Page 19 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Fifteen

M arianne attacked the autumn garden preparation with the sort of determined vigor usually reserved for major battles. She'd been on her hands and knees since dawn, dividing perennials, mulching beds, and transplanting bulbs with a focus that bordered on obsession.

It was better than thinking.

Unfortunately, physical labor had never been particularly effective at quieting her mind, and this morning her thoughts were proving especially persistent.

Every time she tried to lose herself in the satisfying rhythm of digging and planting, her treacherous brain returned to the same impossible questions.

Why was she seriously considering Lord Pembroke's suit? More importantly, why did the prospect of accepting it fill her with such conflicted feelings?

Marianne sat back on her heels and surveyed the herb garden she'd been systematically reorganizing.

The neat rows of lavender, thyme, and rosemary were precisely spaced, each plant positioned for optimal growth and harvest efficiency.

It was, she realized with surprise, one of the most orderly sections of her entire property.

Perhaps she wasn't quite as chaotic as everyone assumed.

The thought led her back to the fundamental question she'd been avoiding: what did she actually want from marriage?

The practical considerations were clear enough. At twenty-six, she was still young enough to bear children, old enough to have learned what loneliness felt like, and wealthy enough that financial security wasn't a primary concern. But that independence came with its own burdens.

Charles's title would die with her if she remained unmarried and childless.

The weight of that responsibility had been growing heavier since Edmund's increasingly frequent visits and pointed comments about family legacy.

She could dismiss his mercenary interest in preserving the inheritance, but she couldn't ignore the larger question of what she owed to Charles's memory.

He had loved his heritage, had taken pride in the family name and the responsibilities that came with it.

In his final letter—the one she'd read so many times the paper was wearing thin—he'd told her to be happy above all else.

But would he have wanted his line to simply.

.. end... because she couldn't find a suitable husband?

Marianne drove her trowel into the soil with unnecessary force.

The truth was, she could imagine herself married.

Not the sort of arrangement Edmund envisioned, where she'd become a decorative addition to someone else's ambitions, but a real partnership.

Someone to share the daily rhythms of life, to discuss ideas with, to build something meaningful together.

The foundling charity had shown her how much more she could accomplish with allies.

Working with the other Widows had been revelatory—the combination of different skills and perspectives created possibilities none of them could have achieved alone.

A good marriage, she'd begun to suspect, might offer similar collaborative potential.

And then there was the simple, undeniable truth that she was lonely.

Wellington was excellent company, and Clarence provided more drama than any reasonable person required, but there were limits to what even the most devoted animal companions could provide.

She missed conversation that went beyond giving orders to Gerald or negotiating with Beelzebub about acceptable behavior.

She missed having someone who cared about the small details of her day, who would notice if she was troubled or excited or simply needed someone to listen.

Charles had provided that kind of companionship, even though their marriage had been more friendship than passion. The steady comfort of having someone who knew her well enough to read her moods, who shared her daily concerns and celebrated her small victories.

She wanted that again. Perhaps needed it more than she'd been willing to admit.

So why did the prospect of marriage to Lord Pembroke—who seemed ideally suited to provide exactly that companionship—leave her feeling so unsettled?

Marianne moved to the vegetable garden, where the late harvest vegetables needed attention before the first hard frost. The repetitive work of cleaning beds and preparing them for winter should have been soothing, but instead she found herself growing more agitated with each passing hour.

Lord Pembroke was everything she should want. Intelligent, kind, genuinely supportive of her interests and independence. He appreciated her animals, shared her passion for charitable work, and had offered her the sort of partnership she'd thought she was looking for.

He was also handsome, financially secure, and possessed of the sort of worldly sophistication that made conversation effortless and entertaining. Any woman would be fortunate to receive his attention.

So why did she keep thinking about Lord Alton's quiet competence instead of Lord Pembroke's charming accomplishments?

The question she'd been avoiding crystallized with uncomfortable clarity: was she considering Lord Pembroke because she genuinely cared for him, or because accepting him would be easier than examining her feelings for the man who'd helped deliver her into his hands?

Marianne sat back on her heels, her hands covered in rich, dark soil, and forced herself to confront the truth she'd been dancing around for weeks.

She was attracted to Lord Alton. Had been since that first morning when he'd caught Lord Pembroke's hat with such admirable reflexes and then stood there looking completely overwhelmed by her household chaos.

Something about his combination of stern propriety and underlying kindness appealed to her in ways she hadn't expected.

But attraction wasn't the same as compatibility, and Lord Alton had made his position quite clear. He found her lifestyle alarming, her behavior concerning, and her natural personality something that required management and editing before any decent man would consider her suitable for marriage.

He'd been willing to help her find a husband, but he'd never suggested himself as a candidate for the position.

The realization stung more than it should have.

Marianne had spent most of her adult life being told she was too unconventional, too independent, too willing to prioritize her own happiness over social expectations.

She'd thought she'd made peace with being the sort of woman who didn't fit easily into acceptable categories.

But something about Lord Alton's careful guidance—his obvious assumption that she needed to be improved before any man would want her—had cut deeper than usual.

Perhaps because she'd begun to hope that he, of all people, might appreciate her exactly as she was.

Marianne attacked a particularly stubborn weed with perhaps more violence than necessary.

The problem was that Lord Alton's plan had worked too well.

She had attracted a man who seemed to genuinely appreciate her unconventional qualities, who didn't require her to hide her personality or abandon her interests.

She should be grateful. Should be planning her acceptance of what would undoubtedly be a forthcoming proposal.

Instead, she found herself comparing every conversation with Lord Pembroke to her growing collection of moments with Lord Alton.

The way he'd climbed that tree without hesitation when she needed help.

The quiet pride in his voice when he discussed his tenant improvements.

The careful attention he paid to her ideas during festival planning, as if her thoughts genuinely mattered to him.

The way he'd looked at her in the vicarage garden last night, as if he were seeing something in her face that surprised him.

Marianne was so lost in these uncomfortable reflections that she didn't hear approaching footsteps until Wellington's excited barking announced a visitor.

She looked up from her position among the winter squash to see Lord Alton himself approaching through her garden gate, carrying what appeared to be a small jar and looking uncertainly at her dirt-covered figure.

"Lord Alton," she said, scrambling to her feet and immediately regretting the state of her appearance. Her morning dress was stained with soil, her hands were caked with mud, and she suspected there were leaves in her hair. "I wasn't expecting... that is, I'm rather..."

"Dirty," he supplied helpfully, though his tone was more amused than disapproving. "I can see that. I hope you'll forgive the interruption, but Mrs. Patterson sent over some of her blackberry preserves, and I thought you might enjoy them."

Marianne looked down at her filthy hands, then at the pristine jar he was offering. "How thoughtful. Though I'm afraid I'm not really... suitable... for receiving visitors at the moment."

"On the contrary," Lord Alton said, and there was something in his voice that made her look up sharply. "You look like someone who's been accomplishing something important."

"Important?" Marianne gestured at the chaos around her. "I'm just preparing the gardens for winter. Hardly important in any grand sense."

"May I?" Lord Alton indicated the garden with obvious interest. "I'd be curious to see what you've accomplished here."

Marianne hesitated, acutely aware of her bedraggled state and the contrast between her muddy informality and his perfectly pressed morning attire. But there was genuine curiosity in his request, and she found herself nodding.

"Of course, though I should warn you it's not very... orderly... by your standards."

Lord Alton began walking through her garden beds with the same focused attention he'd given to the festival planning logistics. But as they moved from section to section, Marianne noticed his expression shifting from polite interest to something approaching surprise.

"This is remarkable," he said, pausing beside her herb garden. "The spacing, the companion plantings, the attention to soil drainage—you've created an incredibly efficient system."

"Efficient?" Marianne looked at the beds she'd been working on all morning. "I was just trying to give everything room to grow properly."

"Exactly. But look at the planning involved—you've positioned the tall plants to provide wind protection for the delicate herbs, arranged the perennials to create natural pest control, even designed the pathways to minimize soil compaction during harvest." Lord Alton's voice carried growing admiration.

"This isn't chaos at all. It's sophisticated agricultural design. "

Marianne felt warmth spread through her chest at his obvious approval. "You really think so?"

"I know so. This is the most thoughtfully planned garden I've seen outside of Kew.

" Lord Alton moved to the vegetable beds, where late tomatoes were still ripening on carefully staked vines.

"The succession planting, the crop rotation schedule—you're managing this like a professional market garden. "

"I suppose I did put quite a bit of thought into the layout," Marianne admitted, seeing her work through his eyes and recognizing patterns she'd created almost unconsciously. "I wanted to make sure everything had what it needed to thrive."

"And you've succeeded beautifully." Lord Alton turned to face her directly, and Marianne was startled by the intensity in his expression.

"This demonstrates exactly the sort of systematic thinking that makes the festival coordination possible.

You see the whole system, understand how all the pieces fit together. "

The genuine respect in his voice was so different from his careful guidance about proper courtship behavior that Marianne felt momentarily disoriented. This was how he looked at her agricultural innovations and festival planning—as if her abilities were valuable rather than concerning.

"I hadn't thought of it that way," she said quietly.

"Perhaps you should." Lord Alton's gaze moved from the organized garden beds to her mud-covered hands and dirt-stained dress. "You have remarkable talents, Lady Marianne. Anyone who can create this level of productive order while maintaining such obvious joy in the work is... exceptional."

Exceptional. Not concerning, not chaotic, not requiring management and editing.

Exceptional.

Marianne felt something shift inside her chest, a recognition that changed the entire landscape of her morning's reflections. Here was Lord Alton, looking at her most natural, unguarded self—covered in honest dirt from work she loved—and seeing something worthy of admiration rather than concern.

"Thank you," she said, and was surprised by how much the words meant to her.

"Thank you for showing me this," Lord Alton replied. "I'm beginning to understand that there are different kinds of order in the world. Yours may not look like mine, but it's no less thoughtful or effective."

As they stood there in her garden, with autumn sunlight filtering through the trees and the evidence of her careful planning spread around them, Marianne realized that her morning's questions had found their answers.

She didn't want to marry someone who fell in love with the edited version of herself, no matter how suitable he might be.

She wanted to marry someone who could look at her covered in garden dirt and see something exceptional in the way she organized her world.

Someone who understood that order and chaos weren't opposites, but different expressions of the same underlying care.

Someone who was standing right here, offering her blackberry preserves and genuine admiration for work that mattered to her.

The only question now was whether that someone was brave enough to recognize what was growing between them, or whether she'd have to find the courage to tell him herself.