Chapter Text
Their wedding was even smaller than Alya and Ninos, as neither bride nor groom had any siblings to attend. Marinette’s parents, the Duke, and the Viscount and Viscountess were the only witnesses to the blessed event. Marinette was even more shy and nervous than usual, unsure as she was still of what Adrien thought of her or what her place would be in his life now.
Her mother had come to her bedchamber last night and conversed with her about her wifely duties.
“You husband is a gentle man, and will treat you kindly. You must allow him his pleasures if you are to beget an heir for him; he may encourage your participation, but if he does not, the best thing you can do is to lie back and let him do what he may.”
Marinette still wasn’t sure exactly what it meant to participate, but she thanked her Mama for the advice, sure that she would understand its meaning more in due time.
The house Marinette’s parents had hired for the season, though respectable, was not large enough to host the wedding celebrations of a future Duke, so the reception took place at Ipswich House which had been thrown open for the occasion. Some 500 people were invited, most of whom were strangers to both bride and groom. They all must be met, and greeted, and congratulations must be received.
It was exhausting. Marinette’s cheeks hurt from smiling so, but she persevered, unwilling to let her husband down in this, her first public duty as Marchioness.
“Your Ladyship, might I steal your new husband for a quick word?”
Marinette spun around at the words, though the barest hint of accent in the voice already told her who was speaking. She dipped into a respectful curtsey. “But of course, Your Highness.”
The Princesse nodded to her graciously, and, when Adrien offered her his arm, moved with him to a corner of the room. The pair remained there in deep conversation for some minutes. Marinette tried not to notice, continuing to greet her guests and make small talk, but her heart was across the room.
Did Adrien have regrets? Had her own wanton behaviour prevented him from a life with the woman he had been courting?
Did he love the Princesse?
Marinette loved him, now more than ever, and she had told herself again and again she had no right to his affection, no claim to his heart.
She had told herself that it would be enough. It had to be enough.
Yet she asked herself now as he stood talking to the woman he was to have wed whether, once his conversation was finished with Kagami, he would look across the room at her - and regret?
Before Marinette could turn away so that she didn’t have to see for herself she saw him bow over the Princesse’s hand, and they parted. He watched her go for a moment, then turned his eyes to scan the room, and Marinette felt the jolt down to her toes when his eyes met hers.
And he smiled.
It lit him from the insides out, lit her, too, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. He strode across the room to her side, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips.
“Adrien,” she whispered.
“Hold that thought for just one more moment,” he said, reaching up to stroke a finger along her jaw tenderly.
She shivered.
It was the first truly private words he had spoken to her all week. He didn’t let go of the hand he had kissed, instead using it to tug her along with him, into the middle of the great ballroom. He gave a nod in the direction of the small orchestra - about a dozen musicians in all - and the conductor nodded back, bringing the background music they had been playing to a swift end, and allowing a dramatic silence to call the partygoers to attention.
Then the music of a waltz began, and Adrien gave her his most courtly bow. “Will you dance with me?”
Unable to find her voice when those green eyes of his were looking at her so softly, she nodded, sinking into an equally courtly curtsey. Then he took her in his arms, and they began to dance.
Their guests had cleared the floor, watching the bridal couple in their first dance. Marinette felt like her heart was in her throat.
Adrien smiled down at her. “You look worried, My Lady,” he said. She blushed at the reminder of her new title.
“I-- There are s-so many people watching us,” she mumbled back with all her old shyness, ducking her head a little. “What if I s-step on your toes, or trip? The ton will speak of nothing else for weeks.”
“Marinette, look at me,” he said tenderly, and waited until she lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Just keep your eyes on me. I will ensure you do not stumble.”
She nodded, keeping her eyes locked on his. “I trust you,” she whispered. His face broke out into a delighted grin.
“As for the spotlight,” he added, and broke eye contact with her just long enough to nod at Nino, who, understanding the signal, led Alya out. Tom led Sabine out, too, and very soon there were enough couples on the dance floor that the bridal couple were able to feel the onlookers did not keep their eyes solely on them.
Marinette grinned as the other couples surrounded them. “Oh that’s so much better!”
His grip on her shifted slightly, pulling her in closer, and he spoke in a murmur. “I’ve been waiting to hold you in my arms thus all week,” he confided.
She felt herself blush, and hesitantly lifted her eyes to meet his. “You have avoided me ever since Alya and Nino’s wedding,” she accused him softly, aware, as he was, of the possibility of being overheard.
“Your father asked me to, for the sake of your reputation. I felt it prudent, given how you love your parents, to salvage what I could of his good will, in the hopes of building a better relationship with them in future years.” He leaned in, then, all but breathed his next words into her ear, a shocking intimacy for such a public location. “Were it my choice, I would have had time alone with you every day, danced with you every dance at the Bourgeois' ball.”
The puff of his breath at her ear sent shivers of desire down her back, making something tight and hot coil in her belly.
He straightened again, looking down into her eyes with an intensity that left her breathless.
“I was so worried you despised me after all those awful things I said to you,” she whispered.
“I could never despise you,” he replied earnestly. “Not you.”
Around them, the music ceased, and she found herself giggling as he let out a very quiet groan, meant only for her ears.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, smiling.
“I wanted more time with you alone. How much longer before we can depart, do you think?”
“‘Twould be rude to leave for another hour or two, at least,” she said as he bowed and she curtsied, then took the arm he offered.
“One hour,” he replied, and she found herself laughing at the comic note of desperation in his voice. “At the very most.”
“Our guests will find our early departure to be quite shocking!”
“It does not signify. Indeed, it will add weight to our claim that our only hurry was being a love match,” he replied.
She looked away, hating that for him, at least, their marriage had little to do with love.
“Of course,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment seep into her voice.
“Marinette,” he murmured.
She turned to him, putting on her brightest smile. “Come, I should like to see the refreshments! Mama has been in talks with your cooks all week,” she said, giving him no choice but to join the throng of partygoers.
---
It was closer to three hours by the time the newlyweds were able to sneak away up to Adrien’s private wing, where they were planning to spend the night before travelling in easy stages to Adrien’s ancestral seat for a few weeks. Adrien showed his wife to his bedchamber, where Tikki was waiting for her, then slipped into his adjoining dressing room to complete his own preparations for the night. He stripped down to shirt sleeves and breeches, donned the dressing gown he had instructed Plagg to leave out for him.
And then he paced.
Ten minutes, he told himself. He would allow Marinette ten minutes to prepare for him.
Five, then. Surely she didn’t need more than five?
How long did a woman require to prepare for her wedding night?
Cursing under his breath, he knocked on the door that led out to the bedroom, and tentatively stepped out.
She was dressed in a nightgown with a pale pink dressing gown, and was seated in front of the mirror, her maid brushing out her hair. He remembered her maid from that night on the road, another puzzle piece that had taken him far too long to work out.
He watched the methodical brushing, watched Marinette watch him through the mirror, and once her hair was free of all entanglements and hanging long and loose down her back, Tikki bobbed a curtsey and excused herself, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
He wanted to laugh or crow or dance a jig. They were finally, blessedly alone together.
She stood, turning to face him, twisting her fingers in a nervous gesture, her eyes wide and alluring in the candle light, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was so beautiful.
And she was his. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up in his arms, carry her to the bed, and have his wicked way with her, but their brief conversation on the dance floor had shown him that they needed to really talk before he bedded her.
Unsure where to begin, he simply held out a hand to her. After only a moments’ hesitation, she placed hers in his, and he drew her in to him, taking a moment to simply hold her. She held stiff for just a moment, then all but melted into him.
“Let us talk, now that we are finally free to do so,” he said, nudging her over to the bed so they could sit, side by side on the edge.
He took her hand in his, playing with her dainty fingers.
“I have much to apologise to you for,” he began slowly. No man likes to humble himself before the woman he loves, but Adrien’s sense of fair play was strong, and she deserved this. She deserved the very best he had to offer, and so far, she had not received it. “Everything that transpired at Alya and Nino’s wedding, to begin with. I behaved as an oaf when I saw you dancing with Mr. Couffaine. I should never have allowed my temper to get the better of me. I should never have said any of the unforgivably awful things I said to you. And I should never have insulted you by kissing you the way I did.”
She turned her head to face him, and he could already see the denial on her lips, but he had to get it all out, his pent up frustrations causing him to spring from his seat and pace before her.
“You have every reason to be angry with me. I all but forced myself on you, forced you to partake in scandalous behaviour that could very well have ruined you, had anyone beyond your father or mine happened across the scene. You, who had made it abundantly clear you wanted nothing more to do with me, who for all I know had come to some kind of understanding with Mr. Couffaine--”
She came to her feet, startling him. “There was no understanding between Mr. Couffaine and myself!” she cried.
He whirled around on her. “Whether there was or not does not signify. I acted in a way that would have made any such understanding moot. I acted as if I had a right to you. And it was unforgivable, and now you’re stuck with me,” he finished miserably, turning away.
Her hand found his arm, tugging him back around. “Adrien, it is I who have been yearning to apologise. I said as many unforgivable things to you that day as you did to me. And you forget that while you did kiss me first, you stopped and stepped back before we went too far, before we were caught. It was I that pulled you back, I that entrapped you into this marriage,” she said, pleading with him. “You planned an engagement to Kagami.”
“I did not love Kagami,” he shot back, but she shook her head.
“It does not signify,” she said, echoing his words, pacing as he had done earlier. “I have known from the beginning your heart was taken by another, by some mysterious lady you were always searching for but never found. You never once gave me any expectation beyond friendship, whatever my foolish imagination might have desired or conjured.”
He blinked at her, not knowing for a moment which part of her speech to reply to. “You do not know, then,” he breathed.
“Do not know what?” she asked, pausing to face him once more.
He crossed to her in three strides, his hand coming up to gently tuck her hair behind her ear, allowing his thumb and forefinger to stroke that delicate shell, to caress the lobe.
She had not yet taken off her earrings. He had been too eager to allow her the time.
“Do you know why I asked your mother to ensure you wore these today, Marinette?”
She shook her head, those wide blue eyes staring up at him in confusion, in wonder.
“You were wearing them the day we met,” he said. Her brow furrowed. He found it delightful, endearing.
“No, I did not. I wore pale blue on the night of Lady Mendeleiev’s ball. I did not have an opportunity to wear these in public until Alya’s wedding, as Mama judged red stones to be too daring a colour for regular wear for an unwed Miss,” she insisted. He could not help but smile at her knowing exactly which dress she had worn to exactly which party.
“You nearly wore it in public a few days before Lady Mendeleiev’s ball,” he reminded her. “To a masquerade.”
She stared at him, lips parted. Oh, how he longed to taste them again. “How could you possibly know that?” she cried. “I never arrived at the masquerade! No one saw me.”
“No one?” he prompted her. “I counted a few people. Your mother and Tikki, of course, and your groom and footman, although I daresay you would suggest they do not signify. But there were the three footpads, too, of course.”
He did not think it possible for her eyes to get wider. “How do you know about that?”
He smirked down at her, finding he was enjoying teasing her. “I was there.”
“You were-- that was you ?! The gentleman who stopped to save us?”
He scoffed. “I scarcely saved you, my Lady. You did the majority of that yourself.”
“I could not have done anything alone. You broke their concentration, gave them more to think about than just I. Had you not stopped to help, it all would have turned out very differently. I have thanked God for you every time I thought upon that night,” she assured him.
He lifted her hand to his lips as he had done on the night in question, and just as on that night, her cheeks pinked and her lips parted. His heart ached at the sight of her beauty. “Imagine my surprise, then, when the prettiest girl in the ton , the girl with whom I developed a deep and singular friendship with- the girl I sought out at parties and walked with in the park, not because her friend was being courted by mine, but because her intelligence, her wit, and her kindness knew no bounds and simply drew me in--” he sighed, rubbing his thumb lightly across her knuckles, reveling in the smoothness of her skin, “--Imagine, then, my surprise at Alya’s wedding in realising that same girl was also the mysterious Ladybug with whom I had fallen in love on that night on the road, just out of London?” he said.
“L-love?” she squeaked like the mouse he had once supposed her to be.
“Love,” he confirmed, and then before she could respond, hastened to add, “Not that I expect you to return the sentiment. I know you were given little choice in the matter. I have no one but myself to blame, of course, but I do hope that there is at least some feeling of friendship on your part with which we can continue-- even if you simply do not loathe me, I will consider myself the luckiest man on earth--”
Her small hand stole up to his mouth, preventing him from further speech, even as her eyes laughed up at him.
“You did not allow me to get so much as a word in, dolt,” she said, but the affectionate smile that curved her lips took all sting out of the insult, made it sound like an endearment. He blinked down at her, thrilled at the feel of her hand on his face, the touch of her skin to his. She leaned in to him as if she were imparting a secret. “Adrien, I have been in love with you ever since you apologised so sincerely for bumping me that first night at Lady Mendeleiev’s ball.”
He felt his own eyes grow round as she smiled smugly up at him. Then he could not bear it any longer. He reached up and wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her fingers from where they were still pressed to his mouth, and used his other hand to tilt her face up to his. Then his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her as he had been longing to do ever since the day of Nino and Alya’s wedding.
She gasped into his mouth, responding to his kiss with a fervour that pleased him, that sent his heart drumming. Releasing her wrist so it fell where it may - onto his shoulder, it turned out, from where it proceeded to tangle in his hair in a way he found very pleasing indeed - he trailed his fingertips up her arm, around her shoulder, and down her back, even as he broke away from her kiss just long enough to pant the words, “I love you, Marinette!”
Then he was nipping and sucking down her throat, gently guiding their steps back toward the bed, fumbling at the tie to her dressing gown, pushing it off her shoulders. When he judged her ready, he brought his hand around the tie of her night dress. “May I remove this?” he asked.
She blushed and nodded, glanced away and then peeked up at him. “Adrien, I am not sure what I am meant to do. Mama said- she said if you did not wish for my participation I should just lie back and allow you to take your pleasure, but I confess I do not know--”
He cut her off by cupping her cheek and pressing his lips to hers in a sweet, chaste kiss, then untied her nightgown, allowing it to fall from her slender shoulders and pool at her feet, leaving her bared to him.
“Believe me, my love, your participation is eagerly desired,” he assured her as he swept her up into his arms and deposited her on the bed, pausing only to shuck his own clothes before joining her there.
Then he showed her just how sweet and joyous her participation could be.
---
They did not leave for Adrien’s country seat the following day as they had planned, as the newlyweds were too much enamoured of each other to leave their bed chamber for any length of time. The following day, however, saw them settled into their largest and best sprung carriage just a little before dawn. The new Marchioness was drowsy, and Adrien was more than content to hold her in his arms as they navigated their way out of London. They picked up speed once they left the city behind, but had barely made it five miles when a commotion was heard, the coachmen shouting, and then the retort of pistol fire and the carriage slowing to a stop had them both jerking awake.
For several long moments, they saw nothing out the window, though there was much shouting, and then the carriage door was wrenched open by a strange - yet strangely familiar - man.
“Give me all your jewels,” the footpad cried, then gasped when Marinette drew herself up to exit the carriage. “You! It can’t be!”
She simply smirked at him, watching the blood drain from his face. Reaching up to hang off two of the leather handles on either side of the door to steady herself, she shook her skirts up just far enough to allow freedom of movement, took aim, and kicked the gaping scoundrel in the stomach. He flew back, landing on his arse in the dirt.
Marinette stepped delicately out of the carriage and took a moment to brush a crease out of her skirts. Adrien moved to the carriage step so he had a vantage point from which to watch the fun, but did not attempt to join the fray.
The scoundrel seemed frozen in fear. “You!” he breathed again.
“Darling,” she called to her new husband, her blue eyes turning to ice as she stared down at the footpad. “Hand me one of those cushions, will you?” she asked sweetly.
The footpad scrambled to his feet. “Retreat, lads! Run if you know what’s good for you!” he cried, turning tail and disappearing into the woods.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” he asked, helping her back into the coach.
His wife smiled reminiscently. “Alya’s sister Nora is, in spite of her gender, an avid boxer, and gave us lessons when I went to visit and her parents were not present.”
Adrien laughed. “I am very glad to have you on this journey to protect me,” he said, and kissed her soundly before she could utter another word.
---
EPILOGUE
---
Any question of scandal surrounding the sudden wedding of the Marquis and Marchioness was finally put to rest when the Marchioness bore her husband a son a very respectable 15 months after their wedding. Hugo was their pride and joy, and they doted upon him.
More proud of the boy than either parent, arguably, was that child’s paternal grandfather, the Duke, whose frailty grew more and more noticeable every day. It was with the promise of daily visits with his grandson that the Duke was finally compelled to move out to their country seat to live with the young family as his health declined.
Shortly after Hugo turned six months old, he became the Marquis of Orwell.
Adrien, now Duke of Ipswich, mourned his father, as did his wife, who in Gabriel’s final months had struck up a strange friendship of mutual respect with her father in law. With a baby in the house, and such a delightful, happy child, their grief was not unbearable, and a few months later, the young Duchess tremulously informed her husband that she was expecting again.
The Viscount and Viscountess were similarly blessed, and it was rare for more than a few months to go by without an extended visit between the two noble households. Tom and Sabine also came regularly once there were grandchildren, and the ancient halls were filled with love and laughter.
Chloe did marry Luka, and when his father died, he was able through careful economy to ensure his mother and sister were both comfortably provided for, as well as keep his wife almost in the manner to which she had been accustomed.
Princesse Kagami returned to the Continent, and a year later it was reported she was married to a German Prince. From all accounts it was a very happy union, though news of them did not often reach England.
Signora Lila Rossi quitted London the day after the Bourgois’ ball, and sailed for Spain where she met a wealthy widower on the shady side of fifty, who, nevertheless, was in want of a young, pretty bride. Having already sired enough sons through his first marriage to secure his legacy, he was not so particular about the reputation of his new bride, merely wanting someone pretty to warm his bed when he so felt the need. He did not like to travel, however, so Lila never returned to England.
And so this tale winds up, except to say that at a masquerade ball the following year, it was largely agreed that the best dressed couple was a Ladybug dressed in crimson, with cunning embroidery on her gown to represent spots and rubies in her ears, and her husband, an elegant gentleman dressed all in black with the exception of an electric green cravat, whose mask was in the shape of a black cat.