“I’m not sure.”
Genevieve’s lips compressed in displeasure. “A suitably sphinx-like answer. Has he asked you?”
“Genevieve—”
“Well, has he?”
“Yes,” Marianne admitted in exasperation. “If it’s any of your business.”
With the generosity of heart that always disarmed Marianne, Genevieve leaned across and took her hand. “I’m asking all this because I care, not because I want to pry.”
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“You want to pry as well.” Marianne didn’t withdraw. She was so confused and unhappy, the contact comforted, even if she paid for it with information she’d rather keep to herself.
“Well, yes.” Genevieve paused. “I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
That was true—or at least Genevieve’s interpretation of her best interests. Marianne relented enough to answer. “My father wants the marriage.”
“Your father doesn’t have to live with Desborough afterward.”
“I don’t dislike Desborough,” Marianne said, and winced when pity softened Genevieve’s gray eyes.
“I could honestly kill Cam.”
Surprised, Marianne pulled free and straightened in her chair. “What’s Cam got to do with it?”
“Everything. Or a good proportion of everything. When he courted then abandoned you, he convinced you that you’re worthy of no more than a lukewarm attachment.”
Marianne frowned. She was sick to death of defending herself from accusations like this. “Pen and Cam are in love.”
“And so should you be.”
“I wasn’t in love with Cam.”
“No, of course you weren’t. That’s at least a blessing.”
“Well, you can dismiss any thought that I’m pining for my former suitor.”
“No, you’re pining for Elias Thorne.”
Silence crashed down with the force of a hammer striking a nail square on the head.
Marianne finally remembered to breathe. She strove to sound as if Genevieve’s announcement didn’t make her want to cry. Over the last year, her pride had taken such a beating; the thought that the world snickered at her infatuation made her quail. Her hands formed claws in her green skirts.
“Is that what everyone thinks?” she asked sharply.
Genevieve, curse her, continued to look sorry for her. “It’s what I think.”
“And Sidonie,” Marianne forced through stiff lips.
“And Sidonie. I suspect both of us understand you better than the general run.” She touched Marianne’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. “You’re afraid of gossip and after the fuss last year, that’s perfectly natural. Don’t worry—society has noticed Elias’s interest in you, but most people would wager on you choosing Desborough. Although I’ve heard more than a few say you’ll become Lady Tranter.”
“He hasn’t proposed.”
“He will. At least he’s younger than Desborough. Has Elias proposed?”
On an annoyed inhalation, Marianne rose. “You really are nosy.”