The Earl Behind the Quill (Preview)

Prologue

London, 1807

Marianne clutched the handle of her parasol tightly as she raced across the lawn of her family’s newly acquired Mayfair town house with the other boys and girls. Her mother had impressed upon her before any of the party guests had arrived that no matter what, she must carry her parasol at all times.

“We must try to keep you from getting any more spots,” she’d said, gesturing to the freckles that dotted, well, nearly all of Marianne’s skin—but especially her face. “We may not be gentry, but you should look as much like a lady as you possibly can.” Her mother’s tone of voice had been glum, as if she’d already given up hope of having much success turning Marianne into a lady. The twin blights of her freckles and her unfashionable red hair already had them at a disadvantage. “Especially now that you are turning thirteen,” her mother had continued, standing back to look her over for what felt like the twentieth time, “and we are moving into higher circles.”

Marianne had suppressed a sigh at her mother’s words, thinking longingly—not for the first time—of her life just a few years earlier, before her father’s shipping business had become so profitable. Her mother had never liked her hair or her complexion, but they had seemed to matter much less when the family was living among all the other merchants and businessmen. Now, there were so many more things that “would not do”.

And so, here Marianne was, clinging to her parasol as she tried to play tag with the other children. The parasol was unwieldy and dragged in the air, slowing her down, but it didn’t matter much, as the boys were primarily chasing each other and most of the girls had focused on fleeing to safety. Still, she watched as the boys leapt on each other with happy shouts and the girls gathered in groups, giggling together, and felt a little sad. She might not be losing the game, but it didn’t feel like she was winning, either. She was relieved when her mother called them to the terrace for cake and ice cream.

“Oh, Frederick, you must sit right here by Marianne and Thomas,” she heard her mother say in a sickly sweet voice. Marianne made a face. Frederick was her brother Thomas’s best friend, a relationship born from the fancy boarding school Thomas now attended. Marianne did not like Frederick at all. He was often rude and he either seemed to ignore her completely or stare at her as though he didn’t realize she could see him. He also liked to tease her. His excuse for this, when Thomas had stood up for her, was that he’d “heard that is what sisters were for”.

Marianne detested him.

But he was a lord’s son, the heir to an earldom, and therefore her parents were delighted that he had made friends with Thomas, and ecstatic that he’d agreed to come to her party.

“If the Earl of Alderwick is willing to send his son to our affairs, the man himself will not be far behind,” her father had crowed to her mother, beaming. “‘Tis surely a sign of how seriously we are being taken by the local nobility.”

No one had asked Marianne if she wished for Thomas’s irritating friend to attend her thirteenth birthday party. Her wishes on the matter were clearly unimportant.

Thankfully, Frederick sat himself on the other side of Thomas, and Marianne turned her attention to the trio of girls that took up the rest of the chairs at their table. They were new acquaintances, daughters of people her parents hoped to impress.

She had hoped she might join their conversation, but they all seemed to know each other, and she felt suddenly shy and like she would be intruding. So instead she sat quietly watching them. Her eyes were drawn to their beautiful gowns, each made in the latest styles in such lovely colors. Marianne didn’t recognize the fabric used to make the dress of the girl nearest to her—it was something light and airy, that floated around her body like it was alive. It was a pale blue material that matched the girl’s eyes and it shimmered ever so slightly in the summer sun. It made the girl look like she was some kind of fairy princess, and while Marianne knew that she could never look like that no matter what she wore, she still couldn’t help but long to have a gown that was so beautiful.

Marianne loved gowns. She was forever asking their own dressmaker all kinds of questions, as many as she could get away with without provoking her mother’s disapproving frown. It was not ladylike to chat with the dressmaker, but Marianne didn’t know how else she was to satisfy her curiosity. She was wondering to herself if it was the material that gave the gown its ethereal quality, or if it was the skill of the dressmaker, when she became aware that the other girls had fallen silent.

She looked up to find them all watching her, with a variety of facial expressions. The one in the middle, a short girl with shiny chestnut curls, had raised an eyebrow of annoyance, or perhaps disdain. The far girl, a pretty and plump girl with dark hair, seemed a bit confused as to why the conversation had lagged. Marianne glanced apprehensively at the blonde girl in the blue dress that she’d been admiring, and was relieved to see that she, at least, had a soft smile on her face.

“Did you have something to say, Miss Kettering?” she asked politely.

“Sorry,” Marianne mumbled, feeling her cheeks color with embarrassment. “I was only thinking your dress was pretty and wondering about the fabric.”

“The fabric?” The girl looked down at the dress in surprise, as if until now she had not considered anything about the dress besides wearing it. “I must admit I do not know. It is pretty, though, is it not?” She looked back up at Marianne and smiled again. Marianne returned the smile.

“It is the prettiest dress I have ever seen!” she agreed happily, and then, worried she’d offended the other two girls, quickly added, “Though of course you all look so beautiful. Almost as beautiful as the grown-up ladies I have seen drawings of, attending balls.”

The other girls murmured a few words of thanks at her compliments, but some awkwardness still hung in the air. The blonde girl scrunched her nose delicately, and finally spoke again.

“Do you think you shall like balls, Miss Kettering?” she asked.

“I cannot say for sure,” Marianne said honestly. “I have only just started dance lessons, so I do not yet know how good I shall be at it. But I do know I shall be happy if I can wear beautiful gowns like the ones I have seen!”

The curly-haired girl giggled, and Marianne got the impression she was being laughed at somehow.

“Gowns and dancing are just what little girls think balls are about,” the other girl said with a patronizing smile.

“Well, what do you say they are about then, Arabella, if you are so smart?” the blonde shot back. Marianne felt a warm wave of gratitude toward her.

“Everyone knows they are for finding husbands, Beatrice!” Arabella declared. Then she gave a self-satisfied grin. “Of course, I might not even have to go to balls to find a husband. My parents have already been speaking to the Duke of Lansing about his son. It is very likely we shall be betrothed in the next year.” She tossed her hair, making her perfect curls bounce a little.

“Betrothed?” Marianne asked, her curiosity overriding her growing dislike of the girl.

“Yes, betrothed to be married,” Arabella replied. “It means once we are of age he shall propose, and I shall accept, and we shall marry one another.”

Marianne blinked in surprise. She knew parents were often involved in arranging marriages for their children, but she had never heard of someone their age who was already engaged to someone.

“My parents have been talking of it for months now, as well,” the dark-haired girl said, her voice trembling a little. “I thought maybe my sister’s marriage would be enough to make them happy, but it seems like they expect me to make as good a match. I think they are hoping I’ll make a better one, honestly.” She said all this with a wince, like she was not as hopeful about her prospects as her parents.

Marianne sat back in her chair, amazed.

“I do not believe my parents have discussed my marriage prospects at all,” she said.

A snicker floated to her from across the table, and her head snapped in Frederick’s direction. He was smirking at her.

“That is because no one wants to marry a spotted hen,” he said, and mortification rushed through Marianne. She felt herself go pale and then turn bright red in quick succession. And the deeper his words sank, the more she felt another emotion bubble up—anger.

Just because I’m spotted and red-haired and not particularly pretty, doesn’t mean he should mock me for it.

Thomas gave his friend a frown and opened his mouth as if to object, but Marianne was already on her feet, fists balled up.

“Let me tell you something, Lord Halcombe,” she gritted out—but that was as far as she got. A hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, shoving her back down into her seat, and her mother’s voice was hissing in her ear.

“I thought I made it clear you were to act like a lady.”

Marianne sucked in a breath. The indignity of having her mother take Frederick’s side stung, even though it shouldn’t have surprised her.

“Come on, Hal,” Thomas said, jumping in before anyone could say more, “let’s go for a walk. I can show you the rest of the garden.” He stood and gestured for Frederick to follow him, and the other boy did, though not without one haughty glance back at Marianne.

Marianne swallowed, hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She knew Thomas was only helping to defuse the situation, but seeing him walk away with Frederick, hearing him call Frederick by that chummy abbreviation of his last name, made her feel like they were both in a club she hadn’t been invited to join.

“We shall discuss this later,” her mother muttered darkly to her before she swept off after the boys. She was no doubt hurrying to make sure Frederick hadn’t been offended that Marianne had dared to be hurt by his insult.

“A walk sounds nice, actually,” Arabella said, standing and jerking her head for the other girls to follow her. The dark-haired one stood immediately, but the blonde, Beatrice, stayed seated.

“Go ahead without me. I am going to sit with Miss Kettering for a bit,” she said, polite but firm. Arabella frowned but didn’t object. When they were gone Beatrice turned back to Marianne.

“That was very rude of him to say,” she said softly. At this unexpected show of kindness, Marianne couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. They started spilling silently down her cheeks.

“I am sorry, Miss Langley,” she said, her throat tight as she willed herself not to sob. “I don’t mean to make a scene. I should go inside, and you can join your friends.”

“Please, call me Beatrice,” the other girl said. “And you needn’t apologize.” She slipped her hand into Marianne’s and squeezed it tightly. Marianne squeezed back and managed a small smile.

“You know, my mother says that sometimes boys are mean to you because they are secretly sweet on you,” Beatrice said.

“No,” Marianne replied, more tears streaking down her face as she shook her head. “They are all so mean to me. They cannot all be in love with me.”

Chapter One

London, 1817
Ten years later

Marianne gazed out at the kaleidoscope of dancers twirling around the ballroom from her vantage point against the wall. Her eyes instinctively searched for Beatrice and she thought she saw a flash of her friend’s golden hair in the far corner. She would be dancing with her fiancé, no doubt, both of them enjoying this lavish ball being held in honor of their engagement. A hint of bitterness and more than a little sadness bubbled up and Marianne pushed it away. She willed herself to be happy for her friend, and nothing else.

Beatrice deserves this.

Marianne truly believed that. Her friend was kind and charming and fiercely devoted, and she deserved any and all happiness. It was just difficult to stand on the fringes and watch as Beatrice achieved the goal that Marianne’s parents had set for her—a brilliant match with a member of the nobility—and make it look almost easy. Meanwhile, Marianne struggled to get men of the ton to notice her at all, let alone think of proposing.

Without really thinking, she reached to tug at the top of her gloves, making sure they were up as high as they could go. They were thankfully long enough to nearly meet her sleeves, making her less self-conscious about the freckles scattered along her arms. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about the low cut of her neckline, or the freckles and other spots it revealed. Marianne’s mother had spent a long time debating with the dressmaker about balancing modesty with the fashions of the year, and the result was something that had not pleased Mrs. Kettering or the dressmaker—or Marianne herself, for that matter.

She glanced down at the gown, green gauze with embroidered gold flowers over a cream satin slip. It was pretty enough, and certainly in keeping with the recent style. The shipping business continued to thrive and her mother spared no expense to make sure their wardrobes kept up with the ever-shifting trends of the ton. And she knew that the colors were best suited for her hair, that the green would not clash too badly with the red, and the gold accents would help pick up the warmer undertones, making it seem almost brunette in the candlelit ballroom. Marianne had even gotten a few demure compliments on the gown from other women, as people had circulated the room making conversation.

And yet, the gown disappointed her. It was stylish and well-made, and nothing else. It lacked the spark that drew your eye to a truly magnificent gown, the sense that the person who made it had a vision they were longing to bring to life. It told no story, and inspired no awe. It merely did its requested job, to make her as acceptable to look at as possible.

Her mind wandered to the sketch she had done a few nights ago, a fantasy gown she’d drawn for her own amusement. If she’d had no spots to hide, no red hair to appease, if she’d been lovely and fair like Beatrice, this would have been the gown she’d requested from the dressmaker.

Structurally it did not stray too far from the dress she wore now—gauze over satin, an empire waist with a low neckline. But the details she’d added turned it into an entirely different gown. The slip would be periwinkle, nearly purple, giving the dress a richness that cream and white slips lacked. The skirt would be a bit longer and fuller, just to the point of impracticality, qualities that would have made it swirl satisfyingly when she danced. And the overlay would be shades of blue, with long draping sleeves caught at the elbows but falling freely over the shoulders, so that when she lifted her arms to dance, it would mimic the shimmering wings of a butterfly.

Marianne lost herself in the dream of that dress for a moment, smiling happily. Then she looked around the room, taking in all the ladies in their gowns. Were they all content with dressing this way, merely keeping to the trends and showing off their best features or downplaying their flaws? Or were there any others like her, who might long for something more daring and interesting? If she showed her designs to someone, would they be able to share her vision? Or would they simply laugh at her?

Marianne knew it was likely the latter. The reason things came into fashion, after all, was because everyone tended to follow the same direction. But she could not help but wonder if there might be one or two others who also hid their desire for something different.

“Marianne!”

The sound of Beatrice’s voice calling her pulled Marianne from her thoughts. Her friend was moving across the ballroom toward where Marianne and her mother were standing, practically skipping, with a bright smile on her face. She was dressed in an elegant pink gown, the color pretty but paling in comparison to the lovely blush on her cheeks. Despite her bitterness at their disparate circumstances, Marianne felt her heart warm at the sight of her friend’s obvious happiness. She was beaming with joy, and Marianne knew it was not simply because she had made such a good match. Her parents may be thrilled that their daughter’s marriage meant their family would properly join the gentry, but Marianne had seen the way Beatrice’s fiancé Arthur looked at her. He was besotted with her, and Beatrice with him.

Maybe I should show Beatrice my dress designs.

It wasn’t the first time Marianne had considered it. She had never been able to get up the courage to do so, though. She knew her friend would be kind, but Marianne was still afraid of her reaction. Her dress designs felt almost like an extension of herself, as if she was able to sketch her hopes and dreams into the lines and colors of the patterns. When she made her designs, she allowed herself to wish for things she knew she would never have.

Beatrice would be kind, yes, but she may not understand. Marianne couldn’t bear the thought of sharing something so precious and vulnerable, only to have her friend say something like “These are pretty” or “What a fun hobby for you!” Mundane praise that would reveal just exactly how little Beatrice truly understood her.

She had never shown any sketches to her brother for much the same reason. He had always supported her, but would he see how much of herself she had put into the designs? Or would he dismiss them as merely nice sketches?

No, best to keep them to myself.

Marianne pushed all those thoughts aside as Beatrice finally reached her, having been waylaid by more than one person offering their congratulations. She smiled at her friend.

“You look divinely happy.”

Beatrice returned her smile.

“Of course I am!” she replied, voice bubbly and light. “Tonight I get a party all for me, and all my favorite people are here! But come,” and she hooked her arm through Marianne’s, “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Marianne winced inwardly, but kept her smile in place. Beatrice was always introducing her to someone, seemingly unaware that the rest of the world did not match her own affection for such a pale, spotted, redheaded creature. She glanced to her mother, hoping perhaps she might object, but she just beamed at Beatrice and nodded to Marianne, indicating she approved. She was likely hoping it was a potential suitor.

“Have you thought about what type of gown you shall wear for your wedding?” Marianne asked as they wove around the groups of people chatting at the edge of the ballroom. Beatrice giggled.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask me! I am sure it was the first question that came into your mind after I told you about the engagement.”

Marianne grinned, pleased to be associated with beautiful gowns in Beatrice’s mind, even if she hadn’t told her friend about her secret designs.

“Well, I wanted to give you a moment to enjoy being engaged before you were whisked into the madness of planning for a wedding,” she teased.

“And goodness me, if it isn’t the maddest thing I’ve ever done! Yesterday my mother began obsessing over the china to be used at the wedding breakfast, and she showed me two plates that I swear were exactly the same. I could hardly tell her that, though, and so I had to just guess at which one I was meant to like best … But let me stop talking about myself for two seconds! Because here is the man I wanted you to meet. Baron Percival Harrow, permit me to introduce Miss Marianne Kettering, the young lady I was just telling you about.”

Marianne realized her friend’s intentions with a sinking stomach. Beatrice was not overbearing like her parents, but she did share their opinion that Marianne’s best path forward was marriage to a lord of some sort.

“The baron has land that lies right next to Lord Belmont’s,” Beatrice was saying, referring to Arthur by his proper title. “And he’s asked to have the honor of your next dance.”

Marianne glanced between Beatrice and Lord Harrow, feeling as though she could see the wheels turning in each of their minds. Beatrice was picturing a future where she and Marianne lived in neighboring baronies, both of them happily raising families and alternating visiting one another for tea every afternoon. Marianne liked to think such a future was possible, but even picturing it felt hollow to her.

Meanwhile, Lord Harrow was looking Marianne up and down, not even bothering to be subtle about it. He had blond hair and a pleasant enough face, though he looked to be a good deal older than her. But what really struck her were his eyes, and their cold assessment of her as they traveled up and down her body. His gaze lingered around her face and neck, though never looking her in the eyes. She knew he was staring at her freckles, likely regretting that he had let Beatrice talk him into dancing with her. He stared for so long she started to wonder if he was counting them.

She shivered and wished she had some wrap to cover herself up. She wanted to make an excuse and hurry away, but Beatrice was looking at her with eager expectation, clueless to Marianne’s internal torment. She hated to disappoint her friend, especially when the party tonight was in her honor.

She looked back to Lord Harrow and gave a shallow curtsey.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

He finally met her eyes, and forced his thin lips into a cursory smile.

“Yes, thank you for the introduction, Miss Langley,” he said. The musicians began to play again and he held out his hand to her, polite but cool. Marianne swallowed and took it, letting him lead her onto the dance floor.

Mercifully, he was a decent dancer. Marianne’s parents had paid handsomely to be sure she was taught to dance well, but it was a relief not to have to compensate for a partner’s lack of skill. Her parents had also made her take lessons in singing, harp and piano, as well as French, German, and Italian—fitting her with all the trappings of a lady, in hopes she would ensnare a lord.

“Who is your father, Miss Kettering?” Lord Harrow asked suddenly, breaking the awkward silence between them.

“Mr. Jonathan Kettering, my lord.”

“And his … line of work?” Marianne thought she detected a slight sneer in the word work, but decided to ignore it.

“He is a shipping merchant, my lord.”

“Profitable business, I suppose?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The room felt stuffy and Marianne suddenly wished to stop dancing and seek the cooler air near the windows.

“Many merchants have done quite well for themselves these days. The shipping markets are fickle, though. My own family’s wealth is in land, of course—much more stable. We have properties all over the country and in the colonies, too.”

Marianne blushed in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. She heard what the man was really saying—My family has plenty of money, and no need of yours. Please take your title-hunting elsewhere.

“That sounds like an impressive amount of holdings, my lord,” she murmured, and willed the musicians to finish the song quickly. You need not worry, my lord. I have no interest in your title if your company is the price I must pay. Still, she felt her cheeks flush a little. How is it still humiliating to be rejected by a man I do not even want?

Mercifully, the music was reaching its conclusion, and the dancers began to slow. Often couples would stay on the floor for another dance, but Marianne hoped Lord Harrow would not expect that. As she curtsied to him, she quickly thought of how she might dissuade him from it.

Before either of them could act, however, a man’s voice floated over her shoulder.

“I have come to claim the next dance. By your leave?” Something familiar about the voice raised the hairs on Marianne’s neck. Lord Harrow nodded so quickly she couldn’t help but feel the sting of rejection, even as relief also washed over her.

She turned to face her new partner but the hem of her dress got caught under her shoe. She wobbled and a strong hand caught her elbow to steady her.

“Easy there, Hen,” the voice murmured in her ear. “Wouldn’t do to fall on your face in the middle of the dance floor.”

Recognition flashed through Marianne and she pushed the hand away, looking up to glare at its owner—Frederick Halcombe, the very last man she wanted to see.

Chapter Two

It had honestly been a dreadfully dull evening for Frederick. Not that he’d expected much else—he had only come because Thomas had insisted on coming, and he hadn’t felt like spending the evening alone. His mother had turned her nose up when he mentioned it, throwing out barbs about the type of gentry that let their sons marry commoners who happened to have made a little money.

He’d ignored her comments, something he’d gotten used to since befriending Thomas in school. He knew his continued affiliation with the Ketterings vexed his mother, but he was otherwise an exemplary son, and on this matter, he refused to budge.

Plus, newly rich or not, the Langleys had served a delicious dinner and servants were now roaming the ballroom with expensive wine. Frederick was not such a snob that he couldn’t enjoy quality food and wine when it was given to him.

It was just the entertainment that was lacking. He sighed.

“You are making that face again,” Thomas said from the chair beside him, laughter in his voice.

“Which face?”

“The one that declares you are an earl, and earls are not accustomed to having to entertain themselves.”

“I entertain myself all the time!” Frederick objected, ignoring the fact that he’d just been thinking almost exactly that.

“I would never claim you do not. I am just telling you what your face says,” Thomas retorted, openly laughing at him now. Frederick picked up a bonbon from the table and tossed it at Thomas, who caught it neatly and cheerfully popped it into his mouth. Frederick rolled his eyes and let his gaze drift back to the dance floor, trying not to think about what expression his face was making.

A flash of red hair amidst the sea of blondes and brunettes caught his eye, and he sat up a little straighter to follow it. Thomas had mentioned his sister Marianne would be here, but they’d come separately, as Marianne was friends with the engaged couple and had arrived early. Frederick had caught glimpses of her throughout the night, almost always up against some wall, playing the part of a shy wallflower even though Frederick knew she was fiery enough when provoked.

Now his eyes tracked her, moving around the edge of the ballroom with Miss Langley. They approached some lord whose title and name were too insignificant for Frederick to remember. He watched as Marianne fidgeted with her gloves while the man looked her over—as if he was in the position to be choosy, with his meager holdings—and finally offered her his hand to dance. Frederick leaned back, lazily keeping them in his sight as they began to move around the dance floor.

The lord was decent enough at dancing, though not a proper match to Marianne, whom Frederick begrudgingly had to admit was an accomplished and graceful dancer. Even from this distance, Frederick could tell the man kept staring at Marianne’s spots—that is, when he wasn’t staring at other women. He was making no secret of how little he seemed to be enjoying her company. Frederick frowned to himself.

Clearly he thinks she’s some meek little shrinking violet.

Then Frederick grinned. Just because this stuffy little man was wasting a chance to tease Marianne, didn’t mean that Frederick had to do the same.

He stood up, and Thomas eyed him.

“Where are you going?”

“Why, to dance of course,” he replied with mock indignation. “Did you not just accuse me of being unable to entertain myself? I must defend my good name.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I am not sure I believe dancing qualifies as entertaining oneself, given it generally requires a partner. Unless you intend to stand up on your own?”

Frederick grinned mischievously.

“A man with a face as handsome as mine does not dance alone, my fine fellow.”

“Well then, who shall be the lucky recipient of your affections, Lord Alderwick?”

Frederick only winked at Thomas.

“You shall see,” he said, and strode off through the dancing couples.

Marianne’s back was to him when he caught up with them. When he proposed to take the next dance, the look of relief on the lord’s face rankled Frederick for some reason. He considered commenting on it, but Marianne seemed to stumble as she turned to face him, and he focused on steadying her rather than chasing that thought.

“Easy there, Hen,” he teased. “Wouldn’t do to fall on your face in the middle of the dance floor.”

He felt her stiffen, and she suddenly shoved his hand off her arm and whirled to face him.

“Ah, there you go!” he said jovially. “That look of anger on your face is infinitely more interesting than the placid, barely concealed boredom that was there a minute ago.”

“Do not call me Hen,” she hissed, blue-gray eyes flashing.

“Of course. Forgive me, Miss Kettering. Or maybe you prefer a different title, that of lady, perhaps?” He gestured in the direction of the departed lord while smoothly sweeping her up to join the dance. She was rigid in his arms but let him steer them around the dance floor. He smirked, knowing she was caught so long as the dance continued, too well mannered to make a scene.

She set her mouth in a grim line and refused to meet his eyes. He decided that meant he had not yet needled her enough.

“Is that why you are so cross with me? Upset I interrupted your scheme to seduce and marry that dull, petty lord I just scared off?”

She shot him a dark look and he sensed he’d struck a nerve.

“Of course, I forgot,” she snapped at him. “You are superior to everyone, even other lords.”

He shrugged.

“I am aware of my standing in the world, yes. But I’ve met him a few times, and he would be dull and petty even if he were the king of England. Admit it, I am much more amusing.”

He could have sworn that she barely managed not to roll her eyes.

“You do not amuse me, and you well know it, Lord Alderwick.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head as though her answer pained him. She looked away, keeping her head in proper form but refusing to meet his eyes. She obviously intended to tolerate him for the length of the dance and then escape. He let her dance in silence for a minute or so, but then it was too tempting to tease her again. He was finally enjoying the evening.

“Have you and Thomas any idea how you ended up with red hair? I hear it is more prevalent in Ireland. Perhaps you could use one of your father’s ships to go and search for a husband there.”

He meant only to rib her some more, but she jerked to a stop and pulled her hands out of his. The couple beside them nearly stumbled into them, giving them a curious glance as they stepped around them. Marianne had paled, making her spots stand out more than usual. Her blue-gray eyes had gone dark and he thought idly that like this, they reminded him of stormy seas.

“Forgive me, Lord Alderwick. I am afraid I suddenly feel unwell. Will you please escort me off the floor?”

Frederick blinked. A bit stunned, he held out his arm and walked them off the floor. Once they were clear of the dancers, she dropped his arm like it repulsed her to touch him. She hurried away from him toward her mother, leaving him staring after her like a fool.

What the devil was that about?

He turned the incident over in him mind but couldn’t find any clues as to what had set her off. This was how they always interacted—he teased her, and she snapped back at him. It was decidedly more fun for him than the usual simpering conversations he had with ladies of the ton.

Does she think she’s too fine for that sort of thing now that she’s receiving attention from other gentlemen?

He flicked his eyes toward the lord she’d been dancing with, feeling irritated with the whole affair. Ever since he’d inherited his father’s title nearly a decade ago, society functions had become nothing but a parade of expectations. Conversing with Thomas and winding up Marianne were the only things he looked forward to at these events.

He stalked back to where he had left Thomas and was annoyed to see his friend was sporting a smirk.

“I have repeatedly told you that you should leave Marianne alone. It seems she had less patience than usual for you tonight.”

“She is being unreasonable. I said nothing I have not said a thousand times before,” Frederick replied crossly as he threw himself into a chair. Even as he said it, however, he wondered if he might be wrong. Had he unintentionally crossed some line? Yet he could think of nothing particularly egregious in his words.

“Perhaps she is simply tired of it,” Thomas said, and there was a slight edge in his voice. He usually did not interfere between Frederick and Marianne, having realized years ago there was no hope for their relationship. He did sometimes still chastise Frederick privately, though, insisting that Marianne was likely secretly hurt by some of Frederick’s teasing.

Frederick crossed his arms and slouched in his chair, irritation simmering under his skin. If his mother had been in attendance, she would have shot him a look that meant Sit up, you are the Earl of Alderwick, not some schoolboy.

The trouble was, he’d been the earl since he was a schoolboy, and he was tired of it.

He took another drink of his wine and sat up slightly. Thomas had started talking about something else, no doubt hoping to distract him. The interaction with Marianne refused to fade, though, and it was the best he could do to nod from time to time.

In the end, he left earlier than he’d planned, making the excuse to Thomas that the wine had given him a headache. He had not seen Marianne for the rest of the night, and he felt slighted that she hadn’t even sought him out to apologize for abruptly ending their dance.

And for running away like a coward instead of fighting back like she usually does. As soon as the words crossed his mind, Frederick felt childish for thinking them. But it did bother him that his reliable sparring partner had deserted him.

Because he had left so early, he found his mother was still awake and sitting by the fire in the sitting room. He dropped a kiss on her head and took the seat opposite her.

“Did you have a nice time?” she asked, her tone airy but a little patronizing, as though she doubted it would have been possible that he actually did have a nice time.

“It was a passable evening,” he replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask many more questions.

“And was it a good turn out?”

He knew that was her way of asking if anyone important had been there.

“Yes, quite a few families we know were there. Everyone seems very happy for Lord Belmont and his intended.”

His mother sniffed disdainfully, which was unnecessary, as she’d already made her opinions on the matter very clear. She picked up her teacup, took a dainty sip, and then set it back onto its saucer without making a sound.

“I do hope you danced with someone besides that Kettering girl. It is well past time you began seriously considering your prospects.”

Frederick had to contain a bitter laugh. There was no way his mother could have known she was poking a sore spot, and he had no intention of telling her.

“I danced very little. You know I prefer to spend time speaking with the other gentlemen.”

His mother gave a faint hum that somehow managed to convey her disapproval of his continued insistence at avoiding marriage, as well as remind him that she knew very well the friend he spent the most time with was not, in fact, a gentleman. He decided to be grateful that she was not picking a fight about it, and moved the conversation toward something new.

“Lord Montford was there. He inquired after your health.”

“He has always been very kind to us, especially after your father’s death. And Lady Georgiana Montford, was she there?”

Frederick internally winced that he hadn’t seen that coming. Lady Montford was one of the ladies his mother often insisted would make a good wife.

“I did not see her, but likely she was,” he replied.

“Well, I suppose if the Montfords were there, then it was not such a useless affair. I am tired of all these nouveau riche cluttering the season with their balls full of commoners. There is no point in attending such things, as one cannot possibly hope to find a match.”

She gave him a sidelong glance before continuing.

“I am glad you spoke with Lord Montford, at least.”

“As I said, it was a passable evening.” He shrugged, as if the quality of the evening had not mattered much to him, anyway. And truth be told, it had not.

Except for Marianne snubbing me.

He sighed and stood up, rolling his shoulders and willing himself to let the moment go.

“I shall retire for the evening, Mother, if there’s nothing else you need?”

“No dear, thank you.”

He gave her a quick kiss goodnight and headed off to his bedroom. Once he had reached that blissful solitude, he tossed off his jacket and waistcoat and paced around the room.

“Why can I not cease thinking about this?” he ranted aloud to no one.

He threw himself onto the bed and stopped resisting, letting his mind replay the scene again. The satisfaction of seeing the fire spark in her eyes. The angry glare she’d given him and the way she’d scolded him for calling her “Hen”. How she’d been clearly vexed but still let him lead her through the dance, tension crackling between them. The way she’d sniped at him for being superior, and he’d been sure they were about to launch into one of their familiar antagonistic conversations, half-banter, half-argument.

And then the change, her face going pale, her eyes going dark. How she’d shut down, refusing to play the game.

Did I do something wrong? Something I’ve not done before?

He thought it over again, and again. But no, there was nothing.

It must have been her. She must have been in a foul temper from dancing with Lord What-Have-You.

He nodded to himself, but that answer still didn’t satisfy him. He sat up and his eyes fell on his desk, where a stack of unfinished correspondence lay.

An idea occurred to him.

Why sit here and mope when I can take action? One good prank is all it will take to get us back to our usual belligerent, satisfying skirmishes.

He hopped off the bed and went over to the desk, pulling out ink and a fresh sheet of paper. After giving it some careful thought, he set pen to paper and began to write.