Page 13 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)

CHAPTER 13

“ Y ou shall wear a hole in the carpet if you continue that pacing,” Jane observed from the doorway, her expression caught between amusement and concern. “I take it you have made a decision about Lord Stone’s request?”

Marian turned, momentarily startled by her sister’s presence. She waved her hand for Jane to lower her voice. “I should not go,” she said, though the words carried more question than conviction.

“And yet, your best walking dress suggests otherwise,” Jane replied, gesturing to the garment laid carefully across the bed – a creation of dark green muslin that brought out the color of Marian’s eyes and had, coincidentally, once drawn a rare compliment from Nicholas.

“Merely coincidence,” Marian insisted, though the flush rising to her cheeks betrayed her.

Jane’s laughter held no malice, only the fond exasperation of a sister who saw through such transparent deception. “Coincidence indeed. Just as it is coincidence that you have arranged your hair in that particular style?”

“I merely thought it practical for the wind.” Marian protested weakly.

“Of course.” Jane agreed, her tone making it clear she believed nothing of the sort. “Just as it’s purely practical that you have spent the past half-hour pacing your room, rehearsing clever remarks to a man you claim holds no particular interest.”

Marian sank to the edge of her bed, the carefully arranged dress shifting beneath her weight. “This is a terrible mistake, isn’t it?” she asked, vulnerability replacing her earlier defensiveness.

Jane crossed the room to sit beside her, taking Marian’s restless hands into hers. “The only mistake would be allowing fear to dictate your choices,” she said, her usually playfulness replaced by a rare earnestness. “Whether you decide to meet with Lord Stone, or not, let it be your decision – not one made from fear of what might be, or what others might think. Has that not always been your way?”

“And if I go… if I decide to listen to… whatever it is he wishes to say.. what then?” Marian’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, as if voicing her concerns at full volume might somehow give them greater power.

“Then, you will know .” Jane’s response was straightforward. “And knowing is undoubtedly preferable to constantly wondering what might have been.”

The subtle notes of the clock on the mantlepiece reminded them that time was still moving forward, unbothered with humanity’s indecisive nature as it chimed the quarter-hour.

“You are right.” She said, reaching for her dress. “I shall hear what he has to say, if only to put an end to this… uncertainty.”

Jane’s smile held both approval and a hint of something deeper. “Would you like me to accompany you? I could wait at a discreet distance.”

“No,” Marian replied, her tone firmer now. “This is a conversation I must have in private.”

By eleven o’clock, Marian had completed her preparations, her walking dress perfectly complimented by a straw bonnet trimmed with ribbons that matched the deeper emerald of its sash. She had chosen practical half-boots for the park’s gravel paths, and a light pelisse against the possibility of those threatening rain clouds that drifted across the English sky.

“I shall return before tea,” she informed her mother, carefully phrasing her outing as a casual constitutional rather than the potentially life-altering meeting it might prove to be.

Lady Prudence looked up from her correspondence, her gaze sharpening with maternal assessment as she took in Marian’s appearance. “The park seems a rather distant choice for a solitary walk. Perhaps Diana might accompany you?”

“I prefer to clear my thoughts alone,” Marian replied, the partial truth allowing her to meet her mother’s eyes without betraying the fuller purpose of her excursion. “After recent events, some quiet contemplation seems… necessary.”

The reference to her recent scandal with the Viscount achieved its intended effect, Lady Prudence’s expression softening into sympathy tinged with resignation. “Very well. Though do take Thompson with you, at least as far as the park gates. Propriety may be damaged, but we needn’t abandon it entirely.”

The compromise accepted, Marian soon found herself walking the familiar route to the park, the family’s aging footman maintaining a respectful distance behind her. The weight of anticipation hung heavier with each step, her carefully rehearsed opening remarks fading like morning mist in the growing heat of her anxiety.

What did Nicholas want? His note had offered no hint of purpose, no suggestion of whether this meeting was to be one of reconciliation or final farewell. The uncertainty was perhaps the cruelest aspect – this man who approached business with such calculated clarity had now left her suspended in emotional ambiguity.

The old oak came into view as she rounded the curved path, its ancient branches spreading like protective arms over the small bench beneath. And there, standing beside it, the unmistakable figure of Nicholas Grant, Marquess of Stone – his tall form rendered even more imposing by the severity of his dark coat and the rigid line of his shoulders as he stood with his back to her, apparently lost in contemplation of the distant lake.

Marian hesitated, her courage momentarily faltering. She could still turn back. He had not seen her; she could fabricate some excuse about sudden illness or forgotten obligations. The temptation to flee flared bright and urgent, a self – protective instinct warning against further vulnerability.

Then, as if sensing her presence, Nicholas turned. The distance between them was too great to discern his expression clearly, yet something in the sudden alertness of his posture, the way he straightened and took half a step forward before restraining himself, told her that retreat was no longer an option.

Taking a steadying breath, Marian dismissed Thompson with a quiet instruction to return in an hour, then squared her shoulders and continued forward along the path. Each step carried her closer to Nicholas, closer to whatever revelation or resolution awaited beneath the spreading branches of the old oak tree.

Nicholas watched her approach, his expression schooled into the careful neutrality that had become his hallmark in business negotiations. Only the slight tensing of his jaw betrayed any emotion as Marian drew near, her green dress catching the filtered sunlight that penetrated the oak’s canopy.

“Lady Marian,” he greeted her, executing a bow of perfect correctness. "I am grateful you came."

“Your tone suggested urgency,” she replied, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the tumultuous beating of her heart. “Though it offered little in the way of explanation.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. “Some matters are better discussed in person than committed to paper, however briefly.”

He gestured toward the bench, a silent invitation she accepted with careful dignity, arranging her skirts with deliberate movements that allowed her a moment to collect herself. Nicholas remained standing, creating a tableau that emphasized the power imbalance between them – she seated, looking up; he standing, looking down. Whether intentional or not, the positioning unsettled her.

“Please,” she said, patting the space beside her with forced lightness, “I would prefer not to strain my neck for the duration of our conversation.”

Something flickered in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or reluctant amusement – before he acquiesced, lowering himself onto the bench with the fluid grace that characterized his every movement. Even seated, he maintained a certain distance between them, proper and correct, yet Marian found herself acutely aware of his proximity, the subtle warmth emanating from his form, the faint scent of sandalwood and leather that seemed to cling to him.

“You are looking well,” he observed after a moment’s silence, his gaze making a careful assessment of her appearance.

“As are you,” she returned automatically, the social pleasantry falling from her lips before she could consider its sincerity.

Yet it was true – he did look well, if one overlooked the faint shadows beneath his eyes that suggested recent sleeplessness, or the slight tension around his mouth that had not been present during the easy days of their adventures together. His clothes were, as always, impeccably tailored, his cravat arranged with mathematical precision, his boots polished to mirror – like perfection. Nicholas Grant, the very image of aristocratic composure.

Except for his hands. Those elegant, capable hands that had once steadied her in the lake, that had dealt cards with practiced skill during their midnight gambling session, that had cupped her face with such unexpected tenderness during their ill-advised kiss – they now betrayed him, the right thumb rubbing against the forefinger in a small, repetitive motion that spoke of uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“I trust your family is well?” he asked, continuing the dance of polite conversation that they both recognized as mere prelude.

“Quite well, thank you,” Marian replied, wearying of the charade. “Though I doubt you requested this meeting to inquire after my sisters’ health or my father’s latest hunting expedition."

Nicholas’s eyebrows rose fractionally at her directness, but something in his expression relaxed, as if relieved to dispense with pretense. “No,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a register that would not carry beyond their immediate vicinity. “I did not.”

A pair of sparrows squabbled in the branches above them, their vehement disagreement providing momentary distraction as Nicholas seemed to consider his next words with uncharacteristic care.

“The Viscount has left London,” he said finally, the apparent non-sequitur catching Marian by surprise. “I understand he has taken up residence on a small estate in Northumberland. Permanent residence, I believe.”

Marian studied his face, trying to discern the meaning behind this unexpected information. “That is... fortunate news, I suppose. Though I fail to see how it concerns me now that the damage to my reputation has been thoroughly accomplished.”

“The damage,” Nicholas said carefully, “may not be as irreparable as you believe.”

Something in his tone – a subtle note of satisfaction, perhaps – caused Marian to look more closely at him. “You had something to do with his departure,” she realized, not a question but a statement of dawning comprehension.

Nicholas neither confirmed nor denied, his expression revealing nothing beyond polite attention. Yet there was something in the set of his shoulders, a barely perceptible straightening that suggested pride or perhaps primitive satisfaction.

“Let us say,” he replied after a measured pause, “that certain information regarding the Viscount’s financial improprieties and personal indiscretions came to light in circles where such revelations could do maximum damage to his standing. His retreat to Northumberland was less a choice than a necessity.”

Marian stared at him, momentarily speechless as the implications of his careful statement registered fully. “You ruined him,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I merely ensured that truth prevailed,” Nicholas corrected, his tone remaining mild though his eyes had hardened to the blue of tempered steel. “The particulars of his downfall were entirely of his own making. I simply... expedited the natural consequences.”

A confusing swirl of emotions rose within Marian – gratitude, alarm, and something deeper that she dared not examine too closely. The idea that Nicholas had wielded his considerable influence to avenge her honor stirred feelings both primitive and profound.

“Why would you do such a thing?” she asked, her voice unsteady despite her efforts to maintain composure. “After everything... after I...” Words failed her, the complicated history between them defying simple articulation.

Nicholas turned slightly toward her, the movement bringing them fractionally closer on the bench. “Because he deserved it,” he said simply. “Because what he did to you – what he attempted to do – could not go unanswered.”

For a moment, Marian glimpsed something raw and unguarded in his expression, a flash of genuine emotion that pierced the careful mask of aristocratic detachment. It disappeared almost instantly, controlled once more beneath his habitual composure, but its momentary presence sent a tremor of awareness through her.

“I... thank you,” she said finally, the words inadequate yet necessary. “Though I confess to some discomfort at being the cause of anyone’s ruination, even someone as deserving as the Viscount.”

“Your compassion does you credit,” Nicholas observed, his voice warming slightly. “Though it is misplaced in this instance. Crowton’s fall was inevitable; his treatment of you merely accelerated a journey already well underway.”

A gentle breeze stirred the oak’s leaves, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow across the gravel path before them. In the distance, children’s laughter could be heard, the carefree sound a stark contrast to the weighted significance of their conversation.

“Is that why you wished to see me?” Marian asked after a moment’s contemplation. “To inform me of the Viscount’s fate?”

“No,” Nicholas admitted, his gaze shifting briefly to the middle distance before returning to her face with renewed intensity. “That was merely... context for what I truly wished to discuss.”

Something in his tone – a certain deliberate quality that suggested careful preparation – caused Marian to straighten slightly, her hands unconsciously smoothing the fabric of her dress in a gesture of self-protection.

“I have given considerable thought to your situation,” he continued, the words emerging with the measured precision of a man accustomed to presenting carefully constructed arguments. “The scandal, while temporarily damaging, need not define your future. With proper management and strategic reintroduction to society, your standing could be largely restored.”

Marian blinked, caught off-guard by this businesslike assessment of her social prospects. “I... see,” she managed, though in truth, confusion rather than comprehension was her primary reaction.

“However,” Nicholas continued, seemingly oblivious to her bewilderment, “such rehabilitation would require certain... structural advantages. A connection to an established family of unimpeachable standing. Resources sufficient to overcome lingering prejudice. A position that would render you beyond the reach of common gossip.”

Understanding began to dawn, a slow realization that sent conflicting waves of hope and disappointment crashing through her. “Nicholas,” she said, deliberately using his given name, a final test of the intimacy they had once shared, “what exactly are you proposing?”

The sound of his name on her lips seemed to reach Nicholas in a way his careful reasoning had not. He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his features before the composed mask returned. When he spoke again, his voice carried a different quality – not the calculated precision of business, but something more genuine, if still carefully controlled.

“I am proposing marriage, Marian,” he said simply.

The words hung in the air between them, weighty despite their quiet delivery. A nearby robin landed on the path, tilting its head inquisitively before continuing its search for sustenance, utterly indifferent to the human drama unfolding mere feet away.

“Marriage,” Marian repeated, the word emerging as barely more than a whisper.

“Yes.” Nicholas turned more fully toward her now, his posture straight-backed and formal despite the intimate nature of their conversation. “I believe such an arrangement would be advantageous for us both.”

Advantageous . The word settled like a stone in Marian’s stomach, cold and hard where moments before hope had begun to flutter. “I see,” she said, working to keep her voice steady. “And what advantages do you perceive in such an arrangement?”

If Nicholas noticed the sudden coolness in her tone, he gave no indication. Instead, he launched into what was clearly a well-considered presentation, each point articulated with the same precision he might use when outlining a business proposition to potential investors.

“For yourself, there would be immediate social rehabilitation. As the Marchioness of Stone, you would be elevated beyond the reach of common scandal. My family name carries sufficient weight to silence most critics, and those who persisted would find themselves unwelcome in circles where my influence extends.” He spoke with the casual confidence of a man accustomed to wielding significant social power, stating facts rather than boasting.

“Additionally,” he continued, “you would have access to resources that would allow you to pursue your intellectual interests without constraint. My library at Stone House is extensive and could be expanded in whatever direction you wished. You could correspond with scholars, patronize female authors, establish educational initiatives for young women – pursuits I understand you value.”

Marian listened in growing dismay, each perfectly logical point driving a deeper wedge between the reality of this conversation and the hope she had secretly harbored. This was not a declaration born of passion or even genuine affection; it was a contract being offered, a business arrangement dressed in matrimonial language.

“And what advantage would you derive from this... arrangement?” she asked, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the ache blooming beneath her ribs.

Nicholas’s expression remained impassive though something flickered briefly in his eyes – perhaps surprise at her question, or grudging approval of her practical consideration. “Several, in fact,” he replied with characteristic directness. “A wife of your intelligence and educational background would be an asset in both social and practical matters. Your perspective on various issues often differs from conventional wisdom in ways I find... stimulating.”

He paused, as if considering how much to reveal, before continuing in a slightly more measured tone. “I have reached a point in my life where establishing a household makes practical sense. My business affairs are well-ordered, my estates prosperous. The next logical step is to secure the succession, which naturally requires a suitable marriage.”

Suitable . Another cold, practical word that made clear the nature of his proposal – not love, not even particular desire, but suitability. Compatibility. Advantage.

“I see,” Marian said again, the simple phrase now carrying the weight of profound disappointment. “You present a most logical case.”

“I believe it is a situation where our mutual interests align perfectly,” Nicholas agreed, apparently mistaking her response for approval. “We share intellectual compatibility, similar views on many social issues, and have demonstrated an ability to enjoy each other’s company. These are more solid foundations for marriage than most of the ton can claim.”

A small, bitter laugh escaped Marian before she could prevent it. “Indeed. How very enlightened we would be, entering matrimony with our eyes wide open to its practical benefits, unburdened by such inconvenient complications as emotion.”

Nicholas frowned slightly, the first crack in his composed delivery. “I did not say emotion was absent from my consideration,” he corrected, a hint of defensiveness entering his tone. “I hold you in highest esteem and regard. Our interactions have been among the most satisfying of my recent experience.”

“High esteem. Regard. Satisfying interactions.” Marian repeated the words, each one falling from her lips like a small, polished stone. “Such passionate declarations would make any woman swoon with delight.”

“Marian-“ he began, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture, rising from the bench in a swift movement that sent startled birds fluttering from nearby bushes.

“No,” she said, emotion finally breaking through her careful control. “I will not sit here and listen to you dissect our potential union as if it were a business merger or a property acquisition. Marriage may be a practical arrangement for many, but I-“ She stopped, drawing a steadying breath before continuing more quietly. “I want more.”

Nicholas rose as well, his height allowing him to look down at her despite her standing position. “What more do you want?” he asked, genuine confusion evident in his expression. “I have offered you freedom from scandal, financial security, intellectual liberty – everything you have expressed value for.”

“Everything except love,” Marian replied simply, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “I will not bind myself to a man who sees me as a convenient solution to his need for an heir and an occasional intellectual sparring partner. I would rather face spinsterhood and all its limitations than wake each day beside someone who holds me in high esteem but does not love me.”

Something flashed in Nicholas’s eyes – surprise, perhaps, or a deeper emotion she could not identify. “Love is a poetic notion often used to disguise baser instincts,” he said carefully. “I offer something more substantial – respect, compatibility, shared interests.”

“And I decline,” Marian replied, her voice softening despite the firmness of her rejection. “I cannot fault your logic, Nicholas. Everything you say makes perfect sense. But I have learned through our adventures together that some experiences cannot be approached through logic alone.” She took a small step back, creating additional distance between them. “I thank you for your offer, but my answer is no.”

For a moment, Nicholas stood perfectly still, his expression betraying nothing of whatever thoughts might be racing behind that composed exterior. When he finally spoke, his voice had returned to the cool, controlled tone she had come to associate with his public persona rather than the man who had helped her cross items off her list.

“I understand,” he said, executing a bow of perfect correctness that nonetheless felt like a door closing between them. “I apologize for having taken up your time with an unwelcome proposition.”

“Nicholas-” Marian began, suddenly uncertain what she wished to say, only knowing that the careful distance in his tone caused a sharp pain beneath her ribs.

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice softening fractionally. “There is no need for further discussion. You have made your position clear, and I respect your decision.”

Marian hesitated, torn between the desire to explain herself more fully and the fear that any additional words would only deepen the chasm growing between them. Before she could decide, Nicholas continued, his tone once more coolly correct, the brief moment of vulnerability gone as if it had never existed.

“I should inform you that I have made arrangements for you to stay with my sister, should you wish it, rather than being sent to your aunt in Bath. Amelia is a respectable widow whose household is beyond reproach, and she resides far enough from London to give society time to turn its attention elsewhere. Your parents have agreed to the arrangement.”

The information, delivered with such calm practicality after the emotional tension of their previous exchange, momentarily silenced Marian. Even in rejection, he had thought of her welfare, had used his influence to provide her an alternative to the dreaded exile with her strict aunt.

“That is... most kind,” she managed finally, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected consideration.

“It is merely practical,” Nicholas countered, the words falling between them like small, sharp stones. "Amelia has been lonely since her husband’s passing. Your company would benefit her as much as her patronage would benefit you.”

Practical . Again, that cold word that defined his approach to all things, including her. Marian felt sudden tears threatening and blinked rapidly to dispel them, unwilling to add the indignity of weeping to this already painful encounter.

“Please convey my gratitude to your sister for her generosity,” she said, proud of how steady her voice remained. “I shall consider her offer carefully.”

Nicholas nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement that suggested the conclusion of a business transaction rather than a conversation between two people who had shared intimacies both physical and emotional. “I wish you good day, then,” he said, the formal farewell emphasizing the distance that had reasserted itself between them.

“Good day, Lord Stone," Marian replied, deliberately using his title to acknowledge the barrier that had risen – one partially of her own creation, yet no less painful for that fact.

He turned and walked away, his tall figure moving with the same measured grace that had first caught her attention that night at the inn, when he had teased her about being outside alone and she had felt not fear but a strange, exhilarating awareness. Now she watched him go, each step carrying him further from the brief, bright connection they had shared during those stolen adventures.

Only when he had disappeared around the curve in the path did Marian allow a single tear to trace its way down her cheek, a silent acknowledgment of what might have been if only he had offered his heart along with his hand.