Chapter 6

Catherine Colline was a fierce proponent of the adage that things were always better after a good night's sleep. In Anthony's case, he woke the next morning still weary from weeks of travel, deciding to forgo his long-anticipated stroll of the grounds in favour of a few more hours in bed.

By the time he had awoken, bathed, and met his new valet—a man named Booker, who had previously attended his father—he was faced with the difficult choice of what to wear. Oh, Anthony was far from the Pink of the ton. He had never had a mind for fashion. But his mother had ordered a collection of mourning clothes for him, and Anthony couldn't decide whether he was ready to put them on.

He spent the day in Norwich with Patrick for company, reuniting with old friends at the gentlemen's club—not sporting black after all. It wasn't until dinner time arrived at Moorhaven that Anthony draped himself in those dour clothes, wanting to support his mother in her own grief, even if he hadn't yet come to terms with his own mourning.

Pausing at the top of the landing, he leaned on the balustrade and glanced over the entrance hall. He had done so much in the two years since he had left England. His travel sketchbooks were full of sketches of the places he had seen and the people he had met.

In that time, Moorhaven Manor hadn't changed an inch. The marble columns, the three-tiered chandelier, and the crimson drapes were exactly as Anthony had remembered them. The only thing that had changed, he thought, was the fact that his father was no longer there.

He felt rather than heard someone approaching from behind him. His mother's new protégée appeared in the archway leading to the guest wing. The sight of her gave him pause. She looked completely different from the day prior, dressed in a pale-yellow gown that she could never have afforded on a seamstress' salary. Her pearl earrings caught the light from the nearby sconces as she stopped to affix them properly in the hallway mirror.

Anthony realized he was staring too late. Marianne turned with a gasp, and one of the earrings flew out of her hand. He dashed over to retrieve it from the carpet, feeling guilty for having scared her in the first place.

"My apologies," he murmured, placing the earring in her gloved hand. Despite her new dress, she was still wearing that ensnaring perfume. Heat rose from her fingers, and Anthony drew his hand away immediately. "I hadn't meant to frighten you."

"It's your home." Marianne shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze as she stepped back and returned to the mirror. "You are free to linger as you please. I should have been paying more attention. My mind has been," she sighed, "all over the place since yesterday."

"My mother told me about your recent discovery." He hadn't checked with Catherine to see whether he was allowed to talk about Marianne's parentage. Thankfully, she seemed unperturbed, still working her earrings fruitlessly. "Nobody would blame you for being distracted after learning something of that nature."

"Distracted is one word for it. I …" She groaned, tearing the earring away and inspecting it with a scowl. Perhaps she wasn't as unaffected by the news as she was pretending to be. "Her Grace left these for me to wear, along with this dress and a hundred other things I don't deserve, but I can't put them on."

Anthony smiled despite himself. His mother was right—she was effortlessly charming. Before he could think better of it, he sidled up beside her and extended his hand.

"May I?"

She hesitated for a moment, then returned the earrings to him. They were clipped shut.

"You have to open them fully, like this. Don't worry. They won't break." The clasp made a satisfying clicking noise as he opened it, holding it up to her earlobe and clipping it in place.

They were closer than was proper, and Anthony cleared his throat out of awkwardness as heat crept up his neck. He was far from a rake.

Everything he did was well-intentioned. Marianne, in her experience with etiquette, hopefully, wouldn't think twice about his slip of manners with her. He could only imagine how much pain she was in, and he figured it was his duty as her host to help in any way he could and to be gentle with her. That was what his mother would have wanted.

"Ow," she breathed, rubbing her ear as he moved from one lobe to the next. "It would be less painful to pierce them, I think." He tilted back to look at her. Marianne's cheeks were flushed—probably from the pain. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Think nothing of it." He examined her for a moment, looking deep into the green eyes of the Chambers family. He wondered what he was searching for, perhaps a sign that she was who his mother had claimed. "You really had no idea?"

"What?" The sound of her voice snapped him out of his search, and he promptly stepped back. "Oh, you mean about my parents …" Marianne dropped her gaze to the floor. "No, I couldn't have come up with something like that in my wildest dreams. I've spent all day just … thinking."

"And what have you concluded?"

"That I will likely spend tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that still thinking." She smiled mirthlessly. "Nothing is left for me in London, not with my mother gone. I could try to start a shop independently, but I would always feel like I was just running from the truth.

How could I be at peace in London knowing what I had abandoned here? But then I think about becoming a lady, and the idea frightens me so much that I can barely breathe … Do you understand what I mean?"

Anthony couldn't understand. He had never faced a dilemma like that. From the moment he had been old enough to understand what it meant, he had known that one day he would become the next Duke of Westden—though he had hoped to delay the moment as long as he could, knowing that the acquisition of that title would necessitate his father's death.

He wasn't even sure why he was interested in Marianne's predicament. The two of them would likely be sharing a house for some time, but that didn't require them being friends. She was really his mother's guest, not his. And yet, he wanted to know more.

"Not particularly," he replied, "though I imagine it's no easy task to start your life over, especially on your own." Marianne looked up, her eyes full of worry, and he felt compelled to comfort her. "Well, you're not entirely alone, are you? My mother has vowed to help you, and for as long as I have known her, she has never gone back on her word."

Marianne gave a timid smile, and he was relieved. "That helps somewhat. I don't understand the first thing about your world, but I'm guessing it's not par for the course to accept someone like me into your home. I won't take your kindness for granted, no matter what I decide. In the meantime, I will try to be as invisible as possible—quiet as a mouse."

"You said that yesterday, yet here you are," he teased. She laughed in response, and he warmed at her amusement. "There's no use avoiding one another. My mother would force us together even if we should try to stay apart."

"Why?" Marianne blinked hard as if he were suggesting that Catherine was planning on setting them up. He hoped that wasn't the case. Marianne may have been beautiful and easy to speak with, but the idea of marriage was far from his mind, especially with a woman who would, at worst, be considered a pariah by the ton. "I hadn't meant that …"

"I only meant to say," he spoke over her before she could get the wrong idea, "that my mother likes it when everyone gets along." He extended his arm to her, forcing down his panic. "So, come with me down to dinner. She may just fall off her chair at the sight of us."

*

Marianne forced a smile as a liveried footman placed a bowl of white soup in front of her. She had been dreading dinner all day. It had been easy enough to pick at her breakfast that morning, with the duchess concentrating on her correspondence. Now, it seemed inevitable that someone would notice her lack of appetite and make a scene.

The problem was twofold. She was nervous beyond belief at the table; her palms were sweating now that she had removed her gloves, which she had only known to do because of Miss Barclay's primer on dinner etiquette early that afternoon. She might have been able to conquer her nerves long enough to enjoy a proper meal, but all the food served at Moorhaven had been overly sweet or salty or too complicated for her palette.

Marianne was even still adjusting to the taste of the Colline tea. Miss Barclay had described it as an inoffensive blend of bergamot, black tea, and orange blossom, as though Marianne was supposed to care about that sort of thing now that her grandfather was an earl.

She looked dubiously at the soup. Fat floated on the top, along with an herb she guessed was parsley. It smelled sweet and nutty, and Marianne suddenly panicked as she glanced at her spoons, her mind going blank as she tried to recall which one she was supposed to use.

Something prodded her ribs beneath the table. She whipped around to find Patrick smiling at her. He had insisted that she stop calling him Mr Bowers while they waited for dinner to be served, now that Marianne's real heritage had been revealed. He had found it endlessly funny that she now outranked him.

At present, he seemed more interested in trying to help her over making an undeserved mockery of himself. He nodded discreetly at the spoon he was holding, and Marianne understood, mouthing her thanks as she reached for the correct utensil.

The white soup wasn't nearly as unpalatable as she had expected it to be from how it looked. She could have done without the gamey aftertaste, preferring not to know what meat had gone into it. Her stomach grumbled as the soup made its way down her throat. She was hungrier than she had thought, and her nerves quickly subsided to her returning appetite.

"You should ask Marianne what she thinks," she heard suddenly from across her, peering up now that her name had been spoken. Catherine was smiling, holding her spoon aloft. She looked at the duke with whom she'd been speaking.

"We were discussing whether it was worth travelling to London before the summer is over. The heat was unbearable last time, and the country exodus becomes more pronounced every year. There was hardly anything to do. No, you'd be bored out of your mind—wouldn't he be, Marianne?"

"I shouldn't care if it was a thousand degrees and completely abandoned. I'm not going for pleasure," the duke replied.

He had been so friendly earlier when he asked Marianne down to dinner. The feeling of his fingers against her ear had made her blush, completely surprising her. Now, in the dining hall, he had returned to the sober gentleman she had met the day prior.

Like his mother, he addressed Marianne directly. "I have to request a writ of summons to Parliament to petition the title—merely a formality. I expect the Prince will anticipate an audience as well. The sooner the matter is dealt with, the better, so I see no reason to delay my trip until autumntime."

Marianne didn't see what say she had in the duke's affairs, even though the thought of him leaving so soon made her inexplicably sad. Too much was changing. She stalled for time, taking another spoonful of soup. They were still waiting for her contribution once she was done.

"I couldn't say either way," she replied, keeping her eyes on her bowl. "I only really knew Lambeth, and that's quite different from Westminster, I'm sure."

"You mean to say that you never visited the other parts of London?" Patrick asked beside her, making a face. "But you lived so close."

The room fell silent as though Marianne had made a terrible faux-pas. "Well, I …" She floundered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in her new gown. "There was no reason to visit. We were too busy with the shop most days to consider enjoying an outing, and what friends we had were all in the nearby area, so …" She puffed out her cheeks. "No, I know next to nothing about the rest of London."

Catherine widened her eyes, grabbing the duke's free hand where it rested on the table. "Well, that's even more reason to delay your visit," she exclaimed. "When you go down to London, you could take Patrick and Marianne with you. It would do you some good to have some company on the road, and when you're not busy with the lords, you can introduce Marianne to some of our acquaintances and help her make some friends."

The duke shook his head. "You forget that we … I mean to say that we should …"

He cut himself off, and Marianne could only guess what he was going to say. The family was in mourning. It might have looked strange for him to be gadding about London with friends—especially a curiosity like Marianne. He clearly wanted to spare his mother the embarrassment of correcting her behaviour. He had helped Marianne earlier. It seemed only right to return the favour now.

"That might be a bit premature," Marianne interjected, raising her eyes defiantly. The duke looked shocked by her interruption until gratitude washed over his face. "I have yet to decide what I will do with this news. Until that happens …" She turned to the duke. "I think you should go alone, whenever you want. Don't let me detain you."

It was only a half-lie. Marianne was clueless about her future. She had spent all day trying not to think of the duchess' confession. Her mother's letters were still sitting unopened on the desk in her assigned room. She could barely stomach the idea of meeting her estranged relatives if any existed, let alone confronting unknown aristocrats in London.

Becoming Lady Marianne Chambers seemed like a monumental, maybe even redundant task. The only person it might have mattered to meet from her family was dead. And from how she had struggled so far, with the clothes, rules, language, and tastes, there was a good chance a lady's life just wasn't meant for her.

"If that's how you feel, sweet Marianne, then we will set the matter to rest for now," Catherine declared. "But it's important that you reconnect with your acquaintances quickly," she said to Anthony. "I've received countless letters about you since it was announced that you'd be returning home."

The duke looked like he wanted to discuss anything else. It was Patrick's turn to leap to his aid now, saying:

"I thought we gained some good ground this afternoon. The fellows in Norwich couldn't get enough of your son, and that's to say nothing of the praises they were heaping on you, Duchess. It seems you've done a tremendous job keeping interest alive for Anthony while he's been gone. My own mother could learn a thing or two from you, no doubt. The moment I am out of sight, it is as though there are only two Bowers brothers, not three."

His comment hit its mark, making Catherine burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her napkin, and the mood at the table improved immediately. The duchess graciously refused the compliment, engaging Patrick in a lengthy discussion about his parents instead.

Marianne was grateful for a moment to herself as the footmen began clearing away the soup. They returned not three minutes later with a spread of roast potatoes, sweetbreads in a creamy sauce, fillets of mystery meat, pies that looked like works of art, curious-looking vegetables they called artichokes, and so many more dishes that Marianne wondered when the rest of the guests would be arriving.

The duke began serving himself first, passing the artichokes to Marianne once he was done. When she tried to take them, he held onto the tureen.

"Thank you," he said once he had her attention. He glanced sideways at his mother, who was still chatting energetically with Patrick across the table. "I don't doubt you were partly telling the truth, but I still saw what you did. You're an observant little thing, aren't you?"

Marianne wasn't sure how she felt being called a ‘little thing', though she imagined he meant it nicely. A compliment from a duke was worth taking, she supposed. "Of course. An unobservant shopkeeper is a penniless shopkeeper. I can read a shop floor like you can read Shakespeare." She smiled when he did, finally handing her the tureen. "Which reminds me. I'm still waiting for Hamlet, Your Grace."

"There's no need to wait. As a guest at the house, you have my full permission to explore the library at your leisure." He picked up a set of serving tongs and served himself some meat. Marianne blushed as she watched his long fingers flex around the utensil. "But I'll see Hamlet delivered to your room this evening. Though perhaps you'd rather read a comedy what with … well …"

"… what with the fact that I'm currently living a tragedy?" Marianne considered his offer, trying not to think too hard about the duke paying her a personal visit after dark. "I'll trust you to make that decision for me. As I said, I don't know anything about his work."

"Do you not read?" His blue eyes flashed with horror at his mistake. Marianne was unruffled. She preferred it when he spoke to her without a filter. "Do not misunderstand. Of course, I know that you can read. I was only curious as to whether you read often. That is to say, whether you frequented libraries," he choked on his words, "or had any genres you prefer."

She wouldn't have thought it was possible to fluster a duke without witnessing it first-hand. He was cold more often than not, seeming older than his years. The panic on his face made him look almost boyish and suited him perfectly. Marianne grinned, prolonging his torment by feigning offence so she could admire him a little longer.

"We had a very small collection of books," she explained eventually, holding back from laughing as the duke poured himself a glass of wine—then served her without asking. It was like no wine she had ever seen, fizzing with small bubbles.

"The first thing I ever read was a tailoring manual. And if you think that's bad, the second was a book on good housekeeping. On my eighth birthday, my mother bought me a spelling book, and you'd be surprised at the level of vocabulary included in such a thing. I learned how to spell asceticism before I learned how to spell my own last name, despite not knowing what it meant."

The duke laughed, furrowing his brow. If ascetics didn't make for polite dinner conversation, he was kind enough not to show it. "I had a similar book when I was young but preferred the illustrations over the exercises. I would copy the drawings I saw instead of writing my lines. It's no wonder I learned how to draw before I could write."

He looked wistfully into the space between them, sipping his wine. Marianne watched his neck bob as the drink traced a path down his throat, her cheeks flushing in response. He was somehow more handsome when he was speaking freely about himself. She quickly turned away, taking a sip of her own wine. It was stronger than she was used to, but the fine bubbles danced on her tongue, tasting fresh and light.

"What, erm …" She hoped he didn't notice her blush, her glass clinking against the table as she set it down. "What drew you to art in the first place? It's been mentioned a few times that you left England to study art."

"It was a highly educational trip, but I didn't spend much time studying art, per se. I was drawing, certainly, but not practicing under a teacher of any sort." He relaxed in his seat, forcing Marianne to try and act relaxed, too, as she continued serving herself.

"To actually answer your question, I'm not entirely sure. My father has—had—a friend who's an exceptional artist. I spent a great deal of time with him as a child, and he encouraged me to pursue art when he noticed that I had a knack for drawing. As for determining the source of my interest …"

He clicked his tongue, looking skyward. "I'm not convinced anything inspired me in particular. Some things in life simply must be done, skills that come to us naturally, people that we have a natural affinity for, and so forth."

Marianne glanced up, wondering whether he believed they had a natural affinity. It was a frivolous thought. She didn't need the duke to like her, only to tolerate her presence.

"Do you have nothing like this in your own life?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "A passion or a pastime outside of your work?"

She set down the platter of sweetbreads, thinking. "I love dressmaking. I love everything about it. I know that doesn't answer your question because it is how—it was how—I made my living … It fills me with so much joy to create something from a simple idea and tailor it perfectly to a person's needs and shape.

It's not the dress that becomes the final piece but the person as they wear it." She was rambling, and she stopped herself. "There are much more important things a person could do with their time, I know, but—"

"Why do you say that?"

Marianne froze. The duke was usually neutral about everything. He must have felt strongly to have interrupted her with a tone that could only have been described as scolding. Maybe it was the wine influencing him. She took another sip of her own wine before she replied, praying for it to imbue her with courage.

"Why do I say what?"

His gaze softened. "You should not trivialize your passion. In fact …" He paused, perhaps wondering whether it was right to say more. "I find that you have a habit of unfairly disparaging yourself. Earlier, before dinner, you said that it could not have been usual for a man in my position to accept a person like you into my home." He scoffed gently. "You said that, and since then, I've been thinking: ‘Like her? Whatever does she mean by that?'"

"Oh …" Marianne was flustered now. "I only meant, well … It can't be every day that a seamstress from Lambeth finds herself as a guest in a house as grand as this." She thought that had been the case at the time, but now the duke had made her doubt herself. "Isn't it only natural to feel insignificant in the face of all this grandeur?" She waved towards their spread, grateful that Patrick was still entertaining Catherine, none the wiser. "A place like this, people like you, would make anyone feel nervous."

"I agree that some nerves are inevitable. Anxiety is a symptom of experiencing something new. That does not explain your previous comment …" He paused, scanning her face. She wished he would stop.

"It's none of my business. We will agree to disagree. I simply think that lives are measured by how useful we are to others. For example, I would wager that you have helped more people with your dressmaking talent than I have for simply being born the son of a duke."

"Now you are unfairly disparaging yourself," Marianne deflected.

"I …" She had him there, and the duke knew it. "Perhaps you are making me nervous."

She laughed. "Because I'm new?"

"Yes," the duke said through a smile. He tried to conceal it behind his wine glass. "And because you're too observant, as I said."

The conversation between Catherine and Patrick was coming to an end, and he leaned in closer.

"No matter who you decide to become—Marianne Buller, Marianne Chambers, whoever—promise me that you will not allow these nerves of which we speak to hold you back. I'm sure you have done tremendous things, and you may do tremendous things yet. There is aristocratic blood in you," he pointed at her chest, "and if there is one thing that aristocrats are good at, it's being full of themselves even when they have no reason to be."