Destined to be a Duchess (Preview)

Chapter One

London, August 1815

“It’s simply not possible,” Marianne murmured, shaking her head in disbelief. “Please, read the letter again. There has to be something we’ve missed.”

“I can read it until we both go deaf, child. It’s not going to change what it says. But, as you wish.” Sarah gave a matronly sigh. “From Catherine Colline, Duchess of Westden. To the attention of Miss Marianne Buller …” 

Marianne blinked at Sarah from across the creaking wooden table. The older woman recited the words Marianne had read a hundred times since the letter had arrived the day before. She had tried to smooth out the creases in the paper before handing it to Sarah for inspection, now squinting at the elegant script through the tarnished parchment as Sarah held it up to her old, tired eyes. 

What Marianne presumed to be the Westden crest—if by some miracle any of this was even real—stared back at her through the letter. A deep crease cut the legs of the horse rearing proudly atop a shield. Marianne related to that poor horse, feeling like someone’s carelessness had also pulled the rug from under her feet. 

“Darling Marianne,” Sarah read aloud. “My name will not be one you recognize, but yours is known to me with the greatest affection. For as long as you have lived, I have delighted in reading about you in letters sent to me by your mother—our dearest, departed Anne …”

A lump formed in Marianne’s throat. It didn’t matter how many times someone said that her mother was dead. The news refused to sink in. Anne had only been gone for a month, and it had been one misery after the next since she had been buried in the Lambeth churchyard. Her mother’s consumption hadn’t come cheap, and as it turned out, her death hadn’t either. It had cost a small fortune just to bury her with some dignity. 

That was the only acceptable end for a woman as well-liked as Anne Buller. She had been fiercely loved by all their neighbours—like Sarah, the octogenarian who had lived next door to the Buller girls, as they were known, for as long as Marianne had lived. Everyone had chipped in to cover funeral costs, but it had still left Marianne destitute. She had been hosting grievers in their little tailoring shop for the last month. Everyone had come with their questions. Chief of all: What the devil was Marianne going to do now?

As if Marianne had a clue. She was twenty-one, with no husband and no children. Despite being a talented seamstress, she couldn’t afford to run her mother’s business alone. In the small shop below their apartment, named Buller’s Stitch, Marianne had worked under Anne since she had been old enough to tell the difference between satin and taffeta. And then it had taken years for her to be trusted with a garment, having accumulated enough knowledge at nine years old not to ruin either fabric with a clumsy stitch. 

From that point on, she and her mother had performed alterations for all sorts of gentlewomen and their daughters over the years. They had scraped by together off their own backs like they always had. 

But none of their customers had been duchesses, not least of all, duchesses who claimed to have known Marianne’s now-dead mother in another life. 

Sarah read on. “Long before your birth, Anne and I became acquainted through a most curious twist of fate. She was my greatest and most secret friend, and I, your greatest and most secret admirer. I have experienced her passing in necessary privacy until now, and it has been a trial beyond compare …”

Sarah paused, glancing at Marianne over the top of the letter. Her fine white hair danced in the gentle breeze from the open window behind her. Sarah’s apartment had always been a comfort to Marianne. Even now.

“We could send this to the fire and think no more of it,” Sarah suggested, waving the fragile parchment in the air. “We’ve no guarantee this isn’t one of the village boys trying to torment you or have you sending them money.”

“It’s not a prank,” Marianne murmured, collapsing on the table. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, squeezing her eyes shut. “I ran after the mail coach when the letter slipped under the door, thinking the same thing.” She sighed. “It’s real. The delivery was paid for in full from Norwich. It has to be from that duchess. I just don’t understand why.”

Sarah’s lips formed a hard line. She had been a governess until five years ago, and Marianne could all too easily imagine her punishing a young nobleman’s daughter with that same hard look. She continued reading regardless.

“I extend to you both my deepest sympathies and an invitation to Moorhaven Manor in Norfolk, where I currently reside. We must discuss much—many truths that have remained hidden from you for too long. It is with Anne’s blessing that I bid you to me, sweet Marianne. Enclosed, you will find a letter penned by her. I hope it will provide sufficient evidence for these claims that could otherwise seem wild and unfathomable …”

“It’s at home,” Marianne explained, raising her head and waving vaguely toward her house. “And yes, before you ask, I checked the handwriting to confirm Mama had written it. It was definitely her. There was nothing important in the other letter. She’d composed it when I was eleven, with Mama telling the duchess how I was doing and then asking about the duchess’ recent trip to Brittany.” She scoffed. “Keep going. We’re almost at the most important part.”

“If you wish to accept my offer, I will have a vehicle sent to your home in London in the morning of Friday the 5th of August. You only need to let the driver know your decision. He will leave gracefully if you choose to remain where you are—though I implore you to take a chance on yourself, Marianne, and to venture to Norfolk to discover who you really are and who you can become.”

With the letter concluded Sarah laid it down in the space between them. She reached over to serve Marianne another cup of water, pushing it into her hand. 

“Mama never mentioned—”

“No. She never said anything about a duchess,” Sarah chided as though Marianne had been a fool to ask. “If she had, I wouldn’t have hidden it from you.” She steepled her fingers in front of her mouth, gazing absently into the space behind Marianne. “Our Anne in Norfolk … friends with a duchess … I suppose she could have worked as a lady’s maid. But what’s all that about, you and those secrets?”

“Why are you asking me?” Marianne corrected her tone. It wasn’t Sarah’s fault this was happening. She straightened in her seat, grabbed the letter, and scowled. “I’m sorry … This is the last thing I expected my mother to leave behind for me. Most people get heirlooms or debt. And I get this bloody mystery.”

“What do you want to do, Marianne?” Sarah asked, looking at her gravely.

“In an ideal world, I would resurrect my mother and continue as we were.” She swallowed hard, berating herself for being so childish. “I’d like to go home and keep running the shop, but I can’t. Mother’s illness cost us everything. I could try and find work around here, and yet if I take too long or don’t find anything …”

She couldn’t even bring herself to say the rest out loud. It would be the rookeries for her. The slums welcomed all sorts of unfortunate souls. Marianne hated that people could be allowed to live in such squalor. She and her mother had taken food there sometimes. It was a drop in the bucket of what needed to be done. 

She had never thought the day would come when she might actually end up there herself. 

“You’re a clever girl, Marianne.” Sarah nodded at her, a warning look in her eye. “I’ve tutored all sorts of young ladies. And not one of them has been as bright and brave as you. Now, you know I’d never let you go homeless or starve. You’ll always have a home with me here …”

Hope bloomed in Marianne’s chest until Sarah’s hands came down hard on hers, where they clutched the cup of water. 

“So go to Norfolk and meet this bloody duchess. Figure out what Anne was hiding.” It was not a suggestion but an order. “You will never forgive yourself if you don’t …”

***

Frowning, Marianne peered out the window that Friday morning, looking down at the busy cobbled street outside. People strolled by either on errands or on walks. Without fail, every passerby stopped to ogle the lavish carriage parked in front of Buller’s Stitch. 

A vehicle like that was a rare site in Lambeth town. The sun beat off the carriage’s roof, gleaming like a swathe of black satin. A footman appeared beneath the doorway outside, carrying Marianne’s hope chest. He had been up and down the stairs for the last thirty minutes, transporting her effects when he wasn’t helping her pack. The driver shouted something at the footman before returning to his team of white horses. Another woman lingered by the shop’s entrance, inspecting the beds of her nails. The group had arrived in Lambeth an hour ago, at the exact time and date that the Duchess of Westden had said they would in her letter.

Everything about that morning felt unreal. Marianne hadn’t planned to leave London in her wildest dreams. Women like her didn’t rub shoulders with peers and certainly didn’t flounce around their manor houses. She had expected to feel excited, or afraid, or perhaps some mix of both, upon the carriage’s arrival. But it was hard to feel much of anything with everything changing so quickly. 

Marianne’s eyes were unfocused for only a second, and she was momentarily startled by her reflection. It might as well have been Anne’s ghost looking back at her. Marianne’s dark blonde hair was the same shade her mother’s had been, currently worn loose around a face gaunter than she remembered. Everything about Marianne looked ghostly pale in the glass—except for her green eyes, which had been nothing like the dark brown eyes of her mother. The origin of their colour had always been a mystery to her, having probably been inherited from her wastrel father. 

The less that was thought about him, the better.

Distracted by her reflection, Marianne failed to notice the footman slip back inside the house. He rapped on the door behind her, causing Marianne to swivel in her window seat. Her heart clenched at the sight of their empty apartment. Everything not bolted down had been sold or packed into Marianne’s travelling trunks, which Sarah and her son had helped with. Dust floated in the streams of sunlight falling in through the windows. Despite the wallpaper peeling at the corners and the vinegary, fishy smell rising from the Thames nearby, Marianne would miss Lambeth and their shop. This was her life, every familiar, stale inch of it.

“Are we ready to depart, Miss Buller?” the footman asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. It was a warm summer’s day. “The driver expects us to arrive in Norwich before dark, given that we leave within the hour.”

She drew in a fortifying breath and folded the duchess’ letter. “Yes, of course. I’ll be down in just a moment. Thank you,” she replied, relaxing once he disappeared again without a word. Left alone, she murmured, “I just need to say goodbye …”

Marianne reached into her pocket to retrieve her hair ribbon, quickly weaving her hair into a long braid down her back. She pinned it into a bun at the nape of her neck with her mother’s old silver hairpin. A teal butterfly decorated the top, rising proudly out of her chignon. She then picked up the key to the apartment door and stroked it with a doleful smile. The key clinked against the wall as she hung it on the hook beside the door. Her coat had been strewn over a nearby counter, and Marianne swept it over her shoulders before taking one long final look at her mother’s apartment. 

“Goodbye,” she whispered at the empty room, raising her hand lamely in a wave. 

The narrow staircase groaned under her weight as she rushed downstairs. She couldn’t bring herself to look into the now-empty shop as she arrived in the lobby. Men hired by the landlord had come earlier that week to clear out the shop floor, taking the remaining wares to auction. They had fetched a decent price—just enough to cover a few months’ rent somewhere else in case the duchess’ invitation turned out to be a dead end. 

Pushing open the front door, Marianne exited Buller’s Stitch for good. Her eyes barely had time to adjust to the light before someone appeared before her. It was the woman she had seen waiting by the driver. Given how she was dressed, Marianne guessed she was an attendant employed by the duchess. 

“I take it that you’re Miss Buller?” the woman said, inspecting Marianne from head to toe shrewdly. Her pinched face was framed on either side by ringlets of chestnut-coloured hair. She looked to be in her thirties, at least ten years older than Marianne. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’m glad to see that you agreed to join us.”

Marianne nodded, ignoring the woman’s disapproving tone. She wasn’t in the mood for a fight. She jolted as the footman locked the boot of the carriage. “You’ll have to forgive me. Until you arrived, I wasn’t convinced you were going to show up at all.” She peered into the empty carriage. “Is all this for me? Will we be travelling alone?”

The woman furrowed her brow, stepping aside as the driver came around to open the door for Marianne. “You’re more than welcome to hop atop the nearest coach if you’d prefer some company.” She laughed at her own joke. “Mr Plym will be driving us today. I shall be seated with you inside.” With a flick of her wrist, she gestured to Marianne inside the carriage like a disobedient dog. “My name is Miss Frida Barclay. I have been tasked by Her Grace to ensure that your trip is as comfortable as possible. Now, shall we?”

Ducking into the carriage, Marianne paused long enough to gaze lovingly at the brick face of her old home. The wrought iron sign denoting Buller’s Stitch swayed gently in the breeze, waving back at her. 

This could be a good thing, Marianne thought, forcing down her rising anxiety, so long as I play my cards right. I must know what secrets my mother was hiding. The duchess alone holds the key to the past and perhaps the future.

Chapter Two

When asked, Miss Barclay estimated it would take six hours to reach Moorhaven Manor. For the first four hours of their trip, the woman barely said a word to Marianne. She had plowed through half a novel during that time, completely expressionless while she read. Marianne had tried to read the name on the spine, albeit in vain. The title had been written in what she guessed was French. Marianne had a decent grip on the English language—her mother had encouraged her to read as much as was possible, even though their library counted a grand total of five books—but French was out of the question. 

She spent some time contemplating the woman’s attire. Marianne knew a quality garment when she saw one, and Miss Barclay’s outfit was exceptionally well-made. There was nothing frilly about her frock, comprised of dark red cotton, but the stitching was immaculate. The raised buttons were made of bronze, the same metal used for her floral earrings and a band of similarly red fabric decorated Miss Barclay’s bonnet. If this was how a lady’s maid dressed at Moorhaven Manor, Marianne could only imagine the sort of luxury that the duchess herself enjoyed. By comparison, Marianne felt like she was wearing a potato sack. She thumbed the puce-coloured linen of her own gown, inspecting the pleats just below the waistline for errant threads.

“Her Grace mentioned that you were a seamstress,” Miss Barclay suddenly declared, spooking Marianne. She wore a tight smile, having closed her book halfway. “It must be highly fulfilling to make one’s own clothes.”

“Yes, I am. And yes, it is. But I can’t take credit for this dress. My mother made it. It’s years old now. My figure hasn’t changed much since I was young.” Marianne smiled. She was grateful for the chance to talk, even though her mouth felt like cotton after so long in silence. “She chose the colour because she thought it intensified the green in my eyes. That was her specialty. She always considered a woman’s colouring when selecting the fabrics for their clothes, which made a world of difference.”

Miss Barclay nodded. She initially returned to her reading before closing the book with a loud snap. Her eyes lit up with curiosity. “What colour would you suggest for me?”

“Not red,” Marianne let slip. She quickly sought to correct herself. “That’s not to say you don’t look lovely in your current attire. You do, Miss Barclay. I think you would look lovely in anything.” She chewed her lip, avoiding the woman’s horrified gaze. “But if I were choosing fabrics for you, I’d first consider the softness of your hair and eyes.” They were a dull blue, like an indecisive sky. “Something like a sage green or a pale mauve would look wonderful against your skin.”

“I shall keep that in mind when next I visit my modiste.” After a moment, Miss Barclay smiled. For the first time that day, the expression seemed genuine. Perhaps she had liked Marianne’s honesty. “I expect you and Her Grace will have much to discuss. She adores fashion and always has. It is part of my job to advise her on her outfits, and we can spend entire afternoons discussing cuts and colours. I expect you know twice as much about tailoring than I do.”

So, Miss Barclay was a lady’s maid. Marianne shrugged one-shouldered. “We all have our talents.” She motioned towards Miss Barclay’s book. “I certainly can’t read French.”

“For now.” Miss Barclay’s smile twisted mischievously. “Should you decide to remain at Moorhaven Manor, Her Grace will likely seek to rectify that.”

“Is that so?” Marianne felt her chest constrict. She hadn’t spent any time considering what the duchess would ask of her or how long she would stay. “The duchess wrote nothing about that in her letter.”

“I cannot claim to know Her Grace’s most intimate thoughts, of course. Whatever conditions come with the stay are far beyond my knowledge.” Miss Barclay’s tone indicated that she knew more than she was letting on. “There will be rules for you to follow, most naturally. If you feel any gaps in your understanding of etiquette, you may ask me to teach you what I can before we arrive.”

Marianne smiled sheepishly. She had learned a few things through Sarah, newspapers, and chatter between the young aristocratic ladies who had come into their shop, but definitely not enough to impress a duchess.

“I fear we’d need more than a few hours to cover everything I don’t know about proper etiquette. I haven’t spent a tremendous amount of time with … aristocrats.” She whispered the word like it was blasphemy, not knowing whether even it was poor form to call the rich what they were. “What should I say when I meet the duchess?”

“You should greet her most formally, with a curtsy.” Miss Barclay couldn’t keep the surprise—or panic—out of her voice. “Miss Buller, you must know how to curtsy.”

“Erm …” Marianne looked heavenward, thinking. “I have a … vague idea.” 

“In the same way one has a vague idea of swimming until they are thrown into the water and drown, I imagine …” Miss Barclay widened her eyes, leaning forward. “When next we stop to stretch our legs, I will show you. For your own sake, you must learn now. Her Grace is a well-tempered woman who may find your unintentional churlishness endearing. His Grace, however, will not suffer such disrespect.”

“His Grace?” Marianne reeled back, sinking into the back of the bench. “I had no idea that the duchess had a husband.”

“Well, yes, she was married.” Miss Barclay winced, making Marianne feel like a perfect idiot. “But her husband passed away three months ago. I was referring to her son, Anthony, the Duke of Westden.”

She may as well have been speaking French. “I didn’t know she had a son either.”

“Her Grace,” Miss Barclay corrected, losing her patience. “When referring to the dowager duchess, you must say Her Grace. It is impolite to say she in that manner.” She shook her head. “The duke has been abroad for the last two years. He is an artist and left on a cultural tour when he reached adulthood. He is returning to England as we speak following the death of his father—may His Grace rest in peace. It’s estimated that he should arrive in the next few days. That will give you plenty of time to brush up on your manners before you meet him.”

“This is all quite overwhelming.” Marianne pressed her fingers to her temples. “When I accepted Her Grace’s offer, I hadn’t considered what it all meant. Honestly, I thought she’d be keeping me in the stables with the horses—if she kept me at all.”

“There will be no need for that,” Miss Barclay replied. Marianne could hear the unspoken ‘yet’ in the proceeding silence. “My, my … You really are out of your depth, aren’t you? Do try not to worry. From what little I understand of this ordeal, Her Grace loved your mother dearly, and now she wishes to help you in turn. I should say nothing more than that. She will explain everything to you once we arrive in Norwich.”

Marianne forced a smile, immediately dropping it when Miss Barclay opened her book again. Bile tickled the back of her throat, and she turned towards the window, hoping the view would distract her from being sick all over Miss Barclay’s pretty crimson slippers. 

The question that had plagued her since the letter’s arrival surged into her mind. How could her mother have been friends with the Duchess of Westden, and Marianne had never known about it? Marianne recalled her childhood, hoping to find clues in her memories. But nothing about her childhood had been out of the ordinary. Her mind flashed with images. Her mother, smiling at beautiful debutantes as she took their measurements. Her mother, grinning as she wrapped a young Marianne in leftover chiffon. Her mother, doing everything she could from Marianne’s earliest memory to ensure they were safe and happy.

Anne Buller had been many things, but she had never been a liar. If the duchess’ story were true, Anne must have had a good reason to keep the truth from Marianne. 

She set aside the thought for now, returning to the window. The view beyond the carriage was a far cry from Lambeth town. Fields of wheat stretched out for miles, rolling uninterrupted towards the horizon. The sky was a sheet of heavy blue. The carriage had passed through Newmarket twenty minutes ago, continuing down the toll road towards Thetford—according to Miss Barclay. 

Marianne knew nothing about Norfolk, least of all whether all the roads in the area were as narrow, uneven, and empty as the ones they had travelled so far. 

Just as she thought it, the carriage drove over a rut in the road. The entire carriage careened, making an ungodly sound as Marianne’s trunks jostled in the storage dock beneath them. Her hands darted out, seeking purchase wherever they could, while her stomach flipped. Miss Barclay’s book went flying from her lap, falling into the footwell. The carriage continued bumpily for a few metres until the vehicle stopped. 

“This is just our luck,” Miss Barclay groused. She picked up her book and put it beside her, then swung open the carriage door, letting in a burst of fresh air. “What happened?” she cried to the driver. 

Letting her arms fall to her side, Marianne craned her neck to look at the footman through the window. He had descended his perch and was circling the carriage. Marianne knew nothing about carriages—she had walked almost everywhere in London—but she guessed something had to be broken. 

When Miss Barclay exited the carriage, Marianne decided to follow. Her boots hit the road hard, and she felt her shoulders slump in relief to be on solid ground again. It was the first time she had ever been in the countryside. The air was warm and humid against her skin, and she wished she could take off her bonnet and shoes and relish a moment in the sunlight, though she doubted Miss Barclay would have approved.

Placing her hands on her hips, she left Mr Plym at the mercy of Miss Barclay, joining the footman on the other side of the vehicle. He had dropped into a crouch, inspecting the spokes of one of the back wheels. 

“Blasted thing,” he groaned, sticking his hand through the wheel to fiddle with something beneath the carriage. “I can’t even reach the … Oh, bugger.”

“I’m assuming this doesn’t usually happen.” Marianne peered over his shoulder, ready to roll up her sleeves and get to work. “My hands are smaller than yours. Perhaps if I try—”

Before she could finish her question, Miss Barclay shouted at her from across the carriage. “Miss Buller, get out of the road and come back here this instant!”

With an apologetic smile at the footman, Marianne returned to Miss Barclay. The woman had gone red in the face, pinching the bridge of her nose as she continued to assault the driver. Marianne settled beneath the shade of one of the tall hedges lining the road, pretending not to listen.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Either you or James will have to walk the road up to Thetford and find someone to help.” Miss Barclay pointed towards the horizon. “There must be a whole horde of farmers in the area willing to assist us. You just need to find one, Plym. Now. Go now.” 

Mr Plym said nothing, stomping past them to announce the news to the footman. Miss Barclay turned to Marianne, sighing. 

“He believes something came loose beneath the left back wheel, but he doesn’t have the proper equipment to inspect the damage, let alone fix it.” She threw her hands in the air in defeat. “We have six hours until sundown. Her Grace will be worried sick if we do not return before then.”

Marianne placed a hand on Miss Barclay’s shoulder, and the woman looked up at her in shock. 

“Everything will be fine,” she assured her, not really believing it herself but just wanting to help Miss Barclay feel better. “If they fail to find help, it will only be a matter of time before a kind soul drives by and stops to lend us a hand.”

“And if our saviour reveals himself to be a highwayman?” Miss Barclay asked, rolling her eyes. “How do you propose we handle that? These roads aren’t safe, Miss Buller.”

Marianne glanced towards the horses. They looked no worse for wear despite the accident. “We could take the horses and ride ourselves to safety,” she joked.

“Oh, what a marvellous plan,” Miss Barclay replied sardonically. “Except I don’t know the first thing about riding, and I doubt you do either.”

“It can’t be that difficult.” When Miss Barclay finally smiled, so did Marianne. “We simply get on the horse and go. With any luck, we’ll ride so poorly that the highwayman takes pity on us—or laughs so hard that he falls off his own horse in his pursuit.”

Miss Barclay tutted, obviously trying to stifle a laugh. She stepped around Marianne to get a better look at the road. Marianne followed her, squinting down the lane towards Thetford. If nothing else, it was a wonderful day. Birdsong filled the air all around them. The chorus from nearby chaffinches was so loud that Marianne almost missed the sound of horses coming from the opposite direction.

The footman noticed first. He sprang into a stand, knocking his shoulder against the bottom of the carriage on his way up and cursing in a way that made Miss Barclay’s face turn red again. 

“Carriage coming!” 

By that point, the driver had returned to his team. He puffed out his cheeks and adjusted his hat, joining the footman at the back of the carriage to wave down the approaching vehicle. 

The horses leading the charge weren’t nearly as impressive as Mr Plym’s team. The carriage looked well-made, though it was unmarked, and it wasn’t making any grating or creaking noises like their own carriage had been. It slowed to a stop behind Mr Plym’s vehicle, parking a few inches shy of the ditch. The new driver stood up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He was a young man who, thankfully, didn’t look much like a highwayman. 

“We’ll let the men handle this,” Miss Barclay whispered beside Marianne. She hadn’t even noticed her double back. Her hand slipped through Marianne’s elbow, holding her close. “It looks like you were right.”

The young driver hopped down from his carriage to approach Mr Plym and James. He scratched his chin as James gestured towards the guilty wheel, explaining what had happened. 

Marianne watched quietly from a distance. She and Miss Buller were standing too far away to make out much from their conversation. At least the accident had made her forget all about how unequipped she was to meet the duchess, and that was to say nothing of meeting her son. If Marianne knew anything about aristocrats—and frankly, she did not—the men were pompous, cruel, and lazy. It stood to reason that the duke would be, too. 

Something flitted in the corner of her eye. The door to the newly arrived carriage had swung open. A man was leaning out of the vehicle to see what was happening. It was difficult to make out much of him in the strong sunlight. From what little Marianne could see of his body, he looked tall and thin, likely young and confident, given how he held himself. He raked a hand through his tousled dark hair as he approached, marching confidently towards the men inspecting the wheel. 

The sun shifted behind him as he walked, revealing more of his appearance to Marianne. He was absurdly handsome. Just looking at him made her feel weak in the knees. His nose was slightly aquiline, and his face was narrow in a way that complemented the rest of his features. When he slipped off his jacket and cast it over his shoulder, Marianne saw golden skin around his wrist and neck. 

He obviously doesn’t work the fields, she thought, observing him with bated breath, not with clothes as fine as those, yet it’s obvious that he’s spent his summer outdoors. Could he be a rogue aristocrat? A European? 

She turned to Miss Barclay to see whether the stranger had a similar effect on her. Miss Barclay’s mouth was hanging open in an extremely unladylike manner. Marianne smirked. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. 

“He hasn’t ridden in on a white horse, but our knight in shining armor certainly looks the part,” Marianne quipped, swaying gently into Miss Barclay. This time, the woman didn’t laugh. She looked terrified, having intensified her grip on Marianne’s arm. Marianne’s tone changed immediately. “What’s the matter?”

Miss Barclay snapped her mouth shut, gulping as she met Marianne’s eye. “Perhaps we should practice your curtsy while they are distracted,” she murmured, blanching as she returned her attention to the men.

Marianne furrowed her brow, looking back towards the handsome stranger—at the exact moment that he noticed her. He looked as confused as she felt, his scowl sending a shiver down Marianne’s spine. 

Suddenly, she realized what Miss Barclay had meant, and her blood turned to ice. 

“You don’t mean to say …” Marianne’s question trailed off. 

No. It didn’t even warrant asking. 

The stranger wasn’t a highwayman, or a rogue, or even a European. 

That was Anthony Colline, the Duke of Westden—the master of Moorhaven Manor.

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