Page 51 of Destined to be a Duchess
“Nothing much,” Patrick said, shrugging. “But the two of you seem to have developed a sudden distaste for the man, given your sour expressions upon our leaving, and I do so hate to be left out. Why have afolie à deuxwhen one can enjoyfolie à trois?”
Anthony tutted, passing his soaked jacket to a passing footman. “Your pronunciation needs some work,” he teased, wanting to deflect from the topic of the Webbs. He looked at Marianne, relieved to see her smiling. “But I agree. There is no place quite like home.”
Patrick nodded. He pointed to the open doors. “I, erm, shall help Miss Barclay with Lady Marianne’s things, if you don’t mind,” he said, leaving before either of them could protest.
Shrugging, Anthony fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, waiting for the footmen to return with the housekeeper.
“You were quiet in the carriage,” Marianne said, removing her rain-dappled coat. “I expected things to be a little awkward between us. But your silence was more unbearable than I anticipated. You know how much I love talking, especially with you.”
“No, I ...” Her comment was like a shot through the heart, and Anthony immediately stepped towards her. He checked himself, glancing over his shoulder at the outside rain. “I was not quiet because of what happened ... at the party. I was simply contemplating what on earth should be done next. Warren’s parting words had me thinking.”
“And have you come up with a plan?” Marianne asked, sounding relieved.
“I have but theseedlingof a plan,” he admitted. He clicked his tongue against his palate, wishing he could present her with something better. "I need to confirm some thoughts with my mother first, provided I can tear her from her adulation of you long enough. She will be beside herself with joy for your return.”
“But not for yours?” Marianne rolled her eyes, shaking her head softly. Her gentle expression made him weak at the knees, and he stepped away before he did something else that would ruin her. “I think you are too harsh on yourself in all aspects. That moment in the gallery ... I do not want it to change how you behave with me. You’ve apologized, and I accepted the apology.
But you are the same way about everything, so I should not be surprised. You have a penchant for self-flagellation. Lucky for you, I find it endearing.”
The concept that Marianne foundanythingabout him endearing brought a smile to Anthony’s face. He supposed he should not be surprised. She had all but admitted to reciprocating his feelings for her in her bedchamber, making their otherwise insufferable situation ... well, sufferable.
“Like your art, for instance,” she continued, raising a brow. “The sketch was ... I am surely biased, but it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You have such a talent, Anthony. When this ... When all this is over,” she dropped her gaze to the floor, “I would so love for you to sketch me again.”
Anthony fought a smile. “You would let me?”
“Of course. Why should that surprise you?”
He hesitated a moment. “Because I worried you would find something you did not like in that sketch.”
“No.” She smiled pointedly. “I liked everything about it.”
The sound of hurried footsteps tore Anthony away from her. He cleared his throat as the housekeeper appeared with a batch of fresh servants. Patrick chose that moment to re-enter, suspiciously bereft of Miss Barclay’s company and any travelling trunks.
He clapped his hands together. “Now, then. Are we getting this show on the road?”
Anthony ignored his suddenly improved mood, turning instead to the housekeeper. “I take it Mother is in her solar? Good. We will greet her before changing.”
The air in the solar was warm and inviting, the smell of tea and lilies in the air. A weight lifted from Anthony’s shoulders as his mother turned in her seat, alerted by the sound of their approach. She looked none the worse for wear, still sporting the black mourning clothes she had worn since Anthony’s return. His own dour wardrobe awaited him upstairs, and he sighed at the thought.
Catherine cried with joy as the three of them appeared at the doors, jumping out of her chair and throwing the book she had been reading into the lap of the nearby maid.
“Oh, how wonderful it is to see you all again! Every one of my darlings returned to me with all their limbs intact,” she exclaimed, stopping a few paces from them with her hands clamped beneath her chin. “I would embrace you all if not for those wet clothes ...”
Anthony entered first, kissing his mother on the cheek. “You complain about the clothes, but you would have complained more if we had gone upstairs immediately.”
“Why, of course. It’s a mother’s right to complain. What else am I supposed to occupy myself with except the business of misery?” She laughed, eyes widening in delight as Marianne approached. She seized her hand, forcing Anthony to look away. “We will all have tea in here, and you can warm up by the fire. Of course, I will want to know about the party. Oh, but ...” She glanced into the hall behind them. “Where is our Frida?”
“She insisted on unpacking my things as soon as possible,” Marianne replied, releasing her. “I told her not to, but she would not take no for an answer. I imagine she’s gone upstairs ahead of us.”
“I see the Hagram party did not help to unwind her. Though none of you look particularly replenished.” His mother waved the matter away, grinning at Marianne. As he had expected, Catherine looked more pleased to see her than Anthony. “It is you I most want to hear from—no offence, gentlemen—unless you are too tired.”
Marianne looked down at her dress specked with rain. “The carriage ride was not tremendously taxing. As for the party ...” Her gaze drifted to Anthony, and something shifted within. “Perhaps a rest and change of clothes wouldn’t hurt after all. Mr Bowers? Would you escort me upstairs?”
“Are you afraid you’ll get lost? We have not been gonethatlong.” Patrick offered Marianne his arm. “Fine, I know when I’m not wanted. We will leave Her Grace with her son,” he concluded, much less tactfully than Marianne.
The pair left the room almost as soon as they had entered it. Anthony lingered by the sofas, eyes fixed on Marianne as she departed. Now left alone, he turned to his mother and tried to smile. But one real glance at Catherine made Warren’s deception flood back into his mind. He could not look at his mother and not think about his father—about what his father might have done or what had been done to him.
“I take it the hunting party was more a burden than a boon for you as well,” Catherine guessed, regaining her favouritearmchair. “But of the three of you, you look the most drained. What happened? Was Warren not how you expected him to be? Or was it Eliana?”
