Page 15 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)
CHAPTER 15
“ M y Lord, I regret to inform you that Lady Marian is not receiving visitors today,” the Brandon family butler announced with the particular blend of courtesy and firmness that distinguished the truly accomplished servants of good houses. His impassive expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil that the Marquess’ unexpected arrival had undoubtedly caused within the household.
Nicholas, stood in the entrance hall of the Brandon townhouse, his imposing figure a study in controlled determination. The morning light filtered through the fanlight above the door, casting geometric patterns across the polished marble floor and illuminating the aristocratic planes of his face with uncompromising clarity. Gone was the dishevelment of the previous evening; today he presented the immaculate appearance expected of his station — perfectly tailored coat emphasizing his broad shoulders, cravat arranged with mathematical precision, boots gleaming like obsidian mirrors.
“I understand,” he replied, his deep voice carrying that particular quality of quiet authority that suggested compliance was not merely expected but inevitable. “Please inform Lady Marian that I shall wait until she is prepared to receive me — however long that might require.”
The butler’s composure wavered fractionally, a subtle widening of the eyes the only betrayal of his surprise at this pronounced deviation from proper protocol. “My Lord, I’m not certain —”
“I am perfectly comfortable waiting,” Nicholas interrupted, removing his gloves with deliberate movements that somehow managed to convey both courtesy and implacability. He handed them to the startled servant with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to having his wishes fulfilled. “Perhaps in the small drawing room if that would not inconvenience the family.”
The subtle emphasis on “small” rather than “grand” drawing room was not lost on the butler — a strategic choice that suggested a desire for privacy rather than formal reception. The servant hesitated, caught between the impropriety of allowing the unusual request and the greater impropriety of refusing a marquess.
“Very well, My Lord. If you would follow me.”
The mantel clock ticked away minutes with merciless precision as he waited, each passing quarter-hour marked by delicate chimes that seemed to emphasize the irregular nature of his visit. Occasionally, hushed voices and hurried footsteps could be heard beyond the closed door — evidence of the household’s consternation at his continued presence.
The first hour passed with only a single interruption — a maid bearing tea service who entered with such wide-eyed trepidation, one might have thought she approached a caged predator rather than a gentleman caller. Nicholas thanked her with punctilious courtesy that only seemed to increase her discomfort before she fled with a hasty curtsy.
The second hour brought Lady Prudence herself, her entrance preceded by the distinctive rustle of silk and the subtle aroma of lavender water that marked her personal presence. She paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of the Marquess still positioned at the window, teacup in hand as if his extended vigil were the most natural arrangement imaginable.
“Lord Stone,” she greeted him, her voice carrying that particular blend of politeness and perplexity that society ladies perfected for unexpected situations, “this is most… unconventional.”
Nicholas turned toward her, executing a bow of perfect correctness despite the circumstances. “Lady Drownshire, I apologize for any disruption my presence causes your household.”
“Disruption,” she echoed, moving into the room with measured steps that suggested careful consideration rather than spontaneous movement. “Yes, one might describe it as such. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to the purpose of this… extended call?”
“I must speak with Lady Marian,” he replied simply, setting aside his teacup with deliberate precision. “On a matter of significant importance to us both.”
Lady Prudence’s eyebrows rose fractionally, the only outward sign of her surprise at his directness. “My daughter has made her position regarding further conversation with you quite clear, My Lord. Surely a gentleman of your standing understands the importance of respecting a lady’s wishes?”
“I understand the importance of truth,” Nicholas countered, his tone remaining courteous despite the underlying steel. “And I fear that certain misapprehensions exist between Lady Marian and myself which can only be resolved through direct conversation.”
“Misapprehensions,” Lady Prudence repeated, settling herself on a small settee with the careful arrangement of skirts that came as naturally to her as breathing. “An interesting choice of words, My Lord.”
“But an accurate one, I believe.”
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the gentle ticking of the clock and the distant sounds of a household attempting to maintain its routine despite the disruption of its emotional center. Lady Prudence studied him with the careful assessment of a general reconsidering battlefield strategy.
“You declined my daughter’s hand,” she observed finally, her voice carrying a hint of genuine puzzlement beneath its practiced composure. “She has accepted this outcome with remarkable grace, all things considered. What possible purpose could be served by prolonging the matter?”
Nicholas met her gaze directly, allowing a fraction more emotion to show in his expression than his usual careful control permitted. “I did not decline her hand, Lady Drownshire. She declined mine.”
Lady Prudence’s fan appeared in her hand as if conjured, its gentle movement creating a subtle current of air that carried the scent of the nearby flowers. “A semantic distinction, surely.”
“A crucial one,” Nicholas corrected gently. “And one which lies at the heart of the misunderstanding I wish to address.”
The third hour of Nicholas’s unexpected vigil brought Lord Silas himself, his entrance marked by the subtle aroma of tobacco that clung to his clothing despite his wife’s ongoing campaign against the habit. He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with poorly concealed astonishment — his wife engaged in what appeared to be an almost companionable conversation with the very man whose proposal their daughter had so recently refused.
“Stone,” he greeted, the single syllable carrying a complex mixture of respect, wariness, and genuine puzzlement. “I understand you have been waiting some time to speak with Marian.”
Nicholas rose from the chair he had finally been persuaded to occupy, offering a bow of perfect correctness to the older man. “Lord Drownshire. Indeed, I find myself unwilling to depart without resolving certain matters between Lady Marian and myself.”
“Matters you believe sufficiently important to warrant this… unconventional approach?” Lord Silas moved further into the room and positioned himself near the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece in a pose that suggested casual authority.
“Matters of the heart rarely conform to convention, My Lord,” Nicholas replied, the unexpected sentiment causing both Brandons to regard him with renewed attention.
Lord Silas’ bushy eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “The heart, is it? Not precisely the organ I would have associated with the Marquess of Stone’s decision-making process, if you will forgive my bluntness.”
“Silas!” Lady Prudence admonished though her expression suggested she harbored similar thoughts.
A smile touched Nicholas’ mouth briefly — a genuine expression that transformed his aristocratic features with unexpected warmth. “A fair assessment given my reputation. One might even say it lies at the root of the current… situation.”
Something in his tone — a note of self-deprecation rarely heard from a man of his position — seemed to soften Lord Silas’ expression. He studied Nicholas with the careful assessment of a man who had navigated society long enough to recognize when conventional assumptions required reconsideration.
“I see,” he said finally though his tone suggested the opposite. “And you believe persisting in this irregular vigil will somehow resolve matters to your satisfaction?”
“Not to my satisfaction, Lord Drownshire,” Nicholas corrected gently. “To our mutual understanding. I ask only for the opportunity to speak with Lady Marian directly, to clarify certain misapprehensions that I fear have influenced her decision.”
Lord Silas exchanged a glance with his wife, one of those wordless communications that develop between long-married couples — a silent conference conducted through minute shifts in expression that nonetheless conveyed volumes. Whatever passed between them appeared to reach some resolution, for Lady Prudence rose with a rustle of silk, her fan disappearing into the folds of her gown with practiced grace.
“I shall speak with Marian,” she announced, but her tone suggested limited optimism regarding the outcome. “Though I cannot promise she will agree to receive you, Lord Stone, regardless of how long you choose to remain.”
“I understand,” Nicholas acknowledged, inclining his head in a gesture of appreciation. “I ask only that you convey the sincerity of my request and my willingness to wait as long as necessary for its fulfillment.”
As Lady Prudence departed, the atmosphere in the small drawing room shifted subtly, the air between the two men carrying a different quality of tension. Lord Silas regarded Nicholas with undisguised curiosity, his weathered features arranged in an expression that invited explanation without directly requesting it.
“You surprise me, Stone,” he said finally when it became apparent that Nicholas would not volunteer further information. “This persistence seems… uncharacteristic, given your reputation for cool pragmatism in all matters.”
Nicholas’ gaze shifted to the window where afternoon light had begun to replace the clarity of morning with the warmer, more diffuse quality of advancing day. “I find myself acting in ways that surprise even me, My Lord. It seems your daughter has that effect.”
Lord Silas’ expression softened fractionally, something akin to understanding flickering in his eyes. “Marian has always possessed the remarkable ability to disrupt carefully ordered systems,” he observed, his tone carrying a blend of exasperation and unmistakable pride. “A quality that has proven both her greatest strength and my greatest challenge as her father.”
“A quality I have come to value more than I once thought possible,” Nicholas admitted, the words emerging with a frankness that clearly startled the older man.
The afternoon light had begun its gradual transformation toward the golden hues of early evening when the drawing room door opened once more. Nicholas, who had been standing at the window watching the lengthening shadows in the small garden, turned with a swiftness that betrayed the tension coiled within him despite his outward composure.
Marian Brandon stood in the doorway, her slender figure silhouetted against the hallway beyond. She wore a simple gown of deep blue muslin, its modest cut emphasizing the graceful line of her neck where a pulse visibly fluttered like a captured bird. Her chestnut hair had been arranged in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, several wayward strands escaping to frame a face that showed signs of recent distress despite her evident efforts to conceal it.
The silence that fell between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken words, as palpable as the dust motes dancing in the slanting sun rays that bisected the room. Marian remained perfectly still, one hand resting against the doorframe as if she required its support to maintain her carefully assembled composure.
“Lady Marian,” Nicholas said finally, her name emerging with a wealth of emotion beneath its formal address.
“Lord Stone.” Her voice carried a careful neutrality that nevertheless failed to disguise the slight tremor underlying it. “My mother informs me you have been waiting some hours to speak with me.”
“Four hours and seventeen minutes,” he confirmed, the precision drawing a fleeting smile from her before she mastered it behind renewed composure.
“A rather extravagant expenditure of a Marquess’ valuable time,” she observed, finally entering the room with measured steps that carried her to the center of the space though she maintained a careful distance between them.
“On the contrary,” Nicholas replied, “I can imagine no more worthwhile investment.”
Something flickered in her expression — surprise, perhaps, or a deeper emotion she was not yet prepared to reveal. She clasped her hands before her, the knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. “My father indicated the matter was urgent. I presume it concerns the arrangements for my stay with your sister?”
“It concerns our future,” Nicholas corrected, taking a single step toward her before halting, acutely aware of the fragility of the moment. “And a request I must make of you with the utmost urgency.”
Marian’s eyebrows rose slightly, her composure wavering beneath what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What request might that be, My Lord?”
Nicholas drew a breath, his next words emerging with the directness of a man who has abandoned careful strategy in favor of absolute clarity: “Do not marry the Duke of Myste.”
Marian stared at him, her expression shifting from confusion to genuine bewilderment. The pulse at her throat quickened visibly, like a hummingbird’s wings caught in momentary stillness. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again, seemingly rendered speechless by the unexpected direction of his request.
“I understand why he might appeal to you,” Nicholas continued, the words emerging with increasing urgency despite his efforts to maintain composed delivery. “His intellectual pursuits, his progressive views regarding women’s education, his extensive library — all qualities you value and rightfully so. But I musk ask you — I implore you — to consider an alternative.”
“An alternative,” Marian echoed, the words emerging faintly as she continued to regard him with an expression poised between confusion and something less easily defined.
“Me,” Nicholas said simply, the single syllable carrying a weight of vulnerability that would have astonished anyone familiar with the Marquess’ carefully maintained public persona. “I love you, Marian.”
The declaration hung in the air between them, as bright and substantial as the sunbeam that now illuminated Marian’s face, revealing the subtle flush that rose to her cheeks and the widening of her eyes at his words.
“Please don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the ticking of the mantel clock. “Do not say such things if you don’t mean them. It’s… torture.”
“I have never spoken more truthfully in my life,” Nicholas replied, closing the distance between them with two deliberate steps that brought him near enough to detect the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair, yet still maintaining sufficient space to honor propriety. “I love you. I love your mind, your courage, your refusal to accept the limitations others would place upon you. I love the way your eyes flash when you encounter an idea that excites you and the small furrow that appears between your brows when you are considering whether to voice an unfashionable opinion.”
Marian’s lips parted slightly, her breathing quickening as she absorbed his words. One hand rose to her throat in an unconscious gesture of vulnerability that belied her otherwise careful composure.
“Why now?” she asked, the question emerging with painful directness. “Why say these things now when you have had ample opportunity before?”
“Because I am a fool,” Nicholas admitted, the self-deprecation carrying more weight for its rarity from a man of his position. “A proud, stubborn fool who did not recognize what was before him until the prospect of its loss became unbearable.”
He took another step closer, close enough now that propriety demanded he either retreat or acknowledge the intimacy of their position. “I had not realized,” he continued, his voice dropping to a register meant only for her ears, “how much light you bring into every space you enter. How empty rooms feel in your absence. How hollow conversations become without your perspective to challenge and illuminate them.”
Something glistened in Marian’s eyes, the moisture catching the fading sunlight like diamonds. “You speak so beautifully,” she said, her voice unsteady despite her evident effort to control it. “But words come easily to men of your position and education.”
“Then judge me by actions rather than words,” Nicholas countered, his gaze never leaving her face. “By my presence here today, hours beyond what propriety dictates. By my arrangement for your stay with Amelia rather than accepting your exile to Bath. By my willingness to wait however long necessary for you to believe the truth of what I feel.”
He reached for her hand, his movements slow enough to allow refusal if she wished it. When she did not withdraw, he enclosed her fingers within his own, the contact sending a current of awareness through him like lightning striking parched earth.
“I want to share adventures with you, Marian,” he said, each word emerging with careful sincerity. “Not just the items on your list but countless others we haven’t yet imagined. I want to give you everything You have ever wanted — not material possessions, though those are yours for the asking, but freedom, respect, partnership.” His voice softened further. “I love you, and I want to love you for however long you will allow me to do so.”
A tear escaped Marian’s careful composure, tracking a silvery path down her cheek. “Why now?” she asked again, the question carrying a different weight than before. “What changed?”
Nicholas’s thumb brushed across her knuckles in a gesture of impossible tenderness. “Elias informed me that your parents had arranged a match for you with Riverstone,” he admitted, a rueful smile touching his lips. “The thought of you belonging to another man — even one as unobjectionable as the Duke — made me realize what I had been too blind or too stubborn to acknowledge even to myself.”
Marian’s expression transformed, confusion giving way to something that hovered between incredulity and unexpected mirth. Her free hand rose to her lips as if to contain whatever emotion threatened to escape there.
A sound escaped Marian then — half laughter, half disbelieving gasp — as she shook her head in a gesture that sent one of those wayward strands of hair brushing against her cheek. “There is no arrangement,” she said, her voice threaded with emotion that belied her words. “No match, no understanding. I have exchanged perhaps ten words with the Duke in my entire life, most of them regarding a first edition of Mary Wollstonecraft’s works he mentioned at your sister’s ball.”
Nicholas remained perfectly still, absorbing this information with the careful attention of a man who suddenly suspects he has been maneuvered by a master strategist. “No arrangement,” he repeated slowly. “Elias led me to believe —”
“It seems the Duke of Fyre has been engaging in some creative matchmaking,” Marian observed, a smile beginning to curve her lips despite the tears that still glistened in her eyes. “Though his methods might be questioned, one cannot fault his perception.”
A soft curse escaped Nicholas, so uncharacteristic of his usual precise diction that Marian’s eyes widened slightly. “I shall have words with him,” he muttered though without genuine heat. His gaze returned to her face, studying it with renewed intensity. “Though perhaps I owe him my gratitude as well. His deception forced me to confront truths I had been too stubborn or too blind to acknowledge.”
“And what truths might those be?” Marian asked, her voice steadier now though her fingers remained within his grasp, making no attempt to withdraw.
“That I love you,” Nicholas replied simply. “That the thought of you belonging to another man — any man — was unbearable. That my carefully ordered existence has been irrevocably transformed by your presence in it, and I have no desire to return to the precision and control that defined it before you disrupted every carefully established pattern.”
The last rays of afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, painting them both in warm gold and casting their shadows across the polished floor — two silhouettes drawing inexorably toward one another despite the dictates of society and their own initial resistance.
“This changes nothing about my feelings,” Nicholas continued, his voice gathering conviction with each word. “If anything, it simplifies matters considerably.” His free hand rose, hovering near her cheek without quite touching it, respecting boundaries not yet invited to cross. “I love you, Marian Brandon. Not because I feared losing you to another but because you have become essential to my happiness in ways I never anticipated and can no longer deny.”
Marian’s gaze searched his face, as if seeking confirmation of his sincerity in the subtle expressions that emotion had etched there. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy some internal question, for her next words emerged with a new quality — vulnerability threaded with unmistakable hope.
“I refused your previous offer,” she reminded him softly, “because I believed it born of practicality rather than affection. Because I could not commit to a lifetime beside a man who viewed me as merely a convenient solution to society’s expectations.”
“A reasonable conclusion,” Nicholas acknowledged, “given my history of expressing myself in terms of advantage rather than emotion. Another failing I must rectify if you will permit me the opportunity.”
He released her hand but only to take a half-step backward, creating space between them for what he intended next. With deliberate movements that somehow managed to convey both humility and certainty, Nicholas lowered himself to one knee before her, the gesture so unexpected that Marian’s hand flew to her throat in silent astonishment.
“Lady Marian Brandon,” he said, looking up at her with an expression stripped of its usual careful composure to reveal the raw emotion beneath, “if you can find it in your heart to forgive my initial failure to express the depth of my feelings, if you retain any affection for me despite my shortcomings — would you do me the extraordinary honor of becoming my wife?”
Time seemed to suspend itself in the drawing room, the ticking of the mantel clock fading to insignificance as Nicholas waited for her response. Marian stood perfectly still, framed by the golden evening light, tears continuing to trace silent paths down her cheeks despite the smile that gradually transformed her expression from uncertainty to radiant joy.
“Yes,” she whispered, the single syllable carrying more weight than volumes of poetry. “Yes, Nicholas.”
She extended her hands to him, helping him rise from his kneeling position with a strength that belied her delicate frame. As he regained his feet, their bodies drew inevitably closer, propriety momentarily forgotten in the magnetic pull of shared emotion.
“I should tell you,” Marian added, her voice soft but steady, “that I already love you in return. I have for some time though I feared it was merely another item to be crossed off your mental ledger.”
Nicholas’s hands moved to frame her face with exquisite gentleness, his thumbs brushing away the tears that lingered on her cheeks. “The only ledger that matters now,” he murmured, “is the one we will create together — all the adventures we will share, all the experiences that await us.”
Their gazes locked in perfect understanding, the last barrier between them dissolving like morning mist before the sun. With deliberate slowness, Nicholas lowered his head until his lips hovered mere inches from hers, offering her the chance to withdraw if propriety demanded it.
Instead, Marian rose on her tiptoes, closing the final distance between them in a gesture of unmistakable choice. Their lips met in a kiss that carried the sweetness of hard-won realization and the promise of countless tomorrows — tentative at first, a delicate exploration of new territory, then deepening as Nicholas’ arms encircled her waist and Marian’s hands found their way to his shoulders.
The sensation transcended mere physical connection, carrying currents of understanding that had been building since that first encounter at the country inn. Every moment between them — the shared confidences by the lake, the exhilaration atop the cliff watching the sunset, the quiet intimacy of literary discussions — crystallized in this perfect convergence of hearts finally aligned in mutual recognition.
When they finally separated, both breathing slightly faster than propriety might approve, Nicholas rested his forehead against hers in a gesture of intimacy more profound than the kiss itself. “I believe,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of wonder rarely heard from the usually composed Marquess, “that I have just experienced the most significant adventure on your list — one I hadn’t realized was included.”
“And which might that be?” Marian asked, her eyes remaining closed as if to better preserve the moment in memory.
“Falling in love,” Nicholas replied simply. “The item you crossed out but could not quite erase completely.”
Marian’s eyes opened then, meeting his with a directness that had first captured his attention that night at the inn. “Some experiences,” she observed with newfound wisdom, “cannot be planned or listed or arranged, however much one might try to control the circumstances.”
The door to the drawing room opened with a suddenness that suggested its opener had perhaps been listening from the other side. Jane Brandon stood framed in the doorway, her expression transforming from curiosity to undisguised delight as she took in the scene before her.
“I believe,” she announced to the empty hallway behind her with barely contained excitement, “that we may need to order wedding clothes rather than traveling ones!”
As footsteps hurried toward the drawing room from all directions — Lady Prudence’s measured pace, the Viscount’s heavier tread, even the butler’s discreet approach — Nicholas and Marian remained in their shared space, reluctant to break the connection that had been so hard-won.
“Are you prepared,” Nicholas asked softly, for her ears alone, “for the storm of well-wishing and planning that is about to descend upon us?”
Marian’s smile carried a new confidence, her eyes alight with both love and the spirited independence that had first drawn him to her. “I find,” she replied, her fingers tightening slightly on his shoulders, “that I can face any storm, weather any challenge, embrace any adventure — so long as we do so together.”
As her family spilled into the room with exclamations and questions and demands for explanations, Nicholas kept one arm firmly around Marian’s waist, a physical declaration of intent as clear as the words they had exchanged. The evening light painted the scene in warm gold, transforming the ordinary drawing room into the setting for the beginning of an extraordinary journey — one that had started with a chance encounter and a simple list, and would continue through countless adventures neither of them could yet imagine.