Marianne laughed.

He looked offended.

“I had arranged a speech.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“I have been preparing it for a week.”

“Your second.”

“I dislike your attitude toward romance.”

“You like my attitude toward nearly everything.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Adrian looked toward the garden.

“May I at least ask a question?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether it is another inquiry about my opinion of your furniture.”

“I replaced the benches.”

“You did?”

“Every one.”

Marianne stared at him.

“You replaced two-hundred-year-old stone benches because I complained?”

“No. They were collapsing.”

“They were not.”

“One was leaning.”

“Adrian.”

“I was protecting guests.”

“From sitting?”

“An underestimated danger.”

She was laughing now.

He watched her.

And suddenly the prepared speech became unnecessary.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

Her laughter faded.

She remembered.

The crowded table.

His untouched dinner.

The first question that had changed everything.

Marianne looked at him for a long moment.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I have one more question.”

Her expression softened.

Adrian did not kneel.

Not yet.

He stood before her as a man rather than a duke conducting a negotiation.

“When you came here last autumn, I thought I was supposed to choose a wife.”

Marianne said nothing.

“I thought wealth and rank gave me the privilege of deciding which woman was suitable for my life.”

He shook his head.

“I was wrong.”

“Adrian—”

“I do not want to choose you like something placed before me for approval.”

His voice lowered.

“I want you to know me as thoroughly as you can. My pride. My suspicion. My bad temper before breakfast. My hatred of musicales. My tendency to assume I am correct.”

“That last one may require several years of study.”

“Marianne.”

She smiled.

He continued.

“I want you to know all of it. And then, if you can…”

He finally took the ring from his coat.

“…I would like you to choose me.”

Marianne looked down at the ring.

Then at him.

“You are asking me to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“You have made it unnecessarily complicated.”

“I am a duke. We have traditions.”

She laughed softly.

Then she became serious.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“That I am suitable?”

“No.”

Her eyebrows rose.

Adrian smiled.

“I no longer care.”

“That is not particularly flattering.”

“You are frequently argumentative. You insult my ancestors. You read the final pages of novels first. You have destroyed two centuries of garden furniture.”

“I did not—”

“And you are the only person I have ever known who looked at a room full of people trying to impress me and wondered whether I was tired.”

His voice broke slightly on the final word.

Marianne saw it.

She stepped closer.

Adrian continued.

“I do not want a suitable duchess.”

He looked into her eyes.

“I want you.”

The terrace became very quiet.

Marianne looked down at the ring again.

Then she said, “There is something you should know.”

Adrian’s heart stopped.

“What?”

“I was going to choose you whether you asked tonight or not.”

He stared.

She smiled.

“I was simply enjoying watching you suffer.”

For one stunned second, Adrian said nothing.

Then he laughed.

“You are cruel.”

“I have been told.”

He finally knelt.

Marianne’s expression changed.

All humor vanished.

“Marianne Ellison.”

“Yes?”

“Will you marry me?”

She let him wait.

Not long.

Just long enough.

“Yes.”

He stood.

She kissed him before he could say anything else.

The wedding took place in October.

Society naturally created its own version of the story.

Some said the Duke of Ashbourne had rejected seven great heiresses for an impoverished gentleman’s daughter.

Others insisted Marianne Ellison had executed the most brilliant matrimonial strategy of the decade.

Lady Beatrice Harcourt, now engaged to a marquess who adored Italian music, reportedly maintained that Marianne had planned everything from the beginning.

Marianne found that especially amusing.

The Ellison estate survived.

Adrian refused to absorb it into his holdings.

Marianne’s father remained there until his death many years later.

At Ashbourne Hall, the enormous dining table remained.

Tradition, Adrian discovered, could occasionally be tolerated.

But for family dinners, they used a smaller round table in the morning room.

The stone benches in the garden were replaced.

Marianne never allowed Adrian to forget why.

The seventh duke remained in the portrait gallery, glaring at successive generations with equal disappointment.

And whenever formal obligations became too much—when Parliament, estate business, dinners, ceremonies, petitioners, and people who wanted something from the Duke of Ashbourne seemed to follow Adrian through every doorway—Marianne developed a habit.

She would find him.

Sometimes in the library.

Sometimes in the garden.

Once hiding shamelessly in a servants’ passage during a ball.

She never began by asking about Parliament.

Or the estate.

Or what decision His Grace intended to make.

She would simply look at him and ask:

“Are you tired?”

Years after their marriage, one of their daughters heard the question and laughed.

“Mama always asks you that.”

Adrian looked across the breakfast table at his wife.

Marianne was older now.

So was he.

Silver had begun appearing at his temples, and three children had ensured that neither of them enjoyed silence as frequently as they once had.

“Yes,” he said. “She does.”

“Why?”

Marianne met his eyes.

Adrian remembered a dining room filled with candles.

Eight women watching to see whether a duke noticed them.

One quiet woman watching closely enough to notice the man instead.

“Because,” Adrian said, “your mother asked me that before she wanted anything from me.”

Marianne smiled.

“That is not entirely true.”

“No?”

“I wanted something.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I wanted you to finish your dinner.”

Their daughter groaned.

Adrian laughed.

Outside the windows, morning light moved across the lawns of Ashbourne.

There were letters waiting in his study.

Estate accounts.

Invitations.

Responsibilities attached to a name older than anyone living beneath that roof.

They would all still be there in an hour.

Adrian reached across the small round table and took Marianne’s hand.

The world had once taught him that love was another negotiation—that every kindness concealed a request, every affection had a price, and every person who approached him must eventually reveal what they hoped to gain.

Marianne had never cured him of caution.

She had taught him something more difficult.

Caution was not wisdom when it refused to listen.

And love was not being selected from a room because one appeared more suitable than everyone else.

It was seeing clearly.

Being seen clearly.

And staying after the seeing was done.

Marianne squeezed his hand.

“You are tired.”

“Very.”

“Go back to bed.”

“I have correspondence.”

“The empire will survive.”

“I am not responsible for the empire.”

“Then your excuse is even worse.”

Adrian stood.

He paused beside her chair and kissed her forehead.

“Come with me.”

“It is nearly nine.”

“Scandalous.”

“We have guests.”

“They can admire the architecture.”

Marianne laughed.

Together they left the breakfast room.

The letters remained unopened.

The portraits remained judgmental.

The duties of the dukedom remained exactly where they had always been.

But Adrian Vale had finally learned that the most important person in his life was not the woman who had tried hardest to be noticed by a duke.

She was the woman who had noticed when the duke was tired—and had cared enough to ask why.