Page 4 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Four

L ord Henry Alton prided himself on routine.

He rose at six, took his morning ride at seven, reviewed estate correspondence at eight, and was seated at his perfectly appointed breakfast table by nine.

His days proceeded with military precision—a necessity that had served him well through war and continued to serve him in peacetime.

This morning, however, his concentration wavered.

It was the noise, he told himself firmly, reaching for his coffee cup with perhaps more force than necessary.

How was a man expected to focus on agricultural reports when his neighbor's menagerie insisted on providing a dawn chorus that belonged in a zoological garden rather than the Somerset countryside?

The peacock's shriek echoed across the lane just as Henry attempted to review the quarterly tenant reports, and he found his pen scratching an irritated line across the page. He set down the pen and rubbed his temples, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

Control. Discipline. Order. These things had kept him alive through six years of military campaigns and helped him rebuild his family's estate from near bankruptcy. He would not allow them to be undermined by a woman who apparently believed domestic animals were optional houseguests.

The irony, of course, was that he'd specifically chosen this estate for its peace and quiet. Up until now, the occasional widow tenant across the way had not disrupted anything.

Henry rose from his desk and moved to the window that overlooked the lane separating his property from Lavender Cottage.

The view that had once offered him such satisfaction—perfectly manicured grounds, orderly flower beds, properly maintained fencing—now seemed almost sterile compared to the cheerful chaos visible across the way.

Even now, he could see Lady Marianne in her garden, apparently engaged in what appeared to be a philosophical discussion with a goat. She gestured animatedly while the creature listened with what seemed like genuine attention, its head tilted at an almost human angle of consideration.

Despite himself, Henry found his mouth quirking upward.

Yesterday, he'd watched her spend twenty minutes teaching the pug to sit properly, only to have the dog immediately roll over and play dead the moment she turned her back.

Rather than scolding the creature, she'd laughed with such genuine delight that Henry had found himself smiling from behind his morning room curtains.

Which was ridiculous. He had no business watching his neighbor's daily activities, much less finding them charming.

Henry forced himself back to his desk, but the quarterly reports held no appeal.

Instead, his mind wandered to the previous day's encounter by the pond.

The way Lady Marianne had stood there, dripping wet and completely unashamed, defending her peacock's right to terrorize clergymen.

The sparkle in her eyes when she'd complimented his "excellent hands"—and the way she'd blushed when she realized how it sounded.

He shook his head firmly. This was exactly the sort of undisciplined thinking that led to poor decisions. Lady Marianne was his neighbor, nothing more. The fact that she approached life with the same enthusiasm most people reserved for carnival celebrations was none of his concern.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his determined focus. "Enter," he called, grateful for the distraction.

"My lord," his butler announced, "this arrived by special messenger."

Henry accepted the elegant envelope, noting the fine paper and formal seal. Inside, he found an invitation written in Lady Joanna's distinctive hand:

The Somerset Widows cordially request your presence at the First Annual Somerset Festival for Foundling Care, to be held on the village common and surrounding grounds. Your estate's proximity and your reputation as a gentleman of honor make your participation invaluable to our cause.

Festival Committee: Lady Joanna Ashworth, Chairman; Mrs. Charlotte Pemberton, Entertainment; Lady Margaret Thornfield, Logistics; Miss Caroline Fairfax, Community Relations; Lady Victoria Ashworth, Patronage; Lady Marianne Linfield, Special Events Coordination.

We do hope you will consider lending your support to such a worthy endeavor.

Henry read the invitation twice, his eyes lingering on one name in particular.

Special Events Coordination. Of course Lady Marianne would be in charge of the most unpredictable aspects of the festival.

The woman who couldn't keep a peacock from stealing clergymen's hats was now coordinating special events for the entire county.

The cause itself was admirable—foundling care was desperately needed, though rarely discussed in polite society.

Henry had seen enough war orphans to understand the importance of proper institutions for children without families.

The Somerset Widows were to be commended for taking on such a challenging project.

But a festival? With Lady Marianne in charge of coordination?

Henry set the invitation aside and attempted to return to his reports, but his mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, he found himself thinking about Lady Marianne's obvious affection for her rescued animals, the way she spoke to each creature as if it were a valued family member.

There was something touching about her complete lack of self-consciousness, her willingness to wade into pond water to retrieve a hat or chase a goat through his hedge without regard for appearances.

It reminded him of someone he used to be, before military discipline became a necessity for survival.

Henry caught himself in this dangerous line of thinking and deliberately turned his attention to estate matters. He had correspondence to answer, accounts to review, and a meeting with his steward about the spring planting. His life was productive, purposeful, and perfectly organized.

So why did it suddenly feel so... empty?

The question followed him through his morning routine, nagging at him as he reviewed crop rotations and discussed tenant improvements. Even during his afternoon ride—usually his most peaceful time of day—he found his attention drifting to the sounds from across the lane.

It wasn't until he was returning to the stable that he acknowledged what was really troubling him.

For six years, he'd built his life around the principle that order and control were the keys to success.

Structure had saved him during the war, discipline had restored his family's fortune, and careful planning had earned him respect in the community.

But watching Lady Marianne embrace chaos with such obvious joy made him wonder if he'd structured the joy right out of his existence.

Henry was still pondering this uncomfortable thought when his groom appeared, looking unusually flustered.

"My lord, there's a rather grand carriage approaching the cottage across the way. Looks like London quality, if you don't mind my saying."

Henry glanced toward Lavender Cottage and immediately understood his groom's reaction. The approaching carriage was indeed magnificent—black lacquer with gold trim, pulled by four perfectly matched grays, and bearing a coat of arms that spoke of wealth and consequence.

As the vehicle drew to a halt in front of Lady Marianne's gate, Henry found himself moving closer to his own fence line, ostensibly to check the repair work his gardeners had done after Beelzebub's latest assault on his hedge.

The carriage door opened, and an elderly gentleman emerged—clearly a man of importance, from his bearing to his expensive clothing. He was followed by a younger man who immediately drew Henry's attention for all the wrong reasons.

The fellow was perhaps thirty, with elaborately styled hair and a coat so ornate it belonged in a theater rather than the countryside.

Everything about him screamed affectation, from his jeweled walking stick to the way he paused dramatically beside the carriage as if expecting applause for his mere existence.

Henry had an immediate, visceral dislike for the man, though he couldn't quite identify why. There was something about the calculating way the stranger surveyed Lady Marianne's property, the possessive manner in which he adjusted his cravat, that set Henry's teeth on edge.

From across the lane came the sound of voices—Lady Marianne's surprised greeting, the older gentleman's authoritative response, and underneath it all, the newcomer's affected drawl that seemed designed to impress.

Henry couldn't make out the words, but he could read the body language clearly enough.

Lady Marianne had gone very still, her usual animated gestures subdued.

The older gentleman was speaking in the tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed, while the younger man postured and preened with the obvious self-satisfaction of a peacock displaying his plumage.

Indeed, Henry thought with sudden clarity, the fellow reminded him remarkably of Clarence—all flash and noise and insufferable vanity, convinced of his own magnificence while contributing absolutely nothing of value to anyone's existence.

As if summoned by this unflattering comparison, Clarence himself appeared atop the cottage gate, took one look at the overdressed visitor, and released a shriek of what could only be described as professional indignation.

Even from his position across the lane, Henry could see the younger man's startled jump backward, nearly colliding with his companion in his haste to escape the peacock's judgment.

Henry grinned, despite himself. Clarence, it seemed, had excellent taste in detecting pretentious fools.

The group moved toward the cottage door, Lady Marianne's reluctance visible in every line of her posture. As they disappeared inside, Henry realized he was gripping his fence post with unnecessary force, his jaw clenched with an anger that surprised him with its intensity.

Who were these people to make Lady Marianne look so unhappy? And what business did that overdressed popinjay have appearing at her door with such obvious expectations?

Henry forced himself to return to the house, but his peaceful afternoon was thoroughly destroyed. He found himself pacing his study, glancing repeatedly toward the window that offered a view of Lavender Cottage, wondering what was transpiring behind those cheerful walls.

When had his neighbor's welfare become a matter of such personal concern? When had her happiness begun to matter more than his own carefully maintained routine?

The questions followed him through the rest of the day, unanswered and increasingly urgent. By evening, the grand carriage remained in place, its presence a constant reminder that Lady Marianne was entertaining visitors who clearly didn't appreciate her particular brand of joyful chaos.

As Henry prepared for dinner, he found himself making an unprecedented decision.

That evening, he would call on Lady Marianne to discuss the festival invitation—a perfectly reasonable neighborly response that would also allow him to assess her situation with these uninvited guests and ensure that whoever these people were, they understood she was not without friends and allies in Somerset.

After all, he told himself firmly, it was simply good neighborly behavior. Nothing more.

But as he caught sight of his reflection in his dressing room mirror, Henry realized he was lying to himself. He wanted to see her. Something was happening across the way and he wanted to see how she reacted to it all.

Which was perhaps the most undisciplined thought he'd entertained in years.

And yet, as another peacock shriek echoed across the evening air—this one sounding distinctly like a battle cry—Henry found himself looking forward to tomorrow's visit with anticipation rather than duty.

Order and control were admirable qualities, but perhaps it was time to discover what lay beyond the boundaries of his well-structured life.