Page 28 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Twenty-One

H enry stood at his study window for the third time that morning, watching the lane that led to Lavender Cottage and feeling like the greatest fool in Somerset.

The damson branch from yesterday's encounter lay on his desk, its small purple fruits now withered—a fitting metaphor for his spectacular mishandling of everything that mattered.

He'd spent the night replaying every word of their argument, every harsh judgment he'd delivered with such misguided certainty.

The memory of Marianne's face when he'd dismissed their partnership—the hurt, the anger, the final devastating recognition that he'd rather protect his precious propriety than fight for what they could have together—made him feel physically ill.

He had to apologize. Had to somehow explain that his fears had made him say things he didn't mean, that his need to maintain control had blinded him to what was right in front of him.

The sound of voices from the direction of Lavender Cottage drew his attention back to the window.

Marianne was in her front garden, wearing a simple morning dress and looking perfectly composed as she spoke with someone just out of his view.

When Lord Pembroke stepped into sight, carrying what appeared to be a small potted plant, Henry felt his stomach drop.

Even from this distance, he could see the easy warmth of their interaction. Pembroke said something that made Marianne laugh—a genuine, delighted sound that carried across the lane—and Henry gripped the window frame as he watched her accept the plant with obvious pleasure.

This was what natural compatibility looked like. No arguments about propriety, no lectures about appropriate behavior, just two people enjoying each other's company without any of the complicated tensions that seemed to plague every interaction he had with Marianne.

Henry forced himself away from the window and attempted to focus on estate correspondence, but concentration proved impossible.

Every few minutes, he found himself listening for sounds from across the lane, wondering what Pembroke and Marianne might be discussing, whether their conversation would lead to more formal arrangements.

By midmorning, he could stand it no longer. He would call on Marianne, offer his apology, and attempt to repair the damage his pride and fear had caused. It was the right thing to do, regardless of whether she could forgive him or whether he'd already lost any chance of winning her affection.

He found her in the cottage garden, kneeling beside a newly planted lavender bush—presumably Pembroke's gift—and carefully settling it into place. She looked up at his approach with an expression of polite neutrality that was somehow worse than anger would have been.

"Lord Alton," she said, rising and brushing dirt from her hands. "Good morning."

"Lady Marianne." Henry removed his hat, suddenly uncertain how to begin the speech he'd rehearsed during his walk across the lane. "I hope I'm not interrupting important work."

"Not at all. Lord Pembroke brought this lovely lavender variety from his estate. He thought it might thrive in Somerset soil." Her tone was perfectly pleasant and completely impersonal.

"How... thoughtful of him."

"Yes, he's remarkably considerate." Marianne's gaze was steady and gave away nothing of her feelings. "Was there something you needed to discuss about the festival arrangements?"

The careful distance in her voice made Henry realize just how badly he'd damaged things between them. Yesterday she would have invited him to sit, offered tea, shared some amusing observation about her animals' morning activities. Today she was treating him like a polite stranger.

"Actually, I came to apologize," he said, the words coming out more abruptly than he'd intended. "For yesterday. For the things I said and the way I said them."

Marianne tilted her head slightly, waiting for him to continue.

"I was wrong," Henry continued, feeling increasingly clumsy under her steady gaze.

"Wrong about your behavior, wrong about your judgment, wrong to suggest that you needed.

.. management... or guidance in conducting your affairs, wrong even to lecture you on stopping by unannounced.

" He held his hands out at his sides, indicating he hoped that he himself was doing just that.

"I see."

"And I was especially wrong to dismiss our partnership in such a harsh manner. You deserved better from me, and I'm sorry for my... my presumption in offering unwanted advice about your personal choices."

Marianne was quiet for a long moment, studying his face with an expression he couldn't read.

"Thank you for the apology," she said finally. "I appreciate your acknowledgment that your words were hurtful."

Henry felt a spark of hope at her response, but it died quickly when she continued.

"However, I think you were right about one thing yesterday. We do seem to have fundamental differences about... appropriate conduct... and the nature of personal relationships. Perhaps it would be best if we maintained the sort of formal distance you suggested."

"That's not what I want," Henry said quickly, then caught himself. "That is, I spoke in anger and fear yesterday. I don't actually believe we should limit our interactions to formal occasions."

"Fear?" Marianne's eyebrows rose slightly. "What were you afraid of?"

The direct question caught Henry completely off guard. He'd expected to offer his apology, receive her forgiveness, and somehow return to their previous comfortable partnership. He hadn't prepared for her to probe the motivations behind his behavior.

"I... that is, I was concerned about protecting your reputation and ensuring your future security," he said, falling back on the familiar justifications.

"My reputation," Marianne repeated with the same neutral tone that suggested she found his explanation less than convincing.

"And your happiness," Henry added, realizing how hollow his words sounded even to himself. "I want you to be happy."

"Do you?" The question was asked quietly, but something in Marianne's expression suggested she was seeing straight through his careful explanations to the messy truth beneath.

"Of course I do."

"Then why," she asked with devastating precision, "did you spend yesterday afternoon telling me that everything about my natural behavior was problematic and needed correction?"

Henry felt heat rise in his cheeks. When she put it like that, his motivations became uncomfortably clear—even to himself.

"I was trying to help you avoid the sort of gossip and speculation that could damage your prospects?—"

"My prospects," Marianne interrupted. "With men like Lord Pembroke?"

"With any gentleman worthy of your consideration."

"I see." Marianne's tone remained perfectly polite, but Henry caught something sharp underneath it. "And you believe Lord Pembroke is worthy of my consideration?"

The question felt like a trap, but Henry couldn't see how to avoid answering honestly. "He seems to be an excellent man. Intelligent, well-traveled, financially secure, genuinely supportive of your interests."

"Yes, he is all of those things," Marianne agreed. "He's also remarkably accepting of my unconventional qualities. He finds my household charming rather than problematic, my independence admirable rather than concerning, my impulsive kindness endearing rather than inappropriate."

Each word hit Henry like a small blow. She was describing exactly the sort of acceptance he should have offered but had been too frightened and prideful to give.

"That's... that's wonderful," he managed.

"It is, isn't it?" Marianne's smile was bright and completely without warmth. "It's such a relief to spend time with someone who doesn't feel the need to improve or manage me."

"Lady Marianne, I never meant to suggest?—"

"Didn't you?" She took a step closer, and Henry could see the hurt he'd caused reflected in her eyes despite her composed demeanor.

"Because yesterday you made it quite clear that you found my natural behavior so concerning that you were willing to invest considerable effort in helping me attract someone else rather than risk continued exposure to my irregularities. "

"That's not why I—" Henry stopped, realizing that his denials were useless when they both knew she was absolutely right.

"Isn't it?" Marianne asked softly. "Because from where I stand, it looks very much like you recognized that you cared about me and decided the solution was to find me a husband who could manage the inconvenience of my feelings while you returned to your perfectly ordered life."

The accusation was so accurate that Henry felt like she'd struck him. Yes, that was exactly what he'd done—recognized his growing feelings for her and immediately tried to arrange her life so those feelings wouldn't complicate his own carefully controlled existence.

"I was trying to do what was best for you," he said weakly.

"What was best for me, or what was safest for you?"

Henry found himself without an answer that wouldn't make him sound like either a liar or a coward.

"I thought so," Marianne said when the silence stretched too long. "Lord Alton, I appreciate your apology, and I accept that you meant well with your guidance. But I think yesterday's conversation clarified something important for both of us."

"What's that?"

"That we want very different things from the people we care about.

You want someone who will modify herself to fit your expectations, while I want someone who will appreciate me as I am.

" Her voice remained steady, but Henry caught the slight tremor that suggested this conversation was costing her as much as it was costing him.

"And fortunately, I appear to have found exactly that sort of acceptance elsewhere. "

The implication was unmistakable. Henry felt something cold settle in his chest as he realized what she was telling him.

"Lord Pembroke," he said.