Page 11 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)

CHAPTER 11

“ W ould you like some more tea, Lady Marian?”

A servant’s voice pulled Marian back to the present. She smiled absentmindedly at the young girl standing in front of her. “No, thank you.”

Morning light spilled across the breakfast room with merciless clarity, highlighting every awkward glance between Marian and Nicholas like a poorly rehearsed stage play.

Marian poked the eggs on her plate with mechanical precision, watching the fork make tiny holes in the meal that matched her bruised ego. Across the table from her, Nicholas appeared thoroughly engrossed in his newspaper though she noticed he hadn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes.

“You have barely touched your food, Marian.” Her mother’s voice cut through her reverie.

Marian forced herself to release the fork she had been gripping with a white-knuckled intensity. The soft clink of silver against her plate seemed to draw Nicholas’s attention — or perhaps she merely imagined the slight tensing of his shoulders behind his paper fortress.

“You seem quieter than usual this morning,” Diana observed softly from beside her.

“I am just tired, Diana,” Marian replied though the words tasted like ashes in her mouth. “I fear I didn’t sleep well.”

This, at least, was no lie. She had spent most of the night replaying every moment in Nicholas’s bedchamber — the warmth of brandy, the thrill of forbidden games, the embarrassing cigar, the devastating gentleness of his kiss. Each memory was a fresh torment, a reminder of her own foolishness in mistaking a business arrangement and a moment’s pleasure for something deeper.

“Lord Stone,” Lady Prudence’s voice carried across the table, “you seem unusually absorbed in the scandal sheets this morning. Has something particularly fascinating happened?”

Nicholas lowered his paper with practiced ease, his smile as perfect and meaningless as a painted backdrop. “Not at all, My Lady. I am simply considering the effects of the new trade regulations. Fascinating reading for those of us who are cursed with business minds.”

Their eyes met briefly across the scattered remains of breakfast, and Marian felt heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of how intensely those same eyes had darkened with desire mere hours ago. She looked away first, hating herself for showing weakness.

The morning seemed to stretch endlessly, each hour marked by careful avoidance and accidental encounters. She found herself hyperaware of his presence in every room — the sound of his laugh during cards with Elias, the familiar cadence of his footsteps in the corridor, the subtle scent of his tobacco when she passed by the library.

By afternoon, she had developed an elaborate system of navigation through the house party’s various entertainments, carefully calculating the precise number of steps needed to maintain what distance she needed while appearing completely unconcerned with his whereabouts. It was exhausting work, this performance of indifference.

“You are being rather obvious, you know,” Jane commented as they strolled through the garden, her voice pitched low enough that their mother, who was walking ahead with Diana, could not hear.

“I am quite sure I have no idea what you mean, Jane.”

“Don’t you?” Jane’s knowing look could have peeled the wallpaper from the drawing room’s walls. “You have spent the entire morning looking everywhere except at Lord Stone which rather defeats the purpose of pretending not to look at him at all.”

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Marian protested though she felt a familiar heat crawl its way up her neck.

“Neither does whatever happened between the two of you, yet here we are.” Jane linked their arms together, her touch offering silent sisterly support. “Though, I must say, he does seem equally afflicted. I have never seen a gentleman so fascinated by every door you exit through.”

As if summoned by her words, Nicholas appeared at the far end of the garden path, deep in conversation with the Duke of Myste. Marian’s steps faltered for just a moment before she forced herself to continue forward, chin lifted in what she hoped to be a casual disinterest rather than desperate preservation of what little dignity she had left.

She saw the exact moment he registered her presence — the slight pause in his stride, the way his hand tightened almost imperceptibly into a fist at his side. Their eyes met across the carefully manicured lawn, and for a heartbeat, everything else seemed to blur and fade away.

Then, the Viscount’s voice cut through the garden air like a badly tuned violin, and reality came crashing back. “Lady Marian. What luck it is running into you.”

“Your luck seems rather persistent today, My Lord,” Diana spoke up unexpectedly from beside Marian, her voice carrying a rare note of steel beneath her usual demureness. “This is the third ‘chance’ encounter in as many hours.”

The Viscount’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “Lady Diana. I hadn’t noticed you there. You blend so… seamlessly into the background.”

“A rather useful skill,” Jane cut in, linking her arm protectively through her twin’s. “One learns so much more about people’s true nature when they think themselves unobserved.”

Marian felt a sense of pride at her sister’s united front. “Indeed. Though some natures require little observation to discern.”

Marian felt Nicholas’ attention sharpen even as she turned to address the unwelcome interruption. The Viscount approached with his usual blend of entitlement and false charm, either ignorant of or deliberately ignoring the tension he had walked into.

“My Lord,” she inclined her head politely, “I fear you mistake fortune for inevitability. In a house party of this size, encounters are rather difficult to avoid,” she said dryly, stealing a glimpse at Nicholas. She caught his poorly concealed smile at her barb, even as the Viscount’s expression soured noticeably.

“Perhaps,” he recovered smoothly, “though some encounters are more welcome than others.”

The Baroness Hountshire chose this moment to sweep into their circle like an elegantly dressed hurricane. “My dears! Such a charming gathering. Lord Crowton, I do believe Lady Wellington was just asking after you. Something about your investment in her husband’s shipping venture?”

The Viscount’s expression suggested the investment was one he’d rather forget about entirely. “Was she? How… inconvenient. Please, excuse me,” he said, turning on his heels and leaving the ladies behind.

“My dear Lady Marian,” the Baroness continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy, “I could not help but notice your rather… spirited discussion with Lord Stone at dinner. Such passion for literature is quite remarkable in one so young as yourself.”

“Indeed,” Jane interjected smoothly, “though not nearly as remarkable as your ability to witness every conversation in a house this size, Baroness. One might almost suspect you of possessing supernatural powers of observation.”

“Either that,” Marian jested, “or an acute knowledge of secrete passageways which if you do possess, you must share it with us, My Lady.”

Diana’s soft voice chimed in with impeccable timing, “Or perhaps just an excess of leisure time.”

The Baroness chuckled, but her fan fluttered like an agitated bird. “Such clever tongues you Brandon girls possess. One hopes it will not interfere with your prospects.

“Better a clever tongue,” Marian replied with deadly sweetness, “than a loose one, would you not agree, Baroness?”

The afternoon hours draped themselves across the estate, beautiful but suffocatingly warm. Nicholas found himself haunting the periphery of every gathering, his attention divided between watching Marian and monitoring the Viscount’s increasingly bold attempts to corner her. He silently wondered if the old man was truly taken with her, and as such had chosen to ignore her constant jabs and dejections, or if he was playing at something larger, scheming at something to hurt her.

“You are becoming rather obvious, old friend,” Elias murmured as they stood observing yet another one of the Viscount’s failed attempts to engage Marian in conversation. “One might almost think you were… concerned.”

“That man,” Nicholas replied, “is a snake.” He took a measured sip of his drink to hide his expression. “And Lady Marian, well, she seems determined to handle him on her own.”

“Ah, yes, you and your constant vigilance. It is purely altruistic, I am sure.” Elias’s knowing tone made Nicholas’s jaw tighten. “I suppose it has nothing at all to do with how you have not managed to look away from her for more than two minutes at a time since breakfast?”

“You are being absurd,” Nicholas said dryly.

“Am I?”

“I am simply being… cautious that a lady’s virtue is not threatened.”

“Is that what we are calling it now?” Elias raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. And tell me, does this caution extend to all the ladies present? And how precisely does it explain why you look like you’ve swallowed poison each time she smiles at someone else?”

“Cautious?” Lydia appeared at her husband’s elbow, her eyes dancing with barely suppressed mirth. “I have seen less obvious sieges in military campaigns.”

Elias chuckled at his wife’s clever remark. “My dear,” he chided gently, “do not try to encourage him, in either direction.”

“Oh, but where is the fun in that?” Lydia’s smile turned impish. “Besides, someone needs to move this particular chess game along. The players are remarkably stubborn about advancing their pieces. Not a single match has been made during our gathering.”

Nicholas fixed them both with a quelling look. “I was not aware that my personal matters had become a source of entertainment for the entire household.”

“Not the entire household,” Lydia corrected cheerfully. “Just those of us with functioning eyes and a romantic sensibility. Though, I must say, for a man renowned for his business acumen, you are being remarkably slow to recognize a profitable venture.”

“Marriage is hardly what I would call a business transaction,” Nicholas replied stiffly.

“However,” Lydia continued, glancing between them and her sister, “some games of chess seem more intriguing than others. Particularly when both players seem so determined to sacrifice their queens rather than risk their kings.”

“Dearest,” Elias warned though his eyes held only amusement, “do remember that not everyone shares your enthusiasm for… strategic analysis.”

“On the contrary,” Nicholas replied coolly, “your wife’s talent for metaphor is quite remarkable. Though perhaps she might do better to find a more worthy subject for her observations?”

Lydia chuckled. “Oh, but what could be more worthy than watching two people determinedly ignore what is right in front of them?”

“Would you two give it a rest?” Elias said dryly.

“You are right, dear husband, we should let them sort it out themselves. But I fear at this rate, we will all be grey-haired before either makes a decisive move.” She shot a mischievous smile at her husband. “Dearest, will you come help me with the seating arrangements?” Lydia prodded.

“I shall be there momentarily, darling.” Elias said, pressing a kiss on Lydia’s cheek before she scurried off.

Before Nicholas could formulate a suitably cutting response, a flutter of activity near the entrance drew their attention. Servants were busy arranging flowers and moving furniture, transforming the already elegant space into something even more magnificent.

“The farewell ball,” Elias explained, though Nicholas hadn’t asked. “Lydia has been planning it for weeks. Every eligible bachelor in the county can be counted on to attend.”

The thought sat like lead in Nicholas’s stomach. “How… delightful.”

“Indeed. Though I suspect you will find it less so when they all start asking Lady Marian to dance.”

As if manifested by Elias’s words, the Duke of Myste chose that moment to approach Marian where she sat with her sister. Nicholas watched while something hot and unpleasant coiled up in his chest, just as the Duke executed a perfect bow.

“Lady Marian,” the Duke’s voice carried across the garden with practiced ease, “might I secure your first dance for this evening’s ball?”

Nicholas tried his best to convince himself that the tightness in his chest was merely out of concern for her welfare. After all, hadn’t he been the one to push her away? Hadn’t he been the one to make it clear that whatever had sparked between them in his chambers was nothing more than the act of ticking things off her list and that it was better left unexplored?

But watching her smile up at the Duke — that same bright, genuine smile he had come to think of as his — made him question every carefully reasoned argument his mind could have constructed.

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” Marian’s voice was warm and true, lacking the usual edge of steel she usually employed with unwanted suitors.

“Hmmm. The Duke of Myste,” Elias mused beside him. “A rather impressive catch for the Lady, would not you say? Titled, wealthy, intelligent enough to appreciate our Marian’s wit beneath the biting words…”

“Our Marian?” Nicholas cut in, perhaps more sharply than necessary.

“Ah, so you do still have a voice. I was beginning to wonder. Especially given how you’ve been silently brooding for the better part of the past hour.

“I do not brood.” Nicholas said dryly.

“No?” Elias’s smile was infuriating in its knowing sympathy. “Then what, pray tell, would you call this masterful display of silent suffering you have been treating us all to?”

“Strategic observation.”

“Of course. How foolish of me to mistake your careful surveillance of my sister-in-law’s every movement for something as common as jealousy.”

Nicholas turned to deliver what he had hoped would be a suitably quelling response, only to find Marian had moved closer. She stood closer than he expected, apparently on her way to the library. Their eyes met, and for a fraction of a moment, the carefully constructed walls between them vanished into thin air, wavering like a heat shimmer on a summer’s day.

She looked away first, a faint flush staining her cheeks as she hurried past him. The scent of rosewater lingered in her wake, and Nicholas found himself fighting the urge to follow after her, to explain… what? That he was sorry? That he wished things could be different? That every time he closed his eyes, he could still taste the brandy and desire upon her lips?

“You know,” Elias said quietly, breaking into his thoughts and pulling him back to the present, “for a man so dedicated to maintaining distance, you are doing a remarkably poor job of appearing unaffected. I have never seen you like this.”

“I am perfectly affected,” Nicholas muttered then caught himself. “Unaffected. I meant unaffected.”

Elias’s laugh held more sympathy than amusement. “Yes, I can see that. You are the very picture of dignified detachment. It is quite impressive, really, how you can manage to look both completely miserable and utterly besotted at the same time.”

“Do you not have a house party to host?”

“Indeed, I do. Though, I must say, watching you tie yourself in knots is far more entertaining than arranging seating charts with my wife.”

Nicholas scoffed at his friend and watched him take his leave with a heavy heart. Elias was right of course. He was both succeeding and failing spectacularly. And the ball tonight, well, that would bring an entirely different, more exquisite form of torture.

Lord Drownshire approached Nicholas then, his expression caught between paternal concern and social calculation. “Lord Stone, a word if you please? I need to speak with you about those trade regulations you mentioned to my wife at breakfast.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

They moved slightly apart from the others though not quite out of earshot. “I could not help but notice your… attention toward my eldest daughter.”

Nicholas maintained careful neutrality. “I assure you, My Lord, any attention paid is purely —”

“Unnecessary?” Lord Drownshire’s tone held no humor. “Come now, we are both men of the world. I have known you since you were a boy, watched you rebuild your father’s estate through sheer force of will. You are not a man who pays unnecessary attention to anything.”

“Sir, I —”

“I am not finished.” He glanced toward where Marian stood with her sisters. “That girl has rejected every suitable match presented to her. She reads too much, thinks too deeply, and speaks her mind far too freely. And yet…” He turned back to Nicholas. “… I have never seen her more animated than when debating philosophy with you.”

Nicholas felt something in his chest tighten again. “Your point being?”

“My point, young man, is that sometimes the most valuable investments require risk. And sometimes…” He smiled slightly. “… a father’s greatest duty is knowing when to step aside and let his children choose their own path. Think on that if you will, and when you have made up your mind — without any doubt — as to what your true intentions are with my daughter, come see me.”

The ballroom glowed like a jewel box come to life, countless candles reflecting off of crystal and gilt until the very air seemed to shimmer. Ladies in their finest silk gowns moved through the space like exotic butterflies, their jewelry catching and throwing light with each carefully executed step of the quadrille.

Marian stood slightly apart from the whirl of activity, using her fan with precise, measured movements that betrayed none of the turmoil beneath her carefully composed exterior. She watched as couple after couple took to the floor, each pair moving through the intricate steps of courtship disguised as dance.

“You seem rather contemplative this evening, Lady Marian.”

She turned to find the Duke of Myste at her elbow, his expression holding that particular blend of intelligence and wit she had come to associate with him in what little time she had spent in his presence during the last few days.

“I am simply appreciating the spectacle, Your Grace,” she replied, gesturing vaguely at the assembled company. “One might almost forget that beneath all this splendor lies the same tedious social machinations as always.”

“Ah, but is that not rather the point?” He offered his arm as the musicians began tuning for the next set. “To dress up our baser instincts in silk and ceremony?”

She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, aware of Nicholas’s gaze following their progress even though she deliberately didn’t look in his direction. “You make us sound positively primitive, Your Grace.”

“Duke Richard, please,” he said as they took their places. “And I rather think primitive implies a lack of sophistication. I would never dream to accuse the ton of that particular failing.”

The music began, and Marian found herself grateful for the familiar patterns of the dance. It gave her something to focus on besides the weight of Nicholas’ attention from across the room.

“You dance very well, Lady Marian,” the Duke observed as they executed a particularly complex turn.

“Is that surprise I detect in your tone, Duke Richard?”

“Not at all. I am merely appreciative of the way you approach all things you do with such… precision.” His smile reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Even your barbs are elegantly crafted, if I had to be honest.”

She felt herself returning his smile despite her melancholy. “Now you are just flattering me.”

“I never flatter without purpose. It is terribly inefficient.”

“A refreshingly honest approach,” Marian observed as they turned through another corner. “Though I wonder about the purpose behind this particular instance of non-flattery, Duke Richard?”

The Duke’s smile was warm and genuine. “Perhaps I simply enjoy conversing with someone who sees beyond the usual social facades — and is not afraid to speak their mind on it.”

“How diplomatic of you. Though I must warn you, Your Grace, seeing beyond facades can be rather dangerous in… certain circles.”

“Is that why you prefer to maintain your own?” he asked quietly. “Is that the purpose of this armor you don each day, made of wit and sharp remarks, Lady Marian?”

Marian missed a step but recovered smoothly. “You seem remarkably interested in my… defenses, Duke Richard.”

“Let us just say I recognize a kindred spirit. Though perhaps…” His gaze flickered briefly to where Nicholas stood. “… I am not the only one who feels a connection.”

“I am not sure I take your meaning, Duke Richard,” she replied, her voice earnest.

“No?” His tone was gentle. “Then why do you keep looking for Lord Stone when you think I will not notice?”

Marian’s breath hitched and she bit her lip. “I… did not… Well, I mean no offence, Duke Richard.”

“None taken, My Lady, none at all,” he assured her.

The dance continued, and Marian found herself actually enjoying the Duke’s company. His conversation was clever without being cutting, interested without being intrusive. It was exactly the kind of attention she should want — appropriate, measured, proper.

So why did it feel so hollow compared to the memory of brandy-flavored kisses and forbidden card games?

The music drew to a close, and the Duke bowed over her hand with perfect courtesy. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Marian. Your company is as refreshing as ever.”

She had barely finished her curtsy when she felt another presence at her elbow. Her heart performed an entirely unauthorized flutter as Nicholas’ voice cut through the general hubbub of the ballroom.

“Might I claim the next dance?”

She turned to find him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch. Proper form dictated that she could refuse — after all, they had already danced once at this house party and any more might spark gossip. But something in his expression made refusal impossible.

“If you wish, Lord Stone” she said, proud of how steady her voice remained.

He led her onto the floor just as the opening strains of a waltz filled the air. Of course, it would be a waltz — the most intimate of dances, requiring his hand at her waist and their bodies held closer than strict propriety usually allowed.

They moved in silence for several measures, the tension between them building with each turn. His hand burned through the silk of her gown like a brand, and she found herself counting the steps with fierce concentration, afraid that if she didn’t focus on the dance, she might do something foolish — like demand explanations for his hot and cold behavior or worse, beg him to kiss her again.

The Baroness Hountshire’s voice suddenly carried across the floor as she eyed them suspiciously. “Well, well, a second dance! How… interesting.”

“Hardly as interesting as your new hat, Baroness,” Jane called back cheerfully. “Is that a whole ostrich perched upon it or merely its more unfortunate relatives?”

Diana coughed delicately into her handkerchief though it sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Do your sisters often rush to your defense?” Nicholas asked softly.

“Only when they sense sharks circling,” Marian replied, “though the Baroness is more of a particularly persistent remora.”

“And what am I in this maritime metaphor?”

Marian met his eyes for the first time since they begun dancing. “I have not quite decided, Lord Stone. Perhaps a siren, leading unwary sailors onto rocks?”

“Interesting choice, Lady Marian,” he said as his thumb traced a small circle against her waist, sending shivers up her spine. “Though I do believe it was not the siren who initiated this particular voyage.”

“Only because the siren made the waters look so tempting,” she countered then immediately regretted the admission.”

“And suppose I was indeed such a siren,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “What would that make of you, I wonder?”

“Oh, merely one of the more foolish sailors, I suppose. Though in my defense, the rocks were very prettily arranged.”

“Marian, I —”

“No, please,” she cut in, her smile brittle. “Let us not spoil the evening further with metaphors and weak excuses. After all, sirens and sailors rarely end up well in those stories, do they?”

His hand tightened on her waist for a fraction of a second, but he said nothing. The music swelled around them, and for a moment, the rest of the ballroom seemed to fade away as they continued their dance.

“I have not failed to notice the Viscount’s persistent attentions. You should be careful around Crowton, Lady Marian,” he said finally, his voice pitched low for her ears alone.

The warning sparked something angry in her chest. “Are you worried for me, Nicholas?” She felt him tense at her use of his Christian name. “Do you care what happens to me? And if so, what exactly does that mean?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he would not answer. “One doesn’t have to… share deep affections for someone to be concerned for their welfare,” he said finally, the words precise and measured as cut glass.

The words struck with surgical precision, each syllable carefully crafted to maintain distance even as their bodies moved in perfect synchronization across the floor. Marian felt them lodging beneath her ribs like splinters of ice, and something in her expression must have betrayed her pain because Nicholas’ face softened almost imperceptibly.

“I apologize,” he said, his voice gentler now. “That was… unkind.”

“No,” she managed, focusing on the intricate pattern of his waistcoat rather than meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. The unkindness was mine in assuming…” She drew a steadying breath. “In allowing myself to imagine something that clearly does not exist.”

The music swelled around them, the violins reaching a particularly poignant crescendo that seemed to mock the hollow ache in her chest. Nicholas’ hand tightened fractionally at her waist, as if he might pull her closer, but propriety kept them at the prescribed distance — always at the prescribed distance.

“Marian—” he began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.

“Please,” her voice emerged barely above a whisper, “let’s not pretend. I was foolish enough to…” she faltered then lifted her chin with determined dignity. “Well, it hardly matters now what I was foolish enough to do. Or feel.”

The dance was drawing to a close, the final measures spinning out like golden thread about to snap. Nicholas was watching her with an expression she refused to interpret, refused to allow herself to hope might mean something more than simple regret for her misunderstanding.

“You were never foolish,” he said quietly as the music faded. “If anyone has been playing the fool, it’s —”

“Thank you for the dance, My Lord,” she interrupted, stepping back and executing a perfect curtsy. Her composure felt like spun glass — beautiful but liable to shatter at the slightest pressure. “If you’ll excuse me, I find I need some air.”

She turned before he could respond, moving through the crowd with practiced grace that belied the trembling in her limbs. Ladies didn’t run — they glided, they floated, they withdrew with dignity. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, years of lessons in proper behavior providing a counterpoint to the thundering of her heart.

The terrace air struck her heated skin like a slap, the night’s chill a sharp contrast to the stifling warmth of the ballroom. Marian moved toward the stone balustrade, her fingers tracing its cool surface as she tried to steady her breathing. Above her, stars glittered with cold indifference as distant and unreachable as the man she’d just left behind.

A tear escaped despite her fierce determination, trailing down her cheek like a silent betrayal. She brushed it away with angry fingers, despising her own weakness. How many times had her mother warned her that an excess of sensibility was a woman’s greatest failing? Yet here she stood, proving the truth of it.

“Such a tragic figure you cut, my dear. Almost like one of those dreary heroines in those gothic novels your sister is so fond of.”

The Viscount’s voice sliced through her solitude like a poorly wielded knife, more jarring than sharp. Marian quickly brushed away the evidence of her distress though the salt of her tears had already left invisible tracks on her cheeks.

“I was not aware the terrace was occupied,” she said, proud of how steady her voice emerged despite the tremor in her hands. “I shall leave you to your solitude, My Lord.”

“Now, now…” He moved to block her path, his bulk casting an unwelcome shadow in the moonlight. “There’s no need to flee. Though I must say, crying does nothing for your looks. You are far prettier when you are not being disagreeable.”

The comment carried that particular blend of condescension and threat that made her skin crawl. The balcony, which had seemed like sanctuary moments ago, suddenly felt like a trap. Behind her, the stone balustrade offered only the embrace of a three-story drop to the gardens below.

“How fortunate then,” she replied, steel entering her voice, “that I have never particularly concerned myself with looking pretty for your benefit, My Lord.”

“No?” His smile reminded her of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “Yet here you are, alone in the moonlight, weeping like a jilted lover. Tell me, does Lord Stone know the effect he has on you?”

The mention of Nicholas’ name was like a physical blow, but Marian refused to let it show. “I believe you mistake the situation entirely.”

“Do I?” He stepped closer, and the sickly-sweet scent of port on his breath made her want to recoil. “I think not. I’ve watched you these past days, throwing yourself at him like some love-struck schoolgirl. It’s rather beneath your station, do you not think?”

“The only thing beneath my station, My Lord,” she said, trying to step around him, “is this conversation.”

His hand shot out, fingers circling her wrist with bruising force. “Such spirit,” he sneered, yanking her closer. “Such fire. Someone really ought to teach you the proper respect that is expected of a genteel lady.”

“Release me,” she demanded though fear had begun to curl in her stomach like poisonous smoke, “or I shall scream.”

“And risk such a scandal?” His laugh held no humor. “Come now, we both know you will not. Your reputation is already precarious enough, seeing how you deem fit to insult and belittle almost every conversation you enter. And after your… adventures with Lord Stone comes to light… Do you remember that day at the lake? I promised you that you would regret challenging me, Lady Marian.”

Horror dawned as his meaning became clear. “You have been watching us?”

“Oh yes.” His grip tightened painfully. “Most illuminating, watching the renowned bluestocking, Lady Marian sneak about like a common lightskirt. What would your parents say, I wonder? Your poor mother? To know their eldest daughter has been meeting a man alone in his chambers?”

“You know nothing,” she spat though panic was beginning to claw at her throat.

“I know enough.” He pulled her roughly against his chest, his free hand coming up to grip her chin. “Enough to ruin you completely. Unless…”

She could feel the rapid thunder of her heart, wondering if anyone inside would hear it over the swell of the music that drifted through the terrace doors. The same doors that now seemed miles away though they stood barely twenty feet from where the Viscount held her captive.

“Unless what?” She tried to keep her voice steady though she could hear the tremor in it.

“Unless you learn to be more… agreeable.” His thumb brushed across her bottom lip in a grotesque parody of Nicholas’ tender gesture from the night before. “I can be quite generous to women who know their place.”

“I would rather face ruin,” she managed through clenched teeth, “than suffer your idea of generosity.”

His expression darkened. “That,” he said softly, dangerously, “can be arranged.”

She struggled against his hold, but years of proper deportment lessons hadn’t prepared her for fighting off unwanted advances. His grip only tightened, and she knew there would be bruises tomorrow — if she survived this night with only bruises.

The sound of approaching voices made him pause though his grip did not loosen. Marian’s heart leaped — surely whoever it was would see her distress, would help.

But the Viscount moved with surprising speed. Before she could cry out, he had spun them around, pressing her back against the balustrade in what might appear, to an outsider, like an embrace between lovers. One hand remained painfully tight around her wrist while the other pressed against her lower back, holding her in place.

“My Lord… please,” she whispered, real fear coloring her voice now, “do not do this.”

“Hush now,” he murmured, his lips nearly touching her ear. “The time for negotiation has passed. You wanted to play dangerous games with Lord Stone? Very well. Let’s see how you enjoy playing them with me.”

The terrace doors opened, spilling golden light across the flagstones. Marian heard the Baroness Hountshire’s distinctive laugh, followed by several other voices. Her chance to escape was approaching with each step of their feet.

But as she opened her mouth to call out, the Viscount’s grip became crushing. “Choose carefully, my dear,” he breathed against her skin. “One word from me about your extracurricular activities in midnightly hours, and it will not just be your reputation that suffers. Think of your sisters. Think of their future prospects. Their futures.”

His threat landed upon her like a physical blow. Jane and Diana, both so young, so full of hope and possibility. One whispered scandal about their eldest sister, and their chances of securing good matches and all of their chances at true happiness would crumble like sandcastles before the tide.

And so, when the Baroness and her companions rounded the corner, Marian remained silent, her tears sliding silently down her cheeks as the Viscount pressed his unwanted attentions upon her. She watched hope of rescue transform into scandal in their widening eyes, and she knew then that either way, she had lost.

“Lady Marian!” the Baroness’ voice carried that particular pitch that guaranteed every ear within half-a-mile would prick up with interest. “What in heaven’s name —”

“My dear Baroness,” the Viscount released Marian with theatrical reluctance though his eyes held triumphant malice. “I fear we have caused you some unnecessary distress. Lady Marian was rather… insistent on speaking with me privately.”

“I was not —” Marian began, but her protest was drowned out by the arrival of more witnesses, drawn by the Baroness’ exclamation like moths to a particularly scandalous flame.

Marian felt the noose of propriety tightening around her neck with each passing second. “This is not what it appears —”

“No?” The Viscount’s voice dripped heavily with false concern. “Then perhaps you would care to explain why precisely you dragged me out here? Why you thought it prudent to press your rather obvious attentions upon me?”

“I did no such thing!” The words burst forth from her with more heat than wisdom, and she saw several eyebrows rise at her unladylike vehemence.

“Come now, my dear,” he said, his tone gentle but his eyes glittering with malicious victory. “There is no shame in admitting to a moment of… weakness. Though, I must say, I was rather taken aback by your boldness. I did not even think you possessed such boldness.”

“Boldness?” the word emerged from the Baroness’ lips like a prayer for smelling salts. “Do you mean to say —”

“I mean to say,” the Viscount cut in smoothly, “that Lady Marian seems to have developed some rather… modern notions about proper behavior between gentlemen and ladies.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Her father’s voice carried the full weight of his title, but the Viscount merely offered a bow that managed to be both proper and subtly mocking at the same time.

“My Lord Drownshire,” he said carefully, “I fear your daughter has placed us both in a rather… precarious position.”

“He is lying, Father,” Marian said, but her voice sounded small to even her own ears. “Surely you cannot believe —”

“Silence.” The single word fell like a judge’s gavel. Lord Drownshire’s face had gone a particular shade of purple that usually preceded either an apoplexy or a sermon on familial honor. He tilted his head toward his wife. “Take your daughter inside. Now.”

“I assure you, My Lord,” the Viscount’s voice followed them as her mother’s iron grip guided her toward the terrace doors, “I bear no ill will. Young ladies sometimes simply allow their… passions to overcome their judgment. Though I must say, given certain rumors about her previous… indiscretions, perhaps this behavior should not be entirely surprising.”

Marian wanted to turn back. She wanted to slap him. To defend herself. To scream the truth toward the heavens, but her mother’s fingers dug into her arm with warning pressure. They swept through the ballroom like twin ghosts, ignored by some and watched avidly by others. Marian caught glimpses of familiar faces — Jane’s worried frown, Diana’s wide eyes, and Lydia’s expression of confused concern.

But the one person whose reaction she cared about most was nowhere to be seen. The thought struck her with unexpected force, adding fresh pain to an already overwhelming tide of emotion.

“To think,” her mother’s whispered fury cut through her thoughts as they climbed the main staircase, “that a daughter of mine would behave with such… such…”

“Mama, please” Marian tried to explain, “it was not what it seemed. The Viscount —”

“The Viscount?” Lady Prudence’s laugh held no humor. “He is a peer of the realm who has just been compromised by your utterly shocking and dare I say, repulsive behavior. Do you have any idea what this will do to your sisters’ prospects? To our family’s reputation?”

They reached Marian’s chambers where her mother finally released her grip. “Pack your belongings,” she ordered, her voice clipped with barely contained fury. “We leave for London at first light.”

“But —”

“Not another word, young lady.” Lady Prudence’s face softened fractionally. “Perhaps… perhaps your father can persuade him to offer you a match. To salvage something from this disaster.”

The suggestion made Marian sick to her stomach, and for a moment, she thought she might vomit. “I would rather die.”

She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass as tears threatened once more. Below, she could see figures moving on the terrace — the Viscount holding court, no doubt, spreading his poisonous version of events to eager ears.

A movement caught her eye — a familiar tall figure striding across the lawn toward the stables, his characteristic grace unmistakable even in the darkness. Nicholas. Walking away. Again.

Marian closed her eyes, feeling the last pieces of her heart crumbling within her rib cage like a too-large log that had been placed into a hearth, burnt to crisp charcoal that disintegrated at the first touch.

How fitting, she thought bitterly, that her attempt to experience life had not just given her more than she had hoped for, but it had also led her directly to the very fate she had been trying to temporarily escape. It seems she was either destined to be married to an evil man or become a spinster.

The irony would have been amusing if it wasn’t so devastatingly final.