Page 15 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Twelve

H enry paced the length of his study for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour, his boots wearing a path in the Persian carpet that had belonged to his grandfather.

The agricultural reports on his desk remained untouched, the correspondence unanswered, and the carefully organized schedule he'd planned for the evening lay abandoned beneath a half-empty brandy glass.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so thoroughly, irrationally flustered.

And over what? The successful conclusion of exactly the plan he'd devised himself. Lady Marianne had followed his guidance perfectly, presented herself as any sensible gentleman would wish, and attracted a suitor who was—by all accounts—eminently suitable for marriage.

Lord Pembroke was educated, well-traveled, financially secure, and apparently possessed of enough intelligence to appreciate Lady Marianne's unconventional qualities without being alarmed by them. He was exactly the sort of man Henry had claimed she deserved.

So why did the thought of their obvious compatibility make him want to put his fist through something?

Henry stopped pacing and forced himself to examine this unreasonable reaction with the same tactical analysis he'd once applied to military problems. The facts were simple: Lady Marianne needed a husband who could provide protection from her family's interference while appreciating her genuine worth.

Lord Pembroke appeared to be precisely such a man.

The successful resolution of her romantic difficulties would restore Henry's peaceful existence and allow him to focus on his agricultural innovations without the constant distraction of peacock-related emergencies.

This should have been a satisfactory outcome for all parties involved.

Instead, Henry found himself replaying every moment of the evening's conversation with mounting agitation.

The way Lord Pembroke had laughed when Clarence shrieked his opinions about being excluded from social occasions.

The genuine interest in his voice when discussing Lady Marianne's charitable work.

The obvious respect with which he'd treated her independence and intelligence.

The man was... perfect. Absolutely, thoroughly, irritatingly perfect.

Henry resumed pacing, telling himself firmly that his agitation was merely the natural concern of a neighbor who had invested considerable effort in ensuring Lady Marianne's welfare.

He had spent weeks observing her struggles with inappropriate suitors, had climbed trees to rescue her from her own impulsive kindness, had offered guidance in proper courtship protocol.

It was only natural that he should feel some degree of. .. investment... in the outcome.

But even as he formulated this perfectly reasonable explanation, Henry knew he could kid himself no longer.

The truth—the truth he'd been avoiding for weeks—was that somewhere between that first morning encounter with a pond-soaked woman defending her peacock's right to terrorize clergymen and tonight's perfectly orchestrated courtship, he had developed feelings for Lady Marianne that went far beyond neighborly concern.

Feelings that made Lord Pembroke's obvious suitability feel like a personal catastrophe.

Henry threw himself into the chair behind his desk and attempted to lose himself in agricultural reports.

The tenant assessments that usually provided such satisfaction now seemed monumentally irrelevant compared to the image of Lady Marianne's face lighting up when Lord Pembroke expressed interest in her foundling charity.

When had her happiness become so important to him? When had her laughter become the sound he most looked forward to hearing each day?

And why, having recognized these inconvenient truths, had he systematically worked to deliver her into another man's capable hands?

Henry abandoned the agricultural reports and moved to the window overlooking the lane that separated his estate from Lavender Cottage.

The cottage windows glowed warmly in the evening light, and he could see the shapes of Lady Marianne's various animal companions moving about the garden.

Peaceful domestic scenes that had somehow become essential to his own sense of well-being.

Tomorrow, perhaps, or next week, those windows might house Lord and Lady Pembroke, that is, before she went off to his estate somewhere or to hers.

The animals would adjust to new management, the cottage would hum with the activity of a properly conventional marriage, and Henry would have the quiet, orderly existence he'd thought he wanted.

The prospect filled him with a desolation so complete that he had to grip the window frame to steady himself.

This was absurd. He was a rational man, a former military officer accustomed to making difficult decisions based on practical considerations rather than emotional impulses. Lady Marianne's romantic future was not his concern beyond the natural interest of a neighbor who wished her well.

Except that it was his concern. Had been his concern from the moment he'd first seen her standing in that pond, dripping and defiant and completely unconscious of how lovely she looked when defending those she cared about.

Henry forced himself away from the window and attempted to distract himself with correspondence. He wrote three letters to agricultural contacts, answered an invitation to inspect innovative drainage systems in Yorkshire, and composed a detailed response to questions about crop rotation schedules.

None of it worked. His mind kept returning to the evening's conversation, to Lord Pembroke's obvious appreciation for Lady Marianne's intelligence and independence, to the way she'd responded with genuine interest rather than the polite tolerance she'd shown previous suitors.

He tried reviewing the estate accounts, but found himself calculating how much of his annual income might be required to support a foundling orphanage rather than focusing on his own financial planning.

He attempted to read, but discovered that every book in his library seemed to contain references to either military strategy (which reminded him of the tactical precision with which he'd orchestrated his own romantic defeat) or domestic happiness (which reminded him of what he'd just helped another man achieve).

By the time his valet appeared to inform him that it was time to dress for dinner at the vicarage, Henry had accomplished nothing productive and felt more unsettled than he had since his worst days recovering from Waterloo.

"The gray evening coat, my lord?" Meadows inquired, laying out Henry's usual formal attire with practiced efficiency.

Henry looked at the perfectly appropriate, thoroughly unremarkable ensemble and found himself remembering Lady Marianne's comment about Clarence finding his restraint personally insulting.

You're very restrained, aren't you? All neat lines and proper everything. Clarence finds it personally insulting.

How terribly limiting that must be.

"Actually, Meadows," Henry heard himself saying, "what about the blue coat? The one with the silver embroidery?"

Meadows paused, his expression carefully neutral. "The blue coat, my lord? For dinner at the vicarage?"

"Why not? It's a social occasion, after all."

"Certainly, my lord. And perhaps the waistcoat with the subtle pattern rather than the plain gray?"

Henry considered this. The patterned waistcoat was hardly scandalous—a tasteful design in cream silk with the faintest suggestion of gold thread. But it was decidedly less austere than his usual choices.

"Yes," he said decisively. "The patterned waistcoat."

As Meadows assisted him into the blue coat—a garment Henry hadn't worn since before his military service—Henry caught sight of himself in the mirror and felt an unexpected shock of recognition.

The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the rigidly controlled former officer who had made the gray coat a uniform of respectability.

This man looked... younger. Less forbidding. Almost approachable.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?" Meadows inquired, though Henry caught the hint of approval in his valet's tone.

"No, thank you. That will be all."

As Henry prepared to leave for the vicarage, he told himself firmly that his choice of attire had nothing to do with Lady Marianne's preferences and everything to do with making an effort for the Reverend Dunley's hospitality.

But as he caught one final glimpse of himself in the hall mirror—noting how the blue brought out his eyes and the silver embroidery caught the lamplight—Henry acknowledged that he was hoping someone at tonight's dinner would notice that the rigidly proper Lord Alton was capable of a little color after all.

Even if that someone was about to become engaged to another man entirely.

After all, he told himself as he stepped out into the evening air, a man should make an effort when dining with neighbors. It was simply good manners.

The fact that he found himself looking forward to seeing Lady Marianne's reaction to his sartorial rebellion was... entirely incidental.

Entirely.

Though as he walked toward the vicarage, Henry couldn't help but wonder what she would think of a man who had finally decided that perhaps his life could use a little more color after all.

Even if he'd realized it far too late to matter.