Page 16 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)

EPILOGUE

“ A re you quite certain about this particular adventure, Lady Marian? There is still time to flee to the continent,” Nicholas Grant murmured, his voice pitched for her ears alone as they stood together at the altar of St. George’s, Hanover Square, the June sunlight streaming through stained glass to paint kaleidoscope patterns across the white marble floor.

“Too late, My Lord,” Marian replied, a smile curving her lips as she tilted her face slightly toward his. “I have already committed the deed to my list. ‘Marry a marquess’ — written in ink, I’m afraid. Quite indelible.”

Nicholas’ answering smile transformed his aristocratic features with the kind of unguarded warmth that still startled those who knew only the calculating businessman and not the man Marian had discovered beneath the carefully constructed facade. “Such recklessness. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Love me, I believe was the agreement,” she whispered, her eyes bright with a happiness that seemed to illuminate her from within.

The grand church hummed with the particular energy that accompanies momentous occasions, every pew filled with representatives of London’s finest families. Silk rustled against velvet, jewels caught the light like captured stars, and perfume hung in the air — an olfactory manifestation of wealth and status that threatened to overwhelm the subtle scent of lilies adorning the altar. The wedding of the Marquess of Stone to Lady Marian Brandon had become the event of the Season, transforming from scandalous gossip to celebrated romance with the fickle speed that characterized ton opinion.

At the altar, the Archbishop cleared his throat with pointed emphasis, drawing their attention back to the solemn ceremony at hand. Nicholas straightened imperceptibly, his tall figure resplendent in a coat of midnight blue that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the elegant line of his frame. Beside him, Marian presented a vision in ivory silk, her gown unadorned save for delicate embroidery at the hem — winter roses and twining ivy, echoing the pattern on the shawl that had started their entire adventure.

As they proceeded through their vows with clear, steady voices that carried to the furthest corners of the church, Lady Prudence dabbed discreetly at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Lord Silas stood beside his wife, his posture rigid with dignity though his expression betrayed a softness rarely witnessed in public. Lydia and Elias observed from the front pew, their hands intertwined in a gesture of quiet solidarity, while Diana watched with the dreamy satisfaction of a romantic who has witnessed love triumphant.

Jane, however, seemed distracted, her attention repeatedly drifting toward the opposite side of the church where Richard Riverstone, Duke of Myste, sat with impeccable posture, his expression as composed and unreadable as a classical sculpture. The Duke’s unexpected acceptance of their invitation had caused quite the stir among the Brandon household with Jane declaring it “insufferably presumptuous” while Diana suggested it showed “admirable social grace.”

The ceremony concluded with Nicholas placing a ring of extraordinary craftsmanship upon Marian’s finger — not an ostentatious diamond as might have been expected but an elegant band of rose gold set with small sapphires the exact shade of her favorite book’s binding. As his fingers brushed against her palm, the contact sent visible shivers along her arm despite the June warmth permeating the church.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he pronounced, the traditional words carrying the weight of personal promise rather than mere ceremonial repetition.

Sunlight caught the ring as Marian’s hand trembled slightly within his grasp, the sapphires transformed into liquid blue fire against her skin. The archbishop’s final blessing washed over them like a wave, and then it was done — the bluestocking and the businessman joined together before God and society in a union that had defied all expectations, including their own.

As they turned to face the congregation, now husband and wife, the assembled guests rose in a rustle of expensive fabric and appreciative murmurs. Nicholas’ hand rested at the small of Marian’s back, the pressure both protective and possessive as they began their procession down the aisle toward the church doors and the future that awaited beyond.

The wedding breakfast at the Drownshire townhouse presented a triumph of planning and execution that had Lady Prudence accepting compliments with uncharacteristic flushes of pleasure. The drawing rooms had been transformed with garlands of summer blooms, their fragrance mingling with the aroma of delicate pastries and the distinctive notes of champagne being poured into crystal flutes with practiced precision.

Nicholas and Marian circulated among their guests with the coordinated ease of partners who had achieved that rare synchronicity where words became almost unnecessary, each anticipating the other’s movements with intuitive grace. When he placed his hand at her waist to guide her toward a new group of well-wishers, she leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch. When she tilted her head slightly to indicate her desire to move on from a particularly tedious conversation, he smoothly provided the necessary social extraction.

“I believe,” Elias observed to his wife as they watched the newly married couple navigate the crowded room, “that we may congratulate ourselves on a most successful endeavor.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, her expression a study in amused skepticism. “We? I seem to recall a certain fabrication regarding the Duke of Myste that nearly derailed the entire affair.”

“A necessary catalyst,” Elias defended, his hand rising to adjust his already impeccable cravat. “Some chemical reactions require an external agent to achieve proper combustion.”

“How romantic,” Lydia replied dryly though her eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “I’m certain Marian would be delighted to know you compared her matrimonial prospects to a scientific experiment.”

“Speaking of the Duke,” Elias murmured, his gaze shifting toward a corner of the room where Jane Brandon stood in what appeared to be animated conversation with Richard Riverstone himself. “Your sister seems to have found a conversational partner of unexpected… intensity.”

Across the room, Jane’s posture radiated the particular tension of someone working diligently to maintain social composure despite profound provocation. She stood with her spine straight as a rapier, one hand gripping her champagne glass with such force it seemed in danger of shattering while the other gestured with precise, controlled movements that suggested anything but the casual exchange of pleasantries.

The Duke, by contrast, maintained a posture of perfect aristocratic composure, his tall figure inclined slightly toward Jane in a gesture of attention that might have appeared courteous had it not been for the unmistakable spark of challenge in his eyes. His responses, though clearly delivered with modulated volume appropriate to the social setting, caused visible reactions in Jane that ranged from widened eyes to compressed lips to one particularly dramatic intake of breath.

“Fascinating,” Lydia murmured, observing the tableau with growing interest. “I have never seen Jane quite so… affected by anyone before.”

“Particularly someone she claimed was ‘insufferably dull’ upon their introduction at our house party,” Elias added, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Their speculation was interrupted by the arrival of the newly wedded pair, Nicholas’s hand still resting with casual possessiveness at Marian’s waist.

“What mischief are you plotting now?” Marian asked, her gaze following the direction of her sister’s attention. “Your expressions suggest conspiracy of the highest order.”

“Merely observing the unexpected fruits of our previous endeavors,” Elias replied, raising his champagne glass in a subtle toast. “Your sister appears to have found a worthy intellectual adversary in the Duke of Myste.”

Marian turned, her eyes widening as she took in the scene unfolding across the room. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “I have never seen Jane quite so… animated. What could they possibly be discussing with such fervor?”

“The relative merits of Byron versus Wordsworth, I believe,” Nicholas supplied, his expression suggesting both amusement and mild concern. “With occasional diversions into the practical applications of classical education and the proper role of the aristocracy in contemporary politics.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise. He shrugged, the elegant movement causing sunlight to catch on the new gold band adorning his left hand. “I passed within earshot during their initial engagement. The conversation appeared to be escalating rather than resolving, so discretion seemed the better part of valor.”

“Jane has always held strong opinions regarding the Romantics,” Marian observed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Though I confess, I have never seen her quite so willing to express them to a duke.”

“Particularly one she dismissed as ‘a fossilized repository of outdated scholarly opinions’ upon their introduction,” Lydia added, her tone suggesting that the assessment might warrant reconsideration.

As they watched, Jane’s expression transformed from irritation to outright indignation, her free hand rising to punctuate whatever point she was making with uncharacteristic vehemence. The Duke responded with a comment that, while delivered with perfect composure, clearly proved inflammatory, for Jane set down her champagne glass with such deliberate care that the action itself became a statement of restrained fury.

“Perhaps someone should intervene,” Lydia suggested though her tone lacked genuine concern, “before diplomatic relations between the houses of Brandon and Riverstone deteriorate beyond redemption.”

“On the contrary,” Nicholas murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the interaction with the calculating assessment that had made him such a formidable presence in business circles, “I believe we are witnessing the opening movements of a much longer game.”

Marian tilted her head to regard her husband with newfound curiosity. “You cannot possibly suggest —-”

“That history repeats itself?” Nicholas finished for her, his mouth curving into a smile that transformed his aristocratic features with unexpected warmth. “Not precisely. But certain patterns do seem to recur with fascinating variations.”

Before further speculation could ensue, a lively footman approached to inform the couple that their carriage awaited whenever they wished to depart. The announcement sent ripples of anticipation through the assembled guests, who began to position themselves for the traditional send-off of the bride and groom.

“Shall we make our escape, Lady Stone?” Nicholas asked, offering his arm to Marian with a gesture that managed to convey both formal courtesy and intimate promise.

“I believe we must,” she replied, placing her gloved hand upon his sleeve with the comfortable certainty of a woman who has made her choice and embraces it without reservation. “Though I confess to some curiosity regarding the outcome of Jane’s unexpected tête-à-tête with the Duke.”

“A mystery for another day,” Nicholas murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate register that sent visible color rising to Marian’s cheeks despite her usual composure. “We have our own adventure awaiting.”

Their departure proceeded with all the ceremonial fanfare that society demanded — rose petals scattered before their path, good wishes called out from the assembled guests, Marian’s bouquet tossed with deliberate aim toward Diana — who caught it with a blend of embarrassment and secret delight. Through it all, Nicholas maintained physical contact with his new wife — a hand at the small of her back, fingers intertwined with hers, a steadying presence as they navigated the gauntlet of social expectations together.

As they settled into the carriage that would carry them to Stone House for their wedding night before departing for their honeymoon tour of the Lake District the following day, Marian reached into a concealed pocket of her gown and withdrew a folded piece of paper that had accompanied her through every significant moment of their courtship.

“My list,” she explained unnecessarily, unfolding it with careful movements that betrayed its importance beyond the casual observer’s understanding. “I believe we have now completed every item.”

Nicholas leaned forward to examine the document, his shoulder pressing against hers in a gesture of comfortable intimacy as the carriage began to move through London’s crowded streets. The original items had all been crossed through with neat lines, including the final one that had once read “Fall in lo-” before being amended to “Kiss someone.”

“Not quite complete,” he observed, reaching into his coat to produce a golden pen of exquisite craftsmanship. “May I?”

Marian’s expression softened with curious affection as she handed him the paper. “What remains to be added?”

With deliberate strokes, Nicholas added a new item at the bottom of the list: “Begin the greatest adventure of all — a life shared with someone who loves you exactly as you are.”

Marian’s eyes glistened with unexpected moisture as she read the addition. “That’s not an adventure with a defined conclusion,” she observed, her voice carrying a hint of the academic precision that had first captured his attention. “It cannot be simply crossed off upon completion.”

“Precisely,” Nicholas replied, returning the pen to his pocket before taking her hand in his. “Some adventures are meant to continue indefinitely with new discoveries at every turn.”

The carriage turned onto a quieter street, sunlight filtering through the windows to illuminate them in alternative patterns of light and shadow as they moved beneath the leafy canopy of London’s fashionable avenues. In the distance, the familiar silhouette of Stone House rose against the summer sky — no longer merely Nicholas’s domain but now their shared home, the starting point for the life they would build together.

“I have been considering a new list,” Marian confessed, her fingers tightening slightly around his. “Not of experiences to be checked off before some arbitrary deadline but of possibilities to be explored together.”

“And what might this list contain?” Nicholas asked, his free hand rising to brush an errant strand of hair from her cheek in a gesture that managed to convey both tenderness and possession.

“Travel beyond England’s shores,” she began, her eyes taking on the particular brightness that accompanied her intellectual enthusiasms. “Establishing a proper library with works by female authors alongside the male. Perhaps even publishing some observations on natural philosophy under my own name rather than a masculine pseudonym.”

Nicholas’s smile deepened, the expression transforming his usually stern countenance with genuine pleasure. “All worthy pursuits,” he agreed. “Though I might suggest additions of my own, if permitted.”

“Such as?”

“The creation of a scholarship for young women of intellectual promise but limited means,” he offered, watching her expression closely. “Collaboration with progressive educators who share your views on female intellectual capacity. Perhaps even…” he hesitated, uncharacteristic uncertainty crossing his features before he continued, “the raising of children who would never question a woman’s right to both marriage and mental autonomy.”

Marian’s breath caught audibly, her eyes widening at his final suggestion. “Children,” she repeated softly. “You wish for a family?”

“I wish for a future with you,” Nicholas replied simply. “Whatever form that future might take. If it includes children who inherit your courage and intelligence alongside my stubborn determination, I would consider myself doubly blessed. But if our family remains just the two of us, exploring the world and challenging its conventions together, that too would be more happiness than I once believed possible.”

The carriage slowed as it approached the imposing entrance of Stone House where staff waited to welcome the new mistress with appropriate ceremony. Before they came to a complete stop, Marian leaned forward to press her lips against her husband’s — a gesture that still carried the thrill of novelty despite the declaration of their vows hours earlier.

“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth, the words simple yet profound in their sincerity. “Not because you fit some predetermined requirement on a list but because you see me — truly see me — and choose me anyway.”

“Not ‘anyway,’” Nicholas corrected gently, his hand rising to cradle her face with a tenderness few would have believed the ruthless businessman capable of expressing. “Because of who you are. Your mind, your spirit, your refusal to accept limitations placed upon you by a world that cannot recognize your true worth — these are not qualities to be tolerated but rather treasured.”

As the carriage door opened to the summer afternoon and the beginning of their shared future, Marian tucked the list — her original catalyst for adventure, now transformed into something far more meaningful — into her husband’s hand. Together they stepped into the sunlight, ready to face whatever challenges and joys awaited them not as separate individuals but as partners in the truest sense — bound not merely by law or social convention but by the rarest and most precious of connections: mutual recognition of equals who had found in each other not completion but amplification of their individual strengths.

From a window of the Drownshire townhouse several streets away, Jane Brandon observed the Duke of Myste’s departure with an expression that suggested their conversation had concluded without satisfactory resolution. The slight furrow between her brows, the determined set of her shoulders, and the thoughtful tap of her finger against her lip all indicated that while this particular skirmish might have ended, the intellectual campaign between them had only just begun — a reality that filled her with emotions far more complex than the simple irritation she chose to display.

But that, as Nicholas had observed, was a story for another day.

The End?