Page 32 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)
Chapter Twenty-Four
H enry had spent the morning attempting to focus on festival logistics, but the final preparations felt increasingly surreal—like arranging deck chairs on a ship he knew was about to sink.
Every banner hung, every booth positioned, every schedule confirmed brought him closer to what would likely be the most torturous day of his adult life.
When Lady Margaret had suggested a final walkthrough of the festival grounds to ensure everything was properly positioned, Henry had agreed partly from professional duty and partly from masochistic curiosity about how much emotional punishment he could endure before something inside him finally broke.
They had completed their inspection of the main stage and vendor areas when Henry noticed a familiar figure near the ancient oak that dominated one corner of the common.
Lord Pembroke stood beneath its spreading branches, apparently examining something in his hands while glancing frequently toward the path that led from Lavender Cottage.
"Lord Pembroke seems to be waiting for someone," Lady Margaret observed with obvious satisfaction. "How romantic—that oak is one of the most picturesque spots on the entire common."
Henry felt his stomach clench as the implications became clear. Pembroke wasn't randomly admiring the scenery; he was positioning himself for what was clearly meant to be a significant conversation in carefully chosen surroundings.
"Perhaps we should give him privacy," Henry said, though his feet seemed rooted to the spot.
"Oh, but surely there's no harm in ensuring the festival decorations are properly arranged around such an important location," Lady Margaret replied with the sort of innocent expression that fooled absolutely no one.
Before Henry could protest, the sound of voices announced Marianne's approach.
She appeared on the path from her cottage, wearing a simple blue dress that brought out the gold in her hair and carrying what appeared to be a small basket.
Her expression was composed, but Henry caught something underneath it—a tension that suggested she knew exactly what was about to happen.
"Lady Marianne!" Pembroke called with obvious pleasure, moving to meet her with the sort of confident stride that belonged to a man certain of his reception. "How good of you to join me. I hope the afternoon isn't too cool for a walk?"
"Not at all," Marianne replied, though Henry noticed she clutched her shawl more tightly. "You mentioned wanting to discuss festival arrangements?"
"Among other things," Pembroke said warmly, offering his arm. "But first, would you mind if we sat for a moment? I've found the most perfect spot, and there's something particular I'd like to share with you."
Henry watched them settle beneath the oak tree, Pembroke arranging their seating with obvious care to ensure the most romantic possible setting.
Lady Margaret made some excuse about checking the nearby flower arrangements, but Henry found himself unable to move away from his position where he could observe the scene unfolding.
He knew he should leave, knew that witnessing Pembroke's proposal would be a form of self-torture that served no useful purpose. But something—morbid curiosity, desperate hope, or simple inability to look away from his own romantic destruction—kept him frozen in place.
"Marianne," Pembroke began, his voice carrying clearly in the still afternoon air, "these past weeks have been among the happiest of my adult life."
"They've been... very pleasant," Marianne replied, though her tone seemed oddly restrained for someone about to receive a proposal from the perfect man.
"More than pleasant, I hope. At least, I've found our time together to be absolutely revelatory about what I want from my future.
" Pembroke shifted closer to her on the bench, his intentions becoming unmistakable.
"You've shown me what genuine partnership could look like—two people working together toward shared goals, supporting each other's dreams, building something meaningful that neither could achieve alone. "
Henry felt something twist painfully in his chest. Pembroke was describing exactly what Henry had wanted to offer Marianne but had been too frightened to attempt.
"That does sound... appealing," Marianne said quietly.
"I believe we could have that together," Pembroke continued, reaching into his coat pocket. "I believe we could create exactly the sort of life that would honor both our values and ambitions."
Even from his distance, Henry could see the small velvet box that appeared in Pembroke's hands. The moment he'd been dreading—and expecting—for days was finally arriving.
"Marianne," Pembroke said, dropping to one knee with practiced grace, "would you do me the extraordinary honor of becoming my wife?"
The words hit Henry like physical blows. This was it. The end of any possibility, however remote, that Marianne might choose differently. The final confirmation that his own cowardice and pride had cost him the only woman he'd ever truly loved.
Henry braced himself for Marianne's immediate acceptance, for the joy and excitement that would follow Pembroke's perfect proposal in the perfect setting to the perfect woman who had every reason to say yes without hesitation.
Instead, Marianne was very still, staring down at the ring Pembroke held toward her with an expression Henry couldn't read from his position.
"James," she said finally, and even across the distance Henry could hear something strained in her voice. "I'm... I'm deeply honored by your proposal."
But. Henry found himself holding his breath, waiting for a word that might change everything.
"The honor you do me is extraordinary," Marianne continued, "and I'm grateful for the partnership and affection you're offering."
Still no acceptance. Henry felt a flicker of something that might have been hope stirring in his chest.
"But I find myself needing to ask for something that might seem... unusual," Marianne said, her voice growing stronger. "Could I... that is, would it be possible for me to have some time to consider your proposal properly?"
The words hit Henry with such force that he actually staggered slightly. Time to consider. Not an immediate acceptance of the perfect proposal from the perfect man, but a request for space to think.
Pembroke's expression showed surprise but not displeasure. "Of course," he said graciously, rising to his feet. "This is a momentous decision, and you should take whatever time you need to be absolutely certain."
"Thank you for understanding. I just... I want to be sure I can give you the sort of wholehearted commitment such a partnership deserves."
Wholehearted commitment. The phrase suggested that her heart wasn't entirely convinced, despite all of Pembroke's obvious virtues.
"Take all the time you need," Pembroke said, closing the ring box and returning it to his pocket. "I'd rather wait for your enthusiastic yes than rush you into uncertainty."
Henry watched them rise from the bench, Pembroke offering his arm for the walk back to her cottage with the same gentle courtesy he'd shown throughout their courtship.
But there was something different in Marianne's posture now—a tension that hadn't been there before, as if the actual moment of proposal had clarified something she hadn't expected.
As they disappeared down the path toward Lavender Cottage, Henry found himself alone with Lady Margaret, who was watching him with obvious curiosity.
"How interesting," she said mildly. "I wasn't expecting Lady Marianne to ask for time to consider. Lord Pembroke seems like such an obvious choice."
"Perhaps obvious choices aren't always the right ones," Henry replied, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't quite suppress.
"Perhaps not," Lady Margaret agreed with a meaningful look. "Though sometimes the right choice requires more courage than people think they possess."
Henry spent the remainder of the afternoon in a state of emotional turmoil that made productive work impossible.
Marianne had asked for time to consider Pembroke's proposal.
Not rejected it—he couldn't allow himself to hope for that much—but hadn't immediately accepted what any rational woman would see as the offer of a lifetime.
What did that hesitation mean? Was she simply being appropriately thoughtful about such a momentous decision? Or was there some part of her that wasn't entirely convinced Pembroke was the right choice?
And if there was doubt in her mind about marrying the perfect man, what did that say about what she truly wanted from marriage?
Henry found himself pacing his study as the afternoon faded into evening, trying to interpret Marianne's request for time like a military intelligence puzzle with life-or-death implications.
The rational interpretation was that she was being sensibly cautious about accepting a proposal that would determine the rest of her life. Even when the proposal came from an ideal suitor, some consideration was natural and appropriate.
But the hopeful interpretation—the one Henry hardly dared entertain—was that some part of Marianne remained unconvinced that practical compatibility was enough.
That despite all of Pembroke's virtues, something in her heart was holding back from embracing a future built on mutual respect rather than passionate love.
By nightfall, Henry had reached a decision that surprised him with its clarity: if Marianne's hesitation meant there was even the smallest chance she might choose differently, he owed it to both of them to give her a real alternative to consider.
Not the careful, controlled version of himself that had spent weeks trying to manage her into acceptability, but the man who was desperately, completely, irrevocably in love with her exactly as she was.
The man who would rather risk everything for the chance of authentic happiness than spend the rest of his life regretting what he'd been too frightened to fight for.
Tomorrow was the festival—the culmination of all their joint work, the celebration of the charitable cause they both cared about passionately. If Marianne was going to make a final decision about her future, it would likely happen in the context of that shared achievement.
And if Henry was going to find the courage to offer her his heart without conditions or reservations, tomorrow would be his last chance to do it.
The thought terrified him more than any military battle he'd ever faced.
It also felt like the first truly honest decision he'd made since the day he'd first seen her standing in that pond, dripping and defiant and absolutely magnificent in her refusal to apologize for who she was.
Win or lose, he was going to fight for her.
Even if it meant risking the careful control he'd spent his entire adult life building.
Even if it meant accepting that love—real love—required the sort of vulnerability that could destroy everything he thought he'd wanted.
Because losing Marianne to his own cowardice would destroy him anyway.
And at least this way, he'd know he'd been brave enough to try.