Page 17 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

"Remarkable woman, Lady Marianne," Lord Pembroke said as soon as the ladies had departed, settling back in his chair with obvious satisfaction. "Intelligent, compassionate, completely lacking in the sort of affected delicacy one so often encounters in society women."

"Indeed," Henry managed through gritted teeth.

"I confess I'm quite... taken... with her approach to life. So refreshingly honest, so willing to challenge convention when principle demands it." Lord Pembroke swirled his port thoughtfully. "I believe we could accomplish great things together."

Reverend Dunley beamed with the satisfaction of a matchmaker whose efforts were bearing fruit. "How wonderful to see young people finding common ground in charitable endeavors. Nothing builds a stronger foundation for marriage than shared purpose."

"Marriage?" Henry's voice came out sharper than he'd intended.

"Well, naturally I haven't made any formal proposals yet," Lord Pembroke said with a laugh. "But I think it's clear that Lady Marianne and I are... exploring... the possibility of a future together. She's everything I could hope for in a wife."

Henry felt something fundamental shift inside his chest—a recognition so complete and devastating that he nearly knocked over his port glass.

Lord Pembroke was going to propose to Lady Marianne. She was going to accept him, because he was perfect for her in every way that mattered. And Henry was going to spend the rest of his life knowing that he'd helped orchestrate his own heartbreak.

"Excuse me," he said abruptly, rising from the table. "I need some air."

Henry escaped to the vicarage garden, where the cool evening breeze did nothing to calm his agitated thoughts. The realization that he was in love with Lady Marianne—completely, irrevocably in love—had hit him with all the subtlety of cavalry charge.

He was still standing among Mrs. Dunley's rose bushes, trying to process this revelation, when the sound of footsteps on gravel announced someone's approach.

"Lord Alton?" Lady Marianne's voice was soft with concern. "Are you quite all right? You left rather suddenly."

Henry turned to find her silhouetted in the light from the dining room windows, her green gown making her look like some sort of garden spirit materialized from his imagination.

"I'm fine," he said, though his voice sounded strained even to his own ears. "Just needed a moment away from..."

"From the overwhelming perfection of Lord Pembroke's conversation?" she asked with surprising dryness.

Henry stared at her. "I thought you were... that is, he seems very... suitable."

"Oh, he's eminently suitable," Lady Marianne agreed, moving closer until she stood just arm's length away. "Intelligent, well-traveled, supportive of my charitable work, genuinely interested in progressive agricultural techniques..."

"Then why do you sound so..."

"So what?"

Henry struggled to identify the note in her voice. "Resigned?"

Lady Marianne was quiet for a long moment, her face turned toward the moon that was just beginning to rise above the vicarage roof.

"Do you remember," she said finally, "what you told me this afternoon? About presenting my best qualities while managing the more challenging aspects of my personality?"

"Yes, but?—"

"I followed your advice perfectly. I was charming, conventional, appropriately interested in serious topics." She turned to face him directly. "And I attracted exactly the sort of man you suggested I should want."

Henry felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. "That was the goal, wasn't it?"

"Was it?" Lady Marianne's voice was very quiet. "Because I find myself wondering... what if I don't want a man who fell in love with the edited version of myself? What if I want someone who appreciates the unedited version—chaos, animals, impulsive tree-climbing and all?"

The question hung in the air between them like a challenge, and Henry found himself struggling to breathe normally.

"Lady Marianne..."

"You were right, of course," she continued, her tone becoming more brisk. "Lord Pembroke is perfect. He's everything a sensible woman should want in a husband. I should be grateful that your guidance led me to such an excellent match."

"You should be," Henry agreed, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.

"Yes, I should be." Lady Marianne looked at him for a long moment, and Henry caught something in her expression that might have been disappointment. "Though I confess I find myself wondering what might have happened if..."

"If what?"

She shook her head, the moment passing. "Nothing. Just... wondering."

They stood in silence for several heartbeats, close enough that Henry could catch the faint scent of roses in her hair, far enough apart that he couldn't reach for her without making a conscious decision to close the distance.

A decision that would change everything between them.

A decision that would complicate her perfect future with the perfect Lord Pembroke.

A decision that Henry wanted to make so desperately it frightened him.

"We should return to the others," Lady Marianne said finally. "They'll wonder what's become of us."

"Yes," Henry agreed, though he made no move toward the house. "We should."

But neither of them moved, and in that moment of suspended possibility, Henry felt the weight of everything unsaid between them.

The growing awareness that had been building for weeks, the careful distance they'd maintained, the recognition that something fundamental had shifted during their work together on the festival planning.

The acknowledgment that whatever was happening between them was dangerous to the carefully ordered life he'd built and devastating to the secure future she deserved.

"Lady Marianne," he said softly, and heard his own voice reveal more than he'd intended.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide in the moonlight, and Henry saw his own confused feelings reflected in her expression. The same recognition, the same awareness, the same certainty that acting on these feelings would complicate everything.

For a moment—just a moment—Henry allowed himself to imagine closing the distance between them, to wonder what it would feel like to touch her face, to discover whether her lips were as soft as they appeared in the moonlight.

But then the sound of laughter from the dining room reminded them both of where they were and what waited for them inside, and the spell was broken.

"We really should go back," Lady Marianne said, her voice carefully controlled.

"Yes," Henry agreed, stepping aside to let her precede him toward the house. "We really should."

As they walked back toward the warm light and polite conversation of the vicarage, Henry realized that something irreversible had happened in that garden. Not a declaration, not even a touch, but a recognition that changed everything between them.

The only question now was what either of them intended to do about it.

And whether it was already too late for any choice they might make to matter.