Chapter 22

The ball was in full swing as Andrew stepped into the entrance hallway of the grand home which Robert Sinclair's parents had bought for their son.

Unlike Andrew's dilapidated mansion, everything about this house spoke of wealth and abundance: from the crystal chandeliers which hung from the ceiling to the finely dressed footmen who walked around carrying champagne on trays.

This Sinclair has everything he could possibly wish for, it would seem, and now he is to have Marian, too.

How I despise the man even though I've never so much as laid eyes upon him.

There was no sign of Marian in the entrance or in any of the rooms Andrew passed through en route to the ballroom. As he walked, the rooms fell silent, all eyes in them turning to him as if pulled by some unseen force. If he had hoped to move through the crowds undetected, he was doomed to be disappointed, for it was soon clear the Duke had vastly under-estimated the effect his presence would have on the assembled members of the Ton.

He had known there would be gossip, of course — that went without saying. It was the reason he had hidden away for so long, after all. But as his coach had carried him through the winter evening to the ball, the Duke had entertained vague hopes that perhaps his fears would prove to be unfounded. Perhaps enough time would have elapsed to have made people forget what he was supposed to have done.

Alas for Andrew, however, it took just five minutes back in society to remind him why he had left it so abruptly. Each room he entered — and there seemed to be many of them — fell silent within seconds as the occupants realized who had just joined him. And each room then erupted into a buzz of scandalized noise as soon as he left.

Keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead of him and ignoring the open stares as best he could, Andrew continued walking to he knew not where. There was still no sign of Marian or of Robert Sinclair — not that Andrew would recognize him if he saw him, of course — and the Duke felt almost as if the scar across his eye was burning into his skin, drawing even more attention to his presence.

"Rottdwell? Surely that cannot be you?"

Andrew turned at the sound of the familiar voice and found himself face to face with his old friend, the Marquess of Wyre, who stared at him with almost as much astonishment as everyone else who had passed.

"Gregory! What are you doing here? I did not know you knew this family?"

"I don't — or not really," Gregory replied, rubbing his eyes as if to reassure himself that he wasn't mistaken, and that it really was the Duke standing before him. "My father has a slight acquaintance with Robert Sinclair's family. It is so slight we were most surprised to find ourselves included on the guest list for this event, but it would appear that the Sinclairs wish to make their mark upon society. Why, I think they've invited every family in the county! But that's beside the point, Rottdwell; why are you here? I was so surprised to see you, I felt sure it must be some kind of joke!"

"It is no joke," said Andrew grimly, glancing around the room. "It is no pleasure for me to be here either, though, I assure you. But I've been given little choice in the matter."

Briefly, he told Gregory all that had happened since he'd last seen him and why he had felt the need to emerge from his seclusion and try to see Marian.

"So, I was right," Gregory exclaimed as the Duke's story came to an end. "There was more to your relationship with the lovely Marian than you would have had me believe. Well, I'm glad to see that you have come to your senses at last, my friend, and came to claim her. What is your plan, though? Will there be a duel, do you think? I do so love a duel."

"Enough, Wyre," Andrew admonished gruffly. "This is no time to be flippant. I am taking a risk by being here at all — especially given that Marian herself does not appear to have arrived."

"I do not think it's quite so much of a risk as you suspect, Rottdwell," said Gregory, thoughtfully. "Oh, I know how much you dislike the gossip and rumors that used to surround you, but you must remember that there is no evidence of any wrongdoing on your part. So, the good people here may say all they like, but that's all they can do. Wait here; let me fetch us some drinks — perhaps that will help relax you."

The Marquess disappeared into the crowd, leaving Andrew standing alone, once more feeling the weight of what felt like a thousand eyes upon him.

I wish I could share Gregory's confidence that no ill will come of me being here. I have a feeling that Robert Sinclair may not agree, though.

Risking a glance around the room, however, Andrew caught the eye of a lady who was peeking at him over the top of her fan. As soon as he met her gaze, she looked away, blushing, before coyly looking back up at him, nudging her friend in excitement. Andrew swallowed uncomfortably and turned away — only to instantly repeat almost exactly the same scenario with another lady, who looked at him more boldly this time, smiling as if she hoped he might come over to her.

If I did not know better, I would think some of these women are trying to flirt with me. But no. I must be mistaken — surely?

"Well, you have made quite the impression on the ladies of the Ton, it would seem," smiled Gregory, reappearing with two glasses of champagne, one of which he handed to Andrew. "Everyone has quite forgotten their interest in the bride-to-be; all they can talk about instead is the tall, handsome stranger who is rumored to be the notorious Duke of Rottdwell."

Andrew groaned in exasperation.

"I had hoped to avoid any attention," he admitted, swallowing his champagne in two large gulps. "And in any case, none of these women could hold a candle to Marian, so any interest they might have in me is entirely one-sided, I assure you."

Before Gregory could answer, however, another voice broke into their conversation, making every muscle in Andrew's body suddenly tense.

"So, it is indeed true," drawled the voice. "Everyone has been telling me that the Duke of Rottdwell had walked into my ballroom as bold as brass, but I could not bring myself to believe it. And yet, unless I'm very much mistaken, I believe you must be he?"

The man in front of him had sandy blonde hair and a rather weak, unformed appearance which his expensive clothes did little to improve.

Why, he is little more than a boy. It's impossible to imagine a woman as lively and vivacious as Marian married to this dolt.

"Andrew Rueford, Duke of Rottdwell," he confirmed, offering the newcomer his hand which he shook limply. "And you must be our host this evening, I assume?"

"Robert Sinclair," introduced the man in front of him. "But to what to we owe this pleasure, Your Grace?" he went on, his eyebrows raised. "I did not realize we were acquainted?"

"We're not," replied Andrew bluntly. "It is Marian — Miss Sullivan, I mean — I know."

"Is that so? How surprising," said Robert in a tone which suggested that he was not in the least surprised by what Andrew had told him. "To think of my beloved future wife having a connection to the Duke of Rottdwell! I shall have to keep closer tabs on her acquaintances once we are wed, I fear."

Andrew bristled with anger at this, but a warning glance from Gregory reminded him to keep his temper under control.

It would not do to lash out at the man and confirm what everyone already thinks of me, would it? I would succeed only in being thrown out before I can even speak to her.

"Am I to understand, then, that my presence is not welcome, Sir?" he asked calmly. "You wish me to leave?"

Robert appeared to consider this for a moment.

"No," he said at last. "You may stay if you wish. My guests are finding your presence quite the diversion. And I am sure you will wish to raise a glass to Marian's engagement when the time comes."

With a small bow, he turned and left them.

"Relax, Andrew," said Gregory in a low voice. "People are watching, you know. And you're clutching that glass too tightly — I fear it might shatter at any moment. Here, let me get you another."

Andrew relaxed his hold on the glass and un-clenched his jaw which had tightened in anger.

The sooner I can find Marian and get out of this place, the better. But where the blazes is she?

Outside the sweeping front steps of the mansion house, Marian was refusing to get out of the carriage.

"Come, my dear, we must go inside," pleaded her father, who had been growing increasingly anxious as time progressed, and still, Marian sat there stubbornly refusing to move. "You are the guest of honor; everyone's expecting you. And do you not wish to see your new home?"

Marian tensed with horror at his words.

"This will never be my home, father," she stated with a sob. "A home is a place where one feels safe. This house will be more like a prison."

Edward sighed heavily. It had been several hours now since he had last had a drink, and although he was doing his best to hide it from Marian, his hands had started to shake from withdrawal. The Baron wanted nothing more than to enter the house and find the nearest footman serving drinks, but his daughter needed him, and so he would sit a little longer with her if needs must.

Marian leaned forward, looking out of the carriage window at the house in front of her.

It was very fine, she supposed, with white pillars at the front and immaculate brickwork, all perfectly maintained. It was a house any woman might dream of one day owning, but at that moment, Marian would much rather have been outside the sagging steps of Rottdwell Manor, looking back at the overgrown garden, than here in front of this splendid place.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing for it," she said at last, squaring her shoulders. "Let us go inside."

"I do wish you had worn the dress Lord Sinclair sent for you," grumbled her father yet again as the footman helped him down the steps of the carriage, but Marian was not listening. From inside the house came a low hum of noise: the tinkle of laughter, the clink of glasses, the faint sound of music. It had every appearance of being the party of the season, and she would rather have been anywhere else at all.

"At last, the guest of honor!"

Robert, who had been waiting in the hallway to welcome them, stepped forward, a look of barely concealed irritation on his face. "Welcome, my love," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "We've been waiting for you."

Behind him, his mother and father, the Earl and Countess of St. Clair, stood, ready to greet her, and Marian felt her heart sink. She liked the Sinclairs well enough; they had been great friends of both of her parents, and the countess in particular had been most kind when Marian's mother had passed away. Now, they stepped forward, beaming, and Marian was suddenly flooded with guilt over her reluctance to set foot in their home.

I wish I could feel the same excitement everyone else seems to feel at the prospect of this union. I wish it were Andrew standing here to meet me with his fierce expression, rather than this man with his cold smile and even colder heart.

"Marian, my dear," greeted the Countess, embracing her warmly. "Welcome! We're so pleased to see you here and so happy that you're to become a member of the family at last!"

Marian smiled weakly, watching as her father greeted the Earl and Countess in his turn, a smile on his face which Marian alone knew was born of sheer relief that his daughter was to marry into such an old and established — and wealthy, of course — family.

As their parents talked, Robert appeared at Marian's side, making her body tense with anxiety.

"What is this shabby old gown you're wearing?" he asked, his nose wrinkling with distaste as he looked her up and down. "Did you not get the one I had sent over? Mother helped me pick it out for you; I was worried you might show me up, otherwise. And now I see you have."

"I did receive it," Marian answered stiffly, "but I prefer to dress myself, thank you. I am not a doll for you to command."

"Well, we'll see about that once we're married, won't we?" smirked Robert. "I should warn you, though, my dear, I do not like to be crossed. I expect obedience in a wife, and I shall make sure I have it. He took her firmly by the elbow, guiding her away from his parents with a grip so tight it made her wince in pain.

"Now," he said in a voice designed for only Marian to hear, "you will come with me and greet our guests. And this better be the last time you keep me waiting, Marian, or upon my word, I'll —"

"You'll what?"

Charlotte's familiar voice stopped Robert in his tracks, making Marian smile in spite of herself.

"Come, Marian," her friend said, stepping forward with a confidence which left Robert with little choice but to stand aside for her or risk causing a scene. "Let us take a walk together. We have much to talk about."

"But…" Robert spluttered, clearly furious to have had his plans spoiled. "But…"

"Oh, do close your mouth, Robert, dear," said Charlotte gaily. "You look like a goldfish."

Robert's mouth snapped shut abruptly, but if he had anything to say to that, Marian did not hear it, for Charlotte was already pulling her away from him, guiding her through the crowds of people who thronged the rooms leading to the ballroom.

"Charlotte, I cannot believe you spoke to him like that!" exclaimed Marian, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Oh, Robert Sinclair will not tell me what to do," stated Charlotte firmly. "And I have reason to believe that before the night is over, he will no longer have reason to believe he can tell you what to do either."

Before Marian could ask her what she meant, someone jostled her from behind, and she found herself suddenly listening in to a snippet of conversation from the group of ladies standing behind her.

"He is so handsome, though," one of them said excitedly. "I had not known he would be so handsome, did you?"

Marian frowned. Who are they talking about? Surely it cannot be Robert?

"I did not," confirmed another voice in reply to the first woman's question. "Oh, I heard that he was quite devastatingly handsome, of course, but seeing him in the flesh, so to speak, has proved that to be quite the understatement."

No. It is definitely not Robert, then. No one would ever use such language to describe a man like Robert.

"And so dangerous!" the first voice went on. "Dressed all in black like that. Why, he more than lives up to his reputation, does he not?"

"Absolutely. And the scar over his eye does nothing to diminish his good looks. Rather the opposite in fact."

Marian froze on the spot, her mind spinning with confusion.

Scar over the eye? ‘Devastatingly handsome'? There is only one man I know who meets that description, but he cannot be here? No, it is impossible. I must have misheard, that's all. It cannot possibly be Andrew.

"Of course, I would never dare to so much as speak to him," said one of the ladies behind her. "They say he killed his entire family, you know. With no remorse at all. Can you imagine? And him so handsome, too. It is such a waste. Why, I…"

The woman rattled on, but Marian was no longer listening. She felt as though the ground was lifting and tilting beneath her feet, and she grasped urgently at Charlotte's arm, a heady mixture of excitement and blood making her feel suddenly dizzy.

"Charlotte!" she said, her eyes wide. "Charlotte, those ladies… I am sure I overheard them talking about Andrew as if he were here!"

"Well, that's what I've been trying to tell you, silly," said Charlotte, impatiently. "If you had just been listening to me, rather than to everyone else, you would already know what my surprise is. And look! Here he is now!

Feeling as if she were in a dream, Marian turned slowly around to look in the direction Marian was pointing, her heart beating so fast she was glad of the arm her friend gave her to lean on. And there he was.

Standing on the other side of the room, looking directly at her, was the Duke of Rottdwell.