never accept a commoner for my wife,” he said, turning his back on the verdant landscape.
“If you’re still in love with her after all this time, she must not be that common,” replied Marianne.
“Of course she’s not common; she’s the jewel of my life,” he exclaimed passionately. “Father doesn’t understand!”
“Is she still unmarried? Because I could get out of the picture pretty darn quickly,” offered Marianne hopefully. Brantford’s expression revealed that he wanted just that, but, with a labored swallow, he replied, “I’m sorry, but I’ve sworn to my father that I will marry you if it is at all possible. This is what is done.”
“But if you love her, you should stand up to your father,” Marianne protested, rising from her chair.
“It is not about love,” said Brantford, moving to her. “As for duty, I served as a soldier, though I aspire to paint. In this mad world, I find peace in the smell of oils, the feel of crisp canvases, the beauty of fine brushes.” Brantford stopped to appraise a hanging picture of fruit. He frowned. “About duty, I assure you that I will uphold my responsibilities as your husband in every aspect of our marriage.” Marianne fought a rising urge to run. I’m not ready for this, she wanted to cry, but she held her ground even as his warm hands caressed hers. He kissed them, which sent chills up her spine. As he moved his face slowly toward her, Marianne closed her eyes and hoped the sensation would be superior to that of kissing a frog.
Instead of a kiss, however, Marianne felt his hands draw roughly out of hers. Opening her eyes, she saw her betrothed gasping for air, his hands tearing at his collar. He fell to the floor, his wheezing growing louder and more pronounced. Marianne rushed to the doorway, almost falling when her ribboned shoe caught on a footstool. Throwing the shoe off, Marianne flung open the door. “Help! Please help me! He’s dying! Please someone help!” she called hoarsely. Brantford’s servants, who had been playing cards nearby, ran into the room.
Neville hurried over. “What have you done now?” he bellowed. Marianne fell onto him, unable to stop her weeping. “I didn’t do anything . . . he was kissing me . . . and then he fell . . . and my shoe . . .” She trailed off, her wailing ebbing and increasing in unpredictable fluctuations.
“Stop that idiotic sniveling.” said Neville, pushing her off him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
But all Marianne could do was hiccup, in sobs that racked her body and left her shaking, pressed up against the wall. She curled the ends of her hair between her fingers while wounded rose petals floated to the ground.
“Excuse me, miss.” A high voice to her left solicited her attention. One of Brantford’s attendants had made his way to her. “You’ll be glad to know that Lord Brantford will recover. It’s not your fault. You see, he has a deadly allergy to certain flowers. Do you know where he might have accidentally come in contact with any roses?”
Chapter the Fourth
Marianne’s room was very still; the breeze from the morning had long ago been murdered by an oppressive humidity enveloping the manor. So this must be what you feel like before you die, thought Marianne. She was lying on her bed, trying to read to keep her mind off the impending parental confrontation. After flipping several pages of Jasmine’s Journal of Jewelry Jinxes, which she had nearly memorized, she discovered that the book was upside down and discarded it. Her parents knew the wait would make her suffer, and she was a victim of their strategy.
Staring up at the ceiling, Marianne felt every dull ache and sharp pain that her morning venture into manor attire had inflicted on her. Rolling onto her side in a plain linen dress, she examined the imprisoned dragonfly. Its fathomless eyes seemed to draw her inside the sphere. Don’t be stupid. It’s dead, she told herself, forcing her eyes to move toward a ribboned shoe, lying dejectedly on its side, which she had slipped off after the woozy Brantford departed.
Marianne could sense her parents making their way up to her room. Her breathing quickened, and her palms began to sweat. She tried to concentrate on something, anything that would lessen her feeling of doom. It was a futile attempt, because all the while she heard the measured, methodical footsteps clunking up the stone stairs. Rocking on the bed, Marianne turned her frenzied sight to the bedside stand. There the dragonfly met her eyes, and serenity washed over her.
The footsteps ceased marching, and Marianne calmly watched as the widening door exposed her mother finishing a sentence, “. . . needs a good tanning for her impudent nature.” Though obviously winded from the long climb, Beatrice drew in a sip of air and held it in her lungs. She looked intensely at Marianne. Her father exhibited his anger more openly; his face was mottled, and his right hand was practically deforming the mate to Marianne’s shoe, which he then hurled with great force toward his daughter. Marianne ducked reflexively and the shoe zipped harmlessly over her head, making an indentation at the top of her bed before dropping beside her, the heel missing.
“Huh,” said Marianne, observing the reunited shoe, “Just like Cinderella.”
“Brantford wanted to bring it up to you,” snarled her father, nodding to Beatrice to close the door, “but I didn’t want you making another attempt upon his life.” He gave a vicious smile. “Before you’re married, that is.”
“That won’t be a problem, because there won’t be a marriage,” said Marianne, rising from her bed.
“Brantford, the fool, still wants to wed you,” said her father, following Marianne.
“It takes two people saying ‘I do,’” rejoined Marianne, angling away from her father.
“Do you have some sort of objection to being titled, wealthy, and well-cared for?” sputtered Beatrice.
“No,” said Marianne, trying to keep her composure, “I merely have an objection to marrying a man for whom I have at best no feelings!”
“You ought to consider yourself fortunate, for you have neither the charm of Edward nor the beauty of Cassandra!” shrieked her mother, her words lashing Marianne’s heart. “If we had not taken you and Robin in, you both would have died!” At this statement, she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “Oh, Neville, I’m . . . I’m . . . sorry.”
“Shut up!” he snapped at Beatrice.
“What do you mean, ‘take us in?’” Marianne interjected. “Tell me, please tell me.”
“None of your business. You will be married tonight. That is all,” Neville said, shoving Beatrice towards the door.
Marianne sensed that she was near to finding out why she had never quite fit in at Kingbriton Manor. “If you tell me, I give my word that, after tonight, you will never see me again,” she offered.
Neville paused and turned a despising glare on Marianne. “Never?”
Marianne considered for a second the prospect of missing Cassandra, but thought better of it as she remembered that her father’s “’ittle princess” could do no wrong. Prince was safe; her father never walked the gardens and therefore would scarcely feel impelled to drain the pond. Finally she thought of her other brother, Robin. Her thoughts rarely settled on him because it had been years since she’d glimpsed him. Neville and Beatrice had sent him away to another province to train in fighting when she was still quite young. Marianne strongly suspected that she herself would have been long gone if neighboring estates took in girls. The last time Robin had visited Kingbriton,
