They Called Her the Family’s “Invisible Failure”—Until the Duke Said, “Pretend to Be My Fiancée at the Christmas Ball,” With One Impossible Rule: No Real Feelings. But Days Before the Ball Began, He Was the First to Break It.

 PART 4

The following days passed in a strange, dreamlike haze.

Adrien had been true to his word. He spent considerable time in Meline’s company, much to the astonishment of her family. They took daily rides across the estate. They walked through the frost-covered gardens. They sat together in the library, discussing books and philosophy until the light failed.

To any observer, they appeared to be conducting a proper courtship.

“I confess I am utterly baffled,” Lady Amelia said one afternoon in the morning room. “The Duke of Stormhold has shown more interest in you these past three days than any gentleman has in six years. What can it mean?”

Meline kept her expression carefully neutral as she worked her embroidery.

“Perhaps he simply enjoys intelligent conversation, Mama. Not all gentlemen are seeking frivolous entertainment.”

“But darling, he is a duke. He could have his pick of any lady in England. Why would he choose to spend his time with—”

She trailed off. The implication was clear.

“With me?” Meline finished, her voice steady despite the familiar sting. “Perhaps you underestimate me, Mama. Or perhaps you have been listening too long to Levvenia and her ilk.”

Lady Amelia had the grace to look ashamed.

“I only worry for you, Meline. I would not wish to see you develop expectations that cannot be fulfilled. The Duke is notorious for avoiding matrimony.”

“Then we are well matched. For I have long since abandoned any expectations of marriage.” Meline set down her embroidery and met her mother’s eyes. “If the Duke finds me tolerable company, I see no reason not to enjoy it while it lasts.”

What her mother did not know — what no one knew, save Adrien — was that their time together had become far more than mere pretense.

During their rides and conversations, Meline had discovered a man of surprising depth and complexity. Adrien was well read, wickedly intelligent, possessed a dry wit that made her laugh in ways she had forgotten were possible.

He was also, she was beginning to realize with growing alarm, dangerously easy to care for.

“Tell me about your childhood,” Adrien said on their fourth afternoon together, as they walked through Winterborn’s portrait gallery. Snow was falling outside the tall windows, creating a hushed, intimate atmosphere.

“There is little to tell,” Meline replied. “I was an ordinary child who grew into an ordinary woman.”

“I do not believe that.”

He stopped before a portrait of a young girl with dark curls and serious eyes.

“Is this you?”

“When I was twelve. Before I understood what it meant to be a disappointment.”

Adrien turned to study her face.

“Who made you believe you were a disappointment?”

“Everyone.” The word escaped before she could stop it. “My mother, who grew weary of presenting me to society season after season with no results. My father, who stopped looking at me with pride and started looking at me with resignation. My cousins, who found endless entertainment in my failure to secure even a single marriage proposal.”

“And why do you suppose you received no proposals?”

Meline laughed bitterly.

“I am not beautiful like my sisters. I am too tall, too plain, too serious. I speak my mind when I should be demure. I read books when I should be practicing the pianoforte. I am, in short, everything a gentleman does not want in a wife.”

“How very fortunate for those gentlemen,” Adrien said quietly, “that I am not interested in what they want.”

Meline’s breath caught.

They stood very close now — close enough that she could see flecks of silver in his dark eyes, smell the sandalwood of his cologne.

“Adrien, we should not—”

“Should not what? Speak honestly?” He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her cheek. “One of the advantages of our arrangement, Meline, is that we need not dissemble with one another. I find you fascinating. Your height is elegant. Your features are striking. Your intelligence is intoxicating. If the gentlemen of London were too blind to see that, then they deserve their silly, vapid wives.”

“You are merely being kind.”

“I am never merely kind.” His hand lingered near her face, and Meline found herself leaning into the touch before she could stop herself. “I am being honest. Something I suspect you have not experienced enough of in your life.”

For a long moment they stood frozen in the portrait gallery, the falling snow creating a curtain of white beyond the windows. Meline’s heart hammered against her ribs, and she was acutely aware of how easy it would be to close the small distance between them — to discover if his lips were as warm as his touch.

“We should return to the house,” she whispered, stepping back. “It is nearly time for tea.”

“Of course.” His expression was unreadable as he offered his arm. “We must maintain propriety, after all.”

But as they walked back through the corridors of Winterborn Manor, Meline could not shake the feeling that their carefully constructed arrangement was beginning to crack at the foundations.