Chapter 13

At dinner that evening, that forbidden face was as far from her mind as possible.

And quite literally far as well.

Marianne looked down at her name card, thumbing the edge of the folded paper. She squinted towards the other end of the table, positioned almost as far away from the Marquess of Hindborough, Lady Eliana, and Anthony as possible. She had hoped their hosts would take pity on her and seat her beside the duke.

"It looks like you'll just have to make do with me," a voice said beside her.

Patrick grinned effortlessly, eyes darting back and forth as he grabbed the name card beside Marianne's and swapped it with his own. He hurried back to the scene of the theft, returning to Marianne with a laugh.

"Mr Crofter will be none the wiser," Patrick teased, winking. "Before you mistake me for your knight in shining armour, I was to be seated beside one Lord Derrish, and the man absolutely loathes my father." He waved his hand like it was a tale for another time. "I'd take your company over his any day. And I suspect a friendly face is just what you need this evening. How were things for you so far with the ladies?"

Marianne grimaced, thinking back to the events of that afternoon. After Lady Elaina's interview on the lawn, the women had gone walking around a nearby lake. Marianne had been tossed from woman to woman, all eager to hear about her most tragic backstory.

"I would have preferred to have been introduced to a hungry pack of wolves." She hummed out her frustration. "Things could have gone worse. I could have been left alone."

"I say no company is better than bad company, but to each his own." Patrick nodded in the direction of Anthony. "Our friend, the duke, looks like he's of the same mind."

Marianne stole a few fleeting glances at Anthony. He looked lovely in his dark dinner suit, hair curling around his ears. His face was set in a smile as he spoke with Lady Eliana and her father.

Even from a distance, Marianne could tell how comfortable they were around each other. She shouldn't have been jealous about Anthony's relationship with them, and yet she was. The duke had been her friend first. Except, she realized with a start, he really hadn't.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," she murmured, playing with the edge of her napkin. She was thankful for the gentle dins of conversation and cutlery all around them, obscuring their conversation from the guests finding their seats. "He's smiling for the most part."

"You're cleverer than that, Marianne. It's all an act," Patrick said, scowling. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "There are two sides to Anthony Colline. Up until now you had only met one of them. You should count your lucky stars. He is by far the better Anthony."

"And the other?"

"The other—the man you see laughing at whatever mindless thing Hindborough just said to him—that is the shadow of Anthony." Patrick cocked his head to the side like his meaning was obvious.

"Every man has a shadow. It is the culmination of every familial pressure, societal expectation, question, or doubt that has passed through him. Like a mask that must be worn to protect him from further danger, he adorns it when he feels the least comfortable.

It is the shadow that laughs at jokes out of politeness. Or lies because it's easier than explaining himself. Or swears that he takes no issue with the fact that his mother obviously loves his two older brothers more than she loves him."

Her smile fell immediately. Marianne parted her lips to comfort Patrick, but he warned her away with a wag of his finger. She chose not to press him further. Instead, she looked around the room, hoping she would see more examples to illustrate Patrick's theory.

But she didn't see shadows. Only strangers.

Patrick smiled. "Pay no heed to them, Marianne. In fact, I would recommend you ignore almost everything people say or do while you are here."

Marianne wanted to say something equally cryptic or enlightening. She could only manage: "You're odd tonight."

This caused Patrick to laugh, and she laughed as well.

"But I beg you to keep talking," she continued, feeling the energy in the room shift as the final guest entered. "I won't survive this dinner without more of your rambling."

The Marquess of Hindborough proceeded to ring a gong once all the diners had been seated for the evening. Marianne settled in her high-backed chair, placing her napkin over her lap. The dining hall settled into relative silence as the marquess remained standing.

He gave a brief speech about the planned events of the party that year, thanking the seventy or so guests who had come for their participation. He mentioned his wife, who was on a long sojourn abroad …

Patrick elbowed her in the ribs. "Separated," he mouthed.

"More importantly," Lord Hindborough continued, his glass raised in a toast, "I would like us to spend this next week thinking of tradition and the place it holds in all our lives. It has been my honour to host this party every year, as it was my father's honour before me.

Some believe that progress is only achieved through the rejection of tradition and that moving forward can only be obtained by destroying what already exists. The trend in art—which, as you all know, is my great passion—has been to respect history, preserve it, and allow it to influence us. I would like to think that this represents a larger shift, already present in the minds of those who shape our fair country."

He raised his glass higher. As if on command, every other guest raised theirs, too—with Marianne a beat behind.

Suddenly, her gaze met Anthony's for the first time since they had sat down. His innocent look was like a bullet through the chest. His face looked different than it had not moments prior—lighter, younger. The shadow had been lifted from over his features in the second of connection they were allowed before the marquess started speaking again. Anthony looked up at Lord Hindborough, and his eyes darkened again.

"I would not toast to the future but to the past." Lord Hindborough paused for a second, eyes drifting around the table. He paused on Marianne. "May old friendships be strengthened while you are all here. May what once lay forgotten rise once again to the surface …"

Murmured "cheers" passed around the room. Marianne glanced up again, expecting to find Anthony toasting the marquess or the man's daughter. Instead, he had turned back to Marianne, tilting his glass in her direction from all those metres away. She toasted back at him, ignoring the trill of her delighted little heart as he smiled wide.

The wine was light and fruity on her tongue as she drank in a private toast to herself, to Anthony, and their separate new beginnings.

*

Smoke billowed from Anthony's mouth, dissipating into the night air above him. He tapped the end of his cheroot on the balcony's iron railing, swallowing the ashy taste in his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the orange glow at the end of the thin cigar, crackling and flickering as the fire smouldered within.

"Such perfect, contained destruction," he mused, angling his head back towards the stars overhead.

"I've heard of men finding wisdom at the bottom of a bottle," a voice came from behind him. "But from the end of one of those …? How very novel."

He smiled at the sound of her voice, glancing over his shoulder. Marianne was leaning against the open balcony door, her cheeks rosy from the hot, humid air inside. Music filtered from the ballroom behind them—a piece from Paine's first set titled "L'été", The Summer.

"Aren't you supposed to be dancing?" he said teasingly, stepping aside to allow her to join him on the small balcony. "I left you in the care of Patrick. He should know better than to allow you out of his sight."

"Are you worried I'll do something to embarrass you when left to my own devices, Your Grace?" Marianne approached slowly, then settled against the railing. She stared over the grounds. "Patrick disappeared once the last dance came to an end. I thought I'd take my chances and try to find you. Who knows what I might have stumbled into if I had gone after him instead."

Anthony wasn't sure what she meant. And frankly, he didn't want to find out. He lifted the cheroot to his lips, then hesitated. It wasn't gentlemanly to smoke in front of a lady. He had only come out to avoid having to dance a second time with Eliana.

"I shall look away if I'm making you uncomfortable," Marianne teased, covering her eyes with her hands. "But do tell me—do you usually smoke?"

He laughed, reaching over to guide her hands away from her eyes. The touch was brief and efficient, but it sent a jolt of electricity up his arm all the same. He was too casual with Marianne, manhandling her, teasing her. He feared he couldn't stop if he tried—another addiction, kept on a short leash.

"When possible," he replied once her hands were safely by her sides again. "My mother despises the smell of tobacco and forbade smoking at Moorhaven Manor long before I took up the habit. My father indulged in secret. As a child, I would find cheroot butts in the statue garden and try to light them …" He winced at the memory, scoffing. "I should not be telling you this. It's not a particularly gentlemanly confession."

"We all do silly things as children," Marianne said, swaying gently back and forth in time with the music indoors. She clicked her tongue, preparing to say something before stopping herself. Anthony waited patiently, and her mouth curled into a side-smile.

"When I was eight, one of our neighbours took in one of the street cats for company. A fat, tabby queen named Biscuit. We'd all fight to play with the poor thing, who probably just wanted to be left alone."

"I dread to think where this is going," Anthony lied, taking another drag. He never wanted her to stop talking and would have listened to her for hours if there hadn't been a party raging on inside.

"Well, it was winter when the cat appeared. I started to worry she would get cold when the neighbour let her outside. We were all of us bundled up, but poor Biscuit had nothing to protect her from the rain. No shoes, no coat, no hat …" At this, Anthony laughed, forcing Marianne to pause and snicker.

"I took some of my mother's sketching paper and a quill and started designing a garment for Biscuit at her drafting table. Like a stocking," she made the shape in the air, "with little leg holes, an opening for the tail, and buttons running down the back to open and close it."

Anthony shook his head, picturing the poor tabby in her outfit. "I imagine Biscuit was none too pleased by your sartorial intervention."

"Oh, Biscuit was fat and could have cared less what was done to her. It took only three of us to dress her, after which she rolled onto her side and refused to get up for the next hour." Marianne grinned, looking mischievously off into the distance. "No, Biscuit was not in the least offended. My mother, on the other hand, whose best velvet I'd used to make the blasted coat …"

Marianne covered her face with her hands, cringing at the memory. Anthony threw his head back with laughter, delighted to find her grinning at him when he was done.

"And you know, I think she was secretly pleased. Not a month later, she put me to work in the back of the shop, saying that if I could design clothes for Biscuit, creating dresses for bipedal creatures would be no challenge at all. That cat-coat landed me my first and only job. Sometimes, I think it was a missed opportunity. We could have made a fortune selling clothes to dog owners. Even the Queen has her Pomeranians, after all."

"Not all is lost," Anthony said, leaning against the wall behind him, granting him a better view of Marianne—and the night sky behind her. He couldn't decide which was the more enrapturing sight. "If all goes as planned, you'll meet Queen Charlotte next year. There is still time to pitch your idea to her."

"I think it will be hard enough to get myself taken seriously, thank you very much, without trying to sell her clothes for dogs."

Marianne rolled her eyes. It was difficult for Anthony to tell, behind her smile, whether she really believed it would be so hard to impress the ton. Her expression suddenly changed, and the question answered itself.

"But yes, about the Queen," Marianne continued. "Lady Eliana mentioned the London Season to me earlier today. In fact, I got the impression she wanted me to enter society quite desperately—and I can't yet tell whether it was out of the goodness of her heart or if she has some ulterior motive I can't understand. She doesn't know me from Eve. It makes no sense for her to be plotting against me, or to my benefit, so soon. And yet …"

Anthony nodded dourly. Eliana had mentioned Marianne to him in passing during dinner, and he had felt the same. Eliana, her friends, every guest at the party … They were all waiting with bated breath to see what London would make of Lady Marianne Chambers—because what London decided went, and until London had made up its mind about her, how could they possibly know what to think?

He had been trying not to pay too much attention to anything Eliana said, still struggling to tolerate her like always. He didn't like the idea of her meddling in Marianne's life. Eliana thought she was cleverer than everyone else. It was unlikely that she had met Marianne—who was different, beautiful, naturally intelligent—and had not felt intimidated.

"With Eliana, one can always assume that something else is at play," he replied, extinguishing his cheroot on the railing. He had lost the taste for it with the mention of Eliana. "In this case, I think she is attracted by your … peculiarity."

"I see." Marianne sighed, fiddling with the pendant on her necklace. "She wants to befriend me for the same reason people collect exotic pets."

"One might say rare gems instead," Anthony's ears grew hot at the comparison, "but yes, like that, too. You should not allow Eliana's perception of you to offend you—whatever it may be. Those who matter will see you as more than a novelty in time." Like he did. "As much as I wish it were not true if you play Eliana's game for now, you will reap the rewards next year. She would make a decent ally for you in London."

Marianne seemed to understand, but he noticed her hand tighten around the railing. "I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't felt like a monkey at the Tower of London today, being gawked at by everyone from inside my cage. I'm trying not to let it affect me …" Her gloved fist squeezed around the metal. "I just hope it isn't like this forever."

"It won't be." Anthony stepped forward on instinct, not wanting her to be upset. His own hand was balled by his side, held there because anyone could walk past at any minute, and an innocent, consolatory touch could cause a scandal for them both. "I swear it to you, Marianne. Once you have formally entered society, you will be considered an equal in time. The gentlemen of the ton will be fighting tooth and nail for a dance with you."

"Perhaps if one of them can stop laughing long enough to grant me a second look," Marianne joked, peering up at him under her lashes, "I might have a chance at convincing one of them to marry me."

He hated that she thought this about herself—even though everything she had encountered about their world so far had given her reason to doubt herself. Anthony wished he could protect her from it all. The prejudices, the expectations, the rumours, and judgement.

It would destroy his mother if Marianne became more miserable after her rescue than before they had ever met her. And he would feel like he failed her too, even though, realistically, he knew that he shouldn't have any feelings about Lady Marianne Chambers at all.

But he did feel … things. He could not organize those things into any sense in his mind. Aside from Eliana, he had never been friends with a woman. And unlike Eliana, Marianne made every moment in her company so much better than it would have been without her, not worse.

It was only natural, he thought, to have a female friend and want the best for her, to feel protective of her—like one would any woman, whether she was a sister, a mother, or even a wife.

And the other things that didn't fit into that paradigm … Well, that was his problem, not hers. There was bound to be some confusion—some thoughts and feelings that could not make sense under circumstances which by no stretch of the imagination would have been considered normal.

Yet even after all that rumination, Anthony still found himself whispering helplessly.

"I'm not laughing."

Marianne's lips parted slightly in surprise. He wished they hadn't. The sight tortured him, only confusing him further. How easy it would have been to lean forward and kiss her. In the selfish second that followed, he imagined the feeling of her body in his arms, the taste of her in his mouth, like cherry ratafia, that damned perfume she wore, maddening him.

He wanted to kiss her more than he had wanted anything in his life, and then he hated himself for thinking it, wished that she would disappear altogether, hated himself more because of that.

He tried to rationalize his desire. It was not Marianne. It was his loneliness, their proximity, the stress of the party, a perversion on his part. He thought and kept thinking, and eventually, Marianne pressed her lips together again, breaking the spell she had unwittingly cast.

Anthony stepped back, horrified at himself, clearing his throat. "We should return inside," he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "You should …Yes, you should go."

He saw Marianne nod out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't bear to look at her, and thankfully, she didn't seem eager to look at him either.

"Of course, Your Grace," she replied, curtsying.

Curtsying?

"I'll see you inside at once," she said as she left.

She disappeared like he had imagined her, leaving him alone on the balcony. He sought purchase on the railing, collapsing forward under the weight of his shame. She must have seen where he was looking, must have been able to read his disgraceful thoughts all over his face.

His gaze fell to the cheroot. The tip was still smouldering, glowing, despite his best efforts at extinguishing it: Perfect, contained destruction.