Page 26 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

"And my dream of being loved for who I actually am is impractical?"

The question hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Henry's composed expression faltered. Marianne caught a glimpse of something raw and uncertain in his eyes before he reassembled his careful control.

"Your dream of being loved exactly as you are is... admirable," he said finally. "But it may require compromises that you're not prepared to make."

"Such as?"

"Such as accepting that the man who could love you exactly as you are might not be the man who can provide you with the security and social position you deserve."

Marianne felt her breath catch at the implication in his words. "I see. So I should choose security over affection. Practical advantages over genuine connection."

"I'm suggesting you consider all factors when making such an important decision."

"All factors," Marianne said, moving closer to his desk until she was standing directly across from him. "Including the factor of whether I can respect myself if I marry someone while pretending to be someone I'm not?"

"Including the factor of whether you can afford to let idealism override practical considerations that will affect the rest of your life."

"Afford," Marianne repeated. "Interesting choice of words. As if love were a luxury I couldn't budget for."

"As if love without security and respect often leads to misery regardless of initial attraction."

"And what about security and respect without love? What does that lead to?"

Henry was quiet for a long moment, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. "It leads to the sort of marriage most people have. Comfortable, stable, reasonably content."

"Reasonably content," Marianne said softly. "Is that really what you think I should aspire to? Reasonable contentment?"

"I think you should aspire to happiness that lasts longer than the initial excitement of romantic attachment."

"And you believe such happiness requires me to hide the parts of myself that don't conform to social expectations?"

"I believe such happiness requires choosing a partner who can appreciate your strengths while helping you... moderate... your more challenging tendencies."

"Moderate my challenging tendencies," Marianne said, her voice rising again. "Such as my tendency to act on principle. My tendency to prioritize genuine need over social convenience. My tendency to care more about results than appearances."

"Such as your tendency to act without considering consequences," Henry said, his own voice growing sharper. "Your tendency to assume good intentions excuse problematic behavior. Your tendency to dismiss practical concerns as unworthy of consideration."

"Problematic behavior," Marianne repeated. "Like calling on you today to discuss urgent festival business."

"Like calling on me today in a manner that could be misinterpreted by anyone who observed your visit."

"Misinterpreted how?"

"As inappropriate intimacy between unmarried neighbors. As disregard for proper courtship protocols with Lord Pembroke. As the sort of behavior that suggests you're either naive about social expectations or deliberately defying them."

Marianne stared at him, feeling her anger crystallize into something colder and more final. "I see. So my choice is to live my life in constant fear of misinterpretation, or to accept that I'm fundamentally unsuitable for decent society."

"Your choice is to recognize that actions have consequences and plan accordingly."

"Plan accordingly," Marianne said. "Like you've planned your own life? Carefully controlled, perfectly proper, absolutely safe from any possibility of misinterpretation or social disapproval?"

Henry's expression grew shuttered. "My life arrangements are not under discussion."

"Aren't they? Because it seems to me that you're advocating for the sort of existence you've chosen—one where personal desires are subordinated to social expectations, where genuine feeling is considered less important than maintaining appearances."

"I'm advocating for practical wisdom over impulsive idealism."

"And how's that working for you?" Marianne asked, leaning across his desk. "Are you happy, Lord Alton? Are you fulfilled by your practical wisdom and careful control?"

"My personal satisfaction is irrelevant to the question of your future security."

"Your personal satisfaction is the only thing that gives you any authority to advise me about mine," Marianne shot back.

"If your approach to life has left you genuinely content, then perhaps I should consider following your example.

But if it's left you lonely and isolated and afraid to speak your mind to…

a woman, despite all your careful propriety, then perhaps your advice isn't worth taking. "

Henry stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "This conversation has moved well beyond the bounds of appropriate discourse."

"Appropriate discourse," Marianne said with a bitter laugh. "Of course. We wouldn't want to have an inappropriate conversation about whether the advice you're giving me has any basis in actual experience of happiness."

"My experience is not the point?—"

"Your experience is exactly the point," Marianne interrupted. "You're telling me to choose security over authentic connection, practical compatibility over genuine affection. But have you ever tried following your own advice? Have you ever pursued the sort of marriage you're recommending to me?"

Henry's jaw worked silently for several seconds before he replied. "My personal circumstances are not comparable to yours."

"Why not? Because you're a man? Because you have different expectations placed on you? Or because you know perfectly well that the sort of reasonable compromise you're advocating would make you miserable?"

"Because I'm not the one with multiple suitors offering advantageous marriages."

"No," Marianne said quietly. "You're the one advising me to accept proposals from men who don't know who I really am, while you stand safely on the sidelines critiquing my choices without risking anything …yourself."

The words seemed to hit Henry like a physical blow. His face went pale, and for a moment, his carefully maintained composure cracked entirely.

"You think I'm not risking anything?" he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.

"I think you're so committed to avoiding risk that you've forgotten what it feels like to want something enough to fight for it."

"And you think charging ahead without considering consequences is preferable to careful planning?"

"I think living according to your own values is preferable to living according to other people's fears."

They stood facing each other across his desk, both breathing hard, both clearly shaken by the intensity of their disagreement.

The morning light streaming through his windows seemed to highlight the distance between them—not just physical, but fundamental differences in how they approached life itself.

"Lady Marianne," Henry said finally, his voice carefully controlled again, "I believe this conversation has revealed that we have irreconcilable differences about proper conduct and practical wisdom.

Perhaps it would be best if we limited our future interactions to formal committee meetings with other members present. "

The dismissal hit Marianne like a slap. After weeks of growing closeness, after shared work and mutual respect and moments of genuine connection, he was essentially telling her that her presence in his life was inconvenient.

"I see," she said, gathering the festival papers with hands that shook only slightly. "You're quite right, of course. I should never have presumed that our working partnership gave me the right to seek your counsel or assistance outside of formal occasions."

"That's not what I meant?—"

"Isn't it?" Marianne looked at him directly, letting him see the hurt and anger in her expression.

"Because it sounds like you're saying that my company is acceptable only when properly chaperoned and carefully controlled.

That my natural behavior is so problematic that you need protection from extended exposure to it. "

"I'm trying to protect both of us from gossip and misunderstanding."

"You're trying to protect yourself from the inconvenience of caring about someone who doesn't fit neatly into your ordered world," Marianne said, moving toward the door. "Someone whose authentic self creates complications you'd rather avoid."

"Lady Marianne?—"

"No," she said, turning back to face him one final time.

"You've made your position quite clear. I'm too impulsive, too unconventional, too willing to prioritize principle over propriety.

I require management and moderation and careful supervision to be suitable company for a gentleman of your standards. "

"That's not?—"

"That's exactly what you've been telling me for weeks," Marianne said, her voice breaking slightly.

"And you know what the truly heartbreaking part is?

For a while, I began to believe you might be the one person who could see past all my irregularities to appreciate who I actually am.

But you don't want to see who I actually am.

You want to see who I could become with sufficient guidance and control. "

She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the handle.

"You're quite right about one thing, Lord Alton.

We do have irreconcilable differences. I believe people should be loved for who they are, while you believe they should be improved until they're worthy of being loved.

I believe authentic connection matters more than social approval, while you believe security requires sacrificing authenticity. "

"Lady Marianne, please?—"

"And I believe," she said, opening the door, "that a man who can't risk anything for love isn't worth the effort of loving him back."

She left without waiting for his response, walking back across the lane to Lavender Cottage with her head high and her heart breaking.

Behind her, she heard no footsteps following, no voice calling her back, no indication that Lord Henry Alton was willing to risk his precious propriety for the sake of stopping her from walking away.

Which, she supposed, told her everything she needed to know about his priorities.

And about how little she truly mattered to him, regardless of whatever feelings he might claim to have beneath his careful control.