Chapter 22

"Almost as soon as you return to me, you are leaving again," Catherine whined, stroking Marianne's hand. "Anyone would think Anthony wants you all to himself."

Marianne forced a laugh, shaking her head. She looked past Catherine out of the window to the courtyard. Their carriage was being prepared for the journey to London that morning. The usual suspects were on the list of travellers, and Catherine had made no secret of her lament at being left alone again.

She sighed and reached for her tea, taking a long sip while Marianne floundered for a response. The familiar scent of bergamot and orange blossom wafted in her face. Like so many things, she had finally found a taste for the Westden brew, just as she had to leave it behind.

"I know I am to blame," Catherine continued, shrugging one-shouldered. "I told him that he should go as soon as possible. Yet I cannot be glad that he is heeding my advice at last if it means you are to be ripped from me again. What if you meet a gentleman in London? I might never see you again."

"The chances of my falling in love in a week are slim at best," Marianne said, knowing it was a lie. How long had it taken her before she was fawning over Anthony? "And even if I did meet someone, I would return here to you with the news. It doesn't make me happy to leave you ... but this is important, don't you think?"

"It will be the most important day of your life, the meeting with the judge," Catherine said. "Well, second perhaps to the day of your marriage. Speaking of which ..."

A knock on the door cut off the duchess. Miss Barclay appeared in her travelling clothes, carrying Marianne's newly polished shoes. Like Catherine, Miss Barclay had shown little enthusiasm at being dragged away from the house again on such short notice. She had planned to take Marianne to the duchess' favourite modiste in London the moment they arrived—because the fashions, she stressed, were a different beast in London.

Marianne knew that first-hand, having already made a mental map of all the shops to avoid in London owned by seamstresses she once knew. They would ask questions, and she would feel awkward at her rise in station. It was better to avoid some fragments of her past altogether.

"Your Grace, we are ready to depart," Miss Barclay said, tending the shoes to Marianne. "These are for you, My Lady."

"I could hardly go to London barefoot," Marianne joked, taking her delicate, low-heeled boots and slipping them on. She clicked her heels against the floor, testing them for fit. "It will already be an uphill battle introducing myself to the ton once my status is officially recognized. Better to do it without my toes showing."

"They will meet you, listen to what you have to say, and fall in love with you exactly like I have," Catherine said, cupping Marianne's cheeks.

"If I were not mourning for the next year, you know I would take you there myself. In these short weeks, Marianne, I have come to think of you as my own flesh and blood. Though you may be leaving it for now, this house will always be a home to you. So go to London in the confidence that you are wanted here and that you will be wanted there." She squeezed her face. "I am so proud of you, Lady Marianne Chambers."

There was nothing Marianne could say to express her gratitude properly. She had lost a mother in London. She did not plan on losing Catherine, too. When she returned to Moorhaven Manor—and she would—they would pick up where they left off. Thinking as much, Marianne held Catherine's hand against her face and murmured a goodbye, holding back tears as Miss Barclay led her out of the house.

Anthony and Patrick milled by the carriage. The duke leaned on the back wheel, looking as weary as he had for the last two days. She could only imagine what was going through his mind. The fear Marianne felt over Eliana's threat was nearly debilitating. With the addition of De Laurier's twisted practices and Warren's lies, it was a miracle Anthony had got himself out of bed that morning.

"Our party of four reunites," Patrick said, tapping the carriage roof. "Perhaps for the last time. Once His Grace is officially a duke, and once you become a lady, you will not condescend to spend time with poor Mr Bowers. Know that I shall be looking enviously up at you from the bottom of Olympus."

"There's no need to be so dramatic," Marianne teased, having worried the same in secret. "We will always make time for each other. And that's if our trip to London changes anything, which it most likely won't. It's all ceremonial, isn't it? We will return to Moorhaven like nothing happened."

Anthony looked unconvinced, and Marianne wondered why. Was there something she didn't understand about their situation? Or was he merely concerned about what awaited them once they had attended their duties in London?

He straightened into a stand when Plym approached. The staff of Moorhaven Manor gathered on the front steps to bid their duke farewell. Marianne stepped towards the carriage, steeling her nerves.

And then she heard a rider coming up the drive. A horse appeared in the near distance as a familiar gentleman trotted towards their vehicle.

"Is that ...?" Marianne asked, knowing full well who it was.

Gideon slowed his horse to a stop on the other side of the carriage. He carried a portmanteau on his shoulder—like he was preparing to travel somewhere soon. Dismounting his horse and handing the reins to the approaching footman, Gideon swept back his blond hair and greeted Marianne, the duke, and the rest of them in turn.

"It appears the ride took longer than I thought," he said, looking sideways at the carriage. "Her Grace said to be here by ten o'clock, and I could have sworn it was only eight when I left. Were you leaving without me?"

"My mother invited you?" Anthony asked, stepping forward. Marianne picked up the note of irritation in his voice. "She has invited you to come to London with us?"

"She wrote yesterday saying that my presence was required in London—for Lady Marianne." Gideon looked her up and down. "Were you not aware?"

Suddenly, Marianne understood why Catherine had chosen to stay inside during their goodbyes. That didn't explain why Catherine had invited Gideon in the first place. She debated storming back inside for answers, but Anthony was already on his way.

*

"Perhaps you could explain to me why the Earl of Foxbury has just ridden up the drive, claiming he is to accompany us to London?"

The accusation left Anthony in a breath as he stopped in the doorway to the drawing room. His mother turned from the window, her face set in grim determination. He had not seen that look for many years. Not since he was a child who had done something to embarrass her.

"I had hoped you would leave gracefully ... but here we are." She turned on her heel, sighing loudly. "You should not have planned to take Marianne to London alone. Lord Foxbury is her rightful guardian, morally if not legally. He should be there when she presents the courts with the documents to legitimize her. I knew that if I told you as much, it would only lead to a fight."

"So, you went behind my back and wrote the earl in my stead? This was not your decision to make," Anthony shouted, growing more confused by the second. "If Marianne had wanted Foxbury to accompany us, she would have asked him to come."

"But instead, she agreed to go with you alone. And I have to wonder why ..."

Anthony started, hoping he had misheard. His mother tutted and looked at him, a sad smile playing on her lips. He could see the rest in the courtyard through the window, waiting for his return.

"I am not blind to what has blossomed between you and Marianne. As of yet, I cannot gauge the severity of the situation. But I have seen a change in you, Anthony. You will forgive me for this, but I do not trust you to control your emotions alone in London, not in your present state. So yes, I called the Earl of Foxbury to us, hoping his presence at Colline House would keep you in check."

"What present state?" Anthony bristled at her words, scoffing. "I am perfectly fine."

"That is what you are telling yourself, certainly, but I see the pain that lingers in your heart, poisoning you. You have not been yourself since your return from Hagram Park. And I dare say you have not been yourself since you came back to England." She raised her hand when he tried to interrupt.

"These notions of foul play regarding Edward's death, your obsession with the Webbs, the total abandonment of your art ... These are not the actions of a man who is in full possession of himself. I have grieved openly and diligently since your father died, and you have not. Yet one of us is in much deeper mourning than the other—and we both know that is it not me."

His fists balled at his sides of their own will. Did his mother really think so little of him? There was no question that he was mourning, but it had not made him lose his mind.

And yet she has a point, a small voice said within him. Your affections for Marianne may be true. Your suspicions of Warren are founded in truth. But you have not acted rationally despite that—putting Marianne in harm's way, using the circumstances of your father's death to distract you ...

"Edward had the same problem, always burying his head in the sand," Catherine continued. "I loved him more than I loved life itself, but he refused to accept the truth when it inconvenienced him. Like the fact that he was growing older, that one day you would return and outlive him, that he would die and not be there to father you. And where did all this denial get him? He died anyway!"

"You are thinking too much into things." Anthony stepped into the room. The hurt in his mother's eyes was insufferable. "I did not invite Gideon Manners to London because I know first-hand that Marianne does not like him. Her comfort was my sole motivator."

His mother did not believe him. "Can you swear to me that you have no designs on Marianne of your own? I know a thing or two about young love, and I have sensed this affection between you, Anthony. I have seen the looks you share when you think you are being clever and I am not watching you."

"I ... Well, I ..." Anthony struggled for an answer that was not an outright lie. "What do you want me to say? Marianne is ... wonderful. No gentleman could spend weeks with her and not come to admire her in some way. You should be glad that we get on. If even I can fall in love with her, she will certainly have no trouble in London!"

The room filled with silence. Anthony pressed his eyes shut, closing out that truth that he didn't want to see, just like his father, and wondering why his mother had gone quiet.

"You have fallen in love with her?" Catherine asked in a fragile voice. "Oh, Anthony ..."

His eyes flashed open. He had said that, hadn't he? Without even meaning to say it. The confession didn't feel like a lie in his mouth, because he hadn't realized the depth of his feelings for Marianne, not until his mother had forced the admission out of him.

Perhaps that was denial, too. Anthony knew he felt strongly about her, that there was a natural connection between them that could not be forced, that had been there from the moment they met. The ease, the delight, of knowing her.

It was love. It had to be. Nothing else could have made him act like such a fool. Like trying to kiss her in the gallery and consequently rendering a match between them impossible until Eliana and Warren were dealt with—regardless of whether he loved her, which, yes, he most certainly, tragically did.

"Are you upset?" he murmured.

Catherine's neck bobbed. "Not upset ... but surprised. I had thought it was ..." She looked away, her face flushing. "What do you intend if we are speaking of true love?"

"I haven't a clue," he whispered. His eyes smarted with tears, repressed for weeks. He tilted his head back, wishing things were easier. "Things are not as simple as you believe them to be. And even if they were, what would the ton say about a match between us? I have little regard for their opinion of me, but her ...?"

His throat was thick with emotion. "They would crucify her. An all-but illegitimate daughter rising to the rank of duchess? The story would not inspire them. She would be branded as ... I cannot even say it ..."

"But you have contemplated marriage with her? Heavens, Anthony. Why did you not tell me of these feelings the moment they revealed themselves to you?" She clamped a hand over her mouth, then let it hang lamely at her side. "I love Marianne, but I agree that she is not ready for that life. You must take her to London.

As a lady, perhaps she can survive such an ordeal ... And if we present her correctly, if she gains a great number of friends and admirers before the engagement is announced, then she might—"

"Now you are being hasty," Anthony said, trying to lighten the mood. "This is not a question I can ask until everything standing between us is resolved. And even then, it is Marianne's choice in the end."

"You're right. I'm so sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry about." Anthony nodded, searching for his mother's fleeting gaze. When he found it, he smiled. "I will share my thoughts with her when the time is right ..."

So long as the Earl of Foxbury doesn't beat me to it first.