Page 30 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)
Chapter Twenty-Two
H enry had always prided himself on being observant, but he'd never realized how much torture such a quality could inflict until he found himself cataloging every interaction between Marianne and Lord Pembroke with the systematic attention he'd once devoted to military reconnaissance.
Three days had passed since his disastrous apology attempt, and in that time he'd witnessed a courtship proceeding with the sort of natural progression that made his own clumsy efforts seem pathetic by comparison.
Pembroke called daily, always with some thoughtful gift or practical assistance.
Yesterday it had been a selection of bulbs perfectly suited to Marianne's garden conditions.
This morning, Henry had watched from his study window as Pembroke helped her relocate a small tree that needed better drainage.
The ease between them was unmistakable. No awkward formality, no careful negotiations about propriety, just two people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company working together toward shared goals.
It was exactly what Henry had wanted to offer her and had been too frightened to attempt.
The sound of voices in his front garden drew Henry's attention away from the agricultural reports he'd been staring at without comprehension.
Through his window, he could see Lady Margaret from the Widows' circle speaking with his gardener about something involving animated hand gestures and obvious excitement.
"Begging your pardon, my lord," his butler appeared in the doorway, "but Lady Margaret wishes to speak with you about the festival flower arrangements. She says it's rather urgent."
Henry suppressed a sigh. Festival business had become a constant reminder of his partnership with Marianne—a partnership that was now conducted with the sort of polite professionalism that made him miss their former arguments.
He found Lady Margaret examining his late-blooming roses with the focused attention of someone planning a military campaign.
"Lord Alton," she said with obvious relief. "I'm so glad I caught you. We have a crisis with the festival decorations, and I need your guidance about approaching Lady Marianne."
"What sort of crisis?"
"The flower wholesaler in Bath has let us down completely—some nonsense about a contract with another event. We need local gardens to supplement our arrangements, and yours has the finest late roses in the county."
Henry felt a familiar tightness in his chest at the prospect of more festival coordination with Marianne. "I'm sure Lady Marianne can handle the situation without my involvement."
"Oh, but that's just it," Lady Margaret said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I don't want to bother her with such details when she has so much else on her mind."
"Such as?"
"Well, her engagement preparations, of course!"
Henry felt the world tilt slightly. "Her engagement preparations?"
"Oh dear," Lady Margaret's hand flew to her mouth. "Have I spoken out of turn? I assumed everyone knew by now—Lord Pembroke has been so attentive, and he asked my advice about Somerset customs for formal proposals just yesterday..."
The words seemed to come from very far away. Henry gripped the garden gate to steady himself while Lady Margaret continued her excited chatter.
"Such a romantic courtship! And so well-suited they are—both so interested in charitable work and progressive thinking. Lady Joanna says she's never seen two people so perfectly matched in temperament and values."
"Lady Joanna said that?"
"Oh yes, we all think it's a wonderful match. Lord Pembroke is exactly the sort of man who can appreciate Lady Marianne's... spirited nature... without being overwhelmed by it." Lady Margaret beamed with vicarious satisfaction. "And she seems so content with his attentions. Quite glowing, really."
Henry made some appropriate noise of agreement while his mind reeled. An engagement. Pembroke was planning a formal proposal, had sought advice about local customs, was presumably waiting only for the right romantic moment to make his intentions official.
"Of course," Lady Margaret continued, "some people think he'll propose during the festival—how romantic would that be? A public declaration during our charitable celebration, with the whole community there to witness their happiness."
The image of Pembroke proposing to Marianne in front of the entire county, with Henry forced to smile and offer congratulations while his heart shattered into pieces, made him feel physically ill.
"Lady Margaret," he managed, "about the flower arrangements..."
"Oh yes! Would you be willing to contribute some of your roses? I hate to ask, but with Lady Marianne being so distracted by... well, by romance... I thought it best to handle such practical matters myself."
"Of course. Take whatever you need."
As Lady Margaret bustled away with permission to strip his garden for the festival that would likely witness his final heartbreak, Henry remained standing among his perfectly maintained rose beds, trying to process the reality of what was coming.
Marianne was going to marry Pembroke. Not someday, not eventually, but soon. Possibly within days.
The morning passed in a blur of estate business that Henry handled with mechanical efficiency while his thoughts churned with increasingly desperate possibilities.
Could he interfere? Declare his feelings publicly and force Marianne to choose between them?
Convince her that Pembroke, despite his obvious virtues, wasn't worthy of her?
All of these options were not only dishonorable but futile.
Marianne had made her choice based on rational considerations that Henry couldn't dispute.
Pembroke offered her genuine partnership, unconditional acceptance, and the sort of uncomplicated affection that didn't require constant negotiation.
What could Henry offer in comparison? The promise that he might eventually learn to appreciate her without trying to control her? The hope that his feelings were strong enough to overcome a lifetime of careful emotional management?
Even if such promises were credible—which they weren't—he had no right to disrupt her happiness based on his own belated recognition of what he'd thrown away.
The afternoon brought fresh torture in the form of a visit from Tom Smith, who'd come to discuss winter preparations for the tenant cottages but seemed far more interested in discussing local romantic developments.
"Quite the excitement in the village, my lord," Tom said as they reviewed the list of needed repairs. "Everyone's talking about Lady Marianne and Lord Pembroke."
"Are they?" Henry tried to keep his voice neutral.
"Oh yes. My Sarah says she's never seen a courtship proceed so smoothly. No drama, no uncertainty, just two sensible people recognizing they're perfectly suited for each other."
No drama, no uncertainty. Unlike the emotional chaos Henry had brought to every interaction with Marianne.
"Lord Pembroke seems like a decent man," Henry said carefully.
"More than decent—he's exactly what Lady Marianne needs.
Someone who appreciates her particular way of doing things without trying to change her.
" Tom's approval was obvious. "Sarah was saying just yesterday how refreshing it is to see a gentleman who values a woman's independence rather than being threatened by it. "
Each word felt like a deliberate criticism of Henry's own behavior, though he knew Tom meant no such thing.
"And Lady Marianne seems... content... with his attentions?"
"Content?" Tom laughed. "She's positively blooming, my lord. Happier than I've seen her since she arrived in Somerset. Whatever reservations she might have had initially, she's clearly made her peace with the idea of marriage to Lord Pembroke."
Made her peace with. The phrase suggested resignation rather than enthusiasm, but Henry forced himself not to read hope into what was likely just Tom's choice of words.
"Sarah thinks he'll propose at the festival," Tom continued cheerfully. "What could be more romantic than declaring yourself during a celebration for such a worthy cause? Shows he understands what matters to her."
Henry spent the remainder of Tom's visit making appropriate responses while contemplating the exquisite torture of watching the woman he loved accept another man's proposal in front of the entire community he'd helped her build.
By evening, he'd heard variations of the same story from his cook, his groom, and the boy who delivered milk from the neighboring farm.
Everyone in Somerset knew that Lord Pembroke was planning to propose.
Everyone thought it was a perfect match.
Everyone was delighted by the prospect of Lady Marianne's happiness.
Everyone except Henry, who sat in his study that night staring at estate accounts while imagining scenarios where catastrophe struck the festival, or Pembroke suddenly revealed hidden character flaws, or Marianne realized at the last moment that she couldn't marry a man she didn't truly love.
All of these fantasies were not only unlikely but selfish. Marianne deserved the security and acceptance Pembroke offered. She deserved a husband who could appreciate her exactly as she was rather than as she might become with proper guidance.
The fact that Henry had finally realized he wanted to be that husband—too late and with too little credibility—was his own fault and his own problem to solve.
Around midnight, Henry abandoned any pretense of productive work and moved to the window that offered a view of Lavender Cottage. The windows glowed warmly in the darkness, and he could see the shadows of Marianne's animal companions moving about their evening routines.
Tomorrow, or the next day, or sometime very soon, those windows would belong to Lord and Lady Pembroke. The cottage would hum with the contentment of a well-matched couple pursuing shared goals and building a life based on mutual respect and compatible values.
It was everything Henry had claimed to want for her.
It was also everything he now realized he wanted for himself—but with her, not despite her.
With her impulsive kindness, her chaotic household, her tendency to prioritize principle over propriety.
With all the qualities that made her uniquely herself rather than a careful imitation of social expectations.
But wanting something you'd already lost was just another form of self-torture, and Henry had inflicted enough of that on both of them.
As he prepared for what would likely be another sleepless night, Henry made a decision that felt like the first honest choice he'd made in weeks: when Pembroke proposed—whether at the festival or before it—Henry would offer his sincere congratulations and then quietly remove himself from Somerset.
He would finish the festival coordination, ensure the foundling charity was properly established, and then find somewhere else to pursue his agricultural innovations. Somewhere he wouldn't have to watch Marianne build a happy life with a man who was everything Henry should have been.
It was the least he could do for a woman he'd failed so completely—give her the space to be happy without the constant reminder of what might have been if he'd been brave enough to love her properly from the beginning.
The decision should have brought relief. Instead, as Henry finally climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he felt only the hollow certainty that he was about to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him.
And that, unlike every other challenge he'd faced in his adult life, this was one problem that couldn't be solved through careful planning and disciplined effort.
Some mistakes, he was learning, couldn't be corrected.
Some chances, once lost, never came again.
And some forms of happiness were only recognizable in retrospect, when it was far too late to choose them.