“I was just asking myself the same thing,” she retorted, and smoothed her skirts. “Do I look presentable? Should I go and change into my red and green silk?” Since Max had released her from her stays Marietta had been wary about lacing herself too tightly and had been wearing her older dresses. The sensation of gasping like a fish at the Lustful Lady had cured her of starving herself of air.
Francesca’s gaze raked her impatiently—her sister was not interested in fashion. “You look perfectly all right, Marietta.” She leaned closer, so that Hodge couldn’t hear. “It’s about a man, isn’t it, ’Etta? I knew it the moment I set eyes on you. You have that look.”
Marietta blinked in surprise, for once not feigned. “What look?”
“That satisfied look.”
She gaped at Francesca, but before she could deny it, they were interrupted.
“Marietta?”
It was Vivianna, standing just outside the door to the best sitting room. She looked flushed and happy, happier than she had looked in days. That was because Oliver was home, Marietta thought with relief, but her relief soon vanished when she noted the glitter of anger in her sister’s hazel eyes.
“Come here and speak with the duke,” she said, catching Marietta’s arm in ungentle fingers and giving her no time to protest. “I think after what you’ve been up to it’s the least you can do.”
The first thing Marietta saw as she entered the room was Oliver, standing by the window, his hands behind his back. He appeared tired, the strain evident in the dark shadows under his eyes, but when he looked at his wife his face lit up. Nearby, and standing in a similar pose, was a tall, thin man who was an older and less handsome version of Max. His dark hair was graying, but was still curly, and his thick brows were drawn down so low that she could hardly see the color of his eyes as he turned them on her.
For a moment he just stared rudely and Marietta stared back, and then Oliver stepped forward and said, “Your Grace, this is my sister-in-law, Miss Marietta Greentree. Marietta, this is His Grace, the Duke of Barwon.”
He did not hold out his hand, his expression did not alter from rigid disapproval, and Marietta felt her heart sink even further. But she refused to look away from that critical gaze. She had done nothing wrong, she reminded herself. What was between her and Max was their business and had nothing to do with the duke, or any of the Valland family. They had cast him off, after all.
But the duke did look very much like Max. It was absurd that he would not believe they were father and son.
“My nephew, Harold, tells me, Miss Greentree, that he has asked you to desist from visiting my son at his townhouse in Bedford Square.”
Vivianna made a hissing sound, but Marietta forestalled her. “That is correct, Your Grace, he has.”
“But you are still seeing my son.”
“Not at Bedford Square, however, Your Grace.”
“Do you think I am interested in the detail?” he demanded roughly, and turned away, stalking toward the mantel and back again. Marietta watched him with uneasy fascination. He was so like Max it was uncanny.
“Surely,” she swallowed. “Your Grace, surely whether or not I meet with your son is no longer any concern of yours. He tells me that he has severed all connection with his family.”
“My sister is very forthright,” Vivianna stepped in, casting Marietta a warning look, but the duke wasn’t listening to her.
“You’re quite correct,” he said to Marietta. “I have disinherited my son.” For a moment he looked lost, as if the enormity of what he had done was about to swallow him up, and then he straightened his already straight back and carried on. “Harold is concerned for my…for Max’s well-being. He tells me that you have an unsavory reputation, Miss Greentree.”
This time it was Oliver who stepped forward, and all the humor had gone from his startling blue eyes. “You overstep yourself, sir.”
“I am only repeating what I have been told,” the duke said, barely glancing at him. “I would like to hear what your sister has to say on the matter. Max, so Harold tells me, is indifferent to the effect this will have on him and his family. He declares his intention of marrying her whatever her reputation. Ah!” he nodded his head as the shock flared in Marietta’s eyes. “You did not know this, did you, girl? Or have you refused him already? You should know better than to refuse a young man in the passionate throes of love—it only makes him more determined.”
“Max knows I am not going to marry,” she said at last, but her lips felt stiff and her loosened stays suddenly far too tight. “Not him nor anybody else. As you so rightly said, sir, my reputation precludes me from making any sort of respectable marriage. I am content to remain unwed.”
He smiled, and the resemblance to Max was even more striking. “I can see why he likes you,” he murmured to himself. Then, the glower back, “I will be frank with you, Miss Marietta, as you have been frank with me. My son…Max has been disinherited, yes, but even so the title of his wife is one that you can never aspire to.”
Marietta wondered why she suddenly felt so very, very angry. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew fiery. She had never aspired to be the duchess of anything, and yet she could not bear that this man was refusing to allow her to imagine herself in that role, however unlikely it might be.
“You have destroyed his life and now you think you can tell him what he can and can’t do? You underestimate your son, sir. He will not forgive you for your treatment of him, and he will certainly not follow your orders. Why should he? Max is his own man now.”
The duke’s expression darkened; if possible his brows came down even lower. “You know nothing of my son. You should remember, Miss Greentree, to whom you are speaking.”
Marietta knew to whom she was speaking, and she didn’t like him one bit. Mr. Jardine had told her that Barwon was a cold man who saw life’s twists and turns as straight lines, who did not allow the morality of a situation to prevent him from ploughing ahead through the feelings of others. Now he wanted to control Max’s life even though he no longer recognized him as his son. Max would never stand for that.
“Max is a grown man, sir, and you can’t—”
Barwon drew himself up taller so that he could stare down at her. Despite herself Marietta was intimidated, but she did not step back.