Page 29 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

"Lord Pembroke," she confirmed. "Who thinks my impulsive garden visits are charming, my animal menagerie delightful, and my charitable work admirable. Who doesn't feel the need to edit my personality before considering me suitable company."

"And you... you care for him?"

Marianne's pause before answering told Henry everything he needed to know, even before she spoke.

"I care for him very much," she said quietly. "He's everything I should want in a husband."

Should want. Not want , but should want .

The distinction gave Henry a brief spark of hope before the larger reality crushed it: regardless of her feelings, Marianne was clearly preparing to accept Pembroke's suit because he offered her the sort of unconditional acceptance that Henry had been too frightened to provide.

"I'm glad you've found happiness," Henry said, the words feeling like glass in his throat.

"Thank you. I believe I have."

They stood facing each other in her garden, surrounded by the evidence of her competent planning and loving care, while Henry realized he was witnessing the end of whatever chance he might have had to win her heart.

"Lady Marianne," he said desperately, "if I could somehow make you understand?—"

"Understand what?" she asked, though her expression suggested she already knew what he was struggling to say.

"That my feelings for you... that is, my regard for you... goes far beyond mere neighborly concern."

"Your regard for me," she repeated carefully.

"My... my affection. My..." Henry found himself unable to say the word 'love' when it was too late to matter. "You must know that I care about you deeply."

"I know that you care about some version of me," Marianne said with devastating gentleness. "The version that would exist if I could learn to moderate my challenging tendencies and present myself according to your standards of appropriate behavior."

"That's not?—"

"But the version of me that you actually know—the one who climbs trees to rescue peacocks and calls on neighbors without proper arrangements and gets her hands dirty in garden work—that version makes you uncomfortable enough that you'd rather find her a husband than risk loving her yourself."

Henry wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. Because she was right, wasn't she? He'd been so terrified of the chaos and unpredictability she brought to his ordered life that he'd convinced himself the solution was to help her find someone else to manage it.

"I was wrong," he said finally. "About everything. About what you need, about what I want, about what would make either of us happy."

"Yes," Marianne agreed simply. "You were wrong. But unfortunately, being wrong doesn't change the fundamental truth about what you're prepared to offer and what I'm prepared to accept."

"And if I could change? If I could learn to appreciate your... unconventional qualities... without feeling the need to manage them?"

Marianne's expression softened slightly, and for a moment Henry thought he saw a flicker of the woman who had almost kissed him yesterday afternoon.

"Could you?" she asked gently. "Could you really accept a wife who might embarrass you at dinner parties, who puts animal welfare above social conventions, who acts on impulse when principle demands it?"

Henry opened his mouth to say yes, then stopped as he realized the question wasn't hypothetical. She was asking whether he could genuinely love the woman she actually was, not the woman he thought she could become with proper guidance.

And the terrifying truth was that he didn't know.

"I want to," he said honestly. "I want to be the sort of man who could appreciate your strength without trying to control it."

"Wanting to and being able to are different things," Marianne said sadly. "And I can't spend my life hoping you'll eventually decide I'm acceptable as I am."

Before Henry could respond, the sound of voices from the lane announced another visitor. Lord Pembroke appeared at the garden gate, carrying what appeared to be a small basket and looking perfectly at ease in his role as welcomed caller.

"Lady Marianne," Pembroke called cheerfully, then noticed Henry with obvious surprise. "Lord Alton. How pleasant to see you."

"Lord Pembroke," Henry replied with forced politeness.

"I brought those damson preserves I mentioned," Pembroke continued, approaching with the easy confidence of someone who belonged exactly where he was. "My cook made them yesterday, and I thought you might enjoy sampling the recipe before attempting your own batch."

"How thoughtful," Marianne said, accepting the basket with genuine warmth. "Would you like to stay for tea? I was just finishing some garden work."

"I'd be delighted, if I'm not interrupting anything important."

Henry realized he was being politely dismissed. The conversation that had felt so crucial moments before was clearly over, and his presence was now superfluous to whatever comfortable domestic scene was about to unfold between Marianne and her increasingly favored suitor.

"I should return to my own estate," he said stiffly. "Thank you for... for listening to my apology, Lady Marianne."

"Of course. And Lord Alton? I hope you'll continue to participate fully in the festival planning. Your expertise is invaluable to the project's success."

The careful professionalism in her voice made it clear that their personal relationship was being relegated to the sort of formal collaboration he'd claimed to want. It was exactly what he'd demanded yesterday, and it felt like a slow death.

As Henry walked back across the lane, he could hear Marianne and Pembroke's voices behind him—easy, warm, completely natural. The sort of effortless compatibility he'd been too proud and frightened to create with her himself.

By the time he reached his own front door, Henry understood with crushing clarity that his apology had accomplished nothing except confirming Marianne's decision to choose security and acceptance over the messy uncertainty of loving someone who didn't know how to love her back.

He'd lost her.

And the most devastating part was that he'd lost her to a man who was everything Henry should have been: confident enough to appreciate her strength, secure enough to encourage her independence, and wise enough to love her exactly as she was rather than as she might become.

The worst part wasn't that Pembroke was wrong for her.

The worst part was that Pembroke was absolutely right for her, while Henry had proven himself to be exactly the sort of man she was wise to avoid.

Standing in his perfectly ordered hallway, surrounded by the careful control he'd chosen over authentic connection, Henry finally understood what he'd sacrificed for the illusion of safety.

And realized it was probably too late to get it back.