Page 9 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)

CHAPTER 9

“ Y ou seem utterly distracted.”

The words hung in the air of Elias’ study like smoke, deceptively gentle but impossible to wave away. Nicholas shifted in the confines of his leather armchair, watching the firelight dance across the amber surface of his brandy. The liquid caught and held the flames, much like certain brown eyes he had been trying his best not to think about.

“Distracted?” He aimed for lightness, letting his lips curve into the easy smile that had smoothed his way through countless social situations. “Hardly. Just enjoying the company.”

Elias’ study had always been a sanctuary of sorts. Tonight, however, the familiar comfort of aged leather, polished wood, and centuries of collected wisdom lining the shelves felt somehow accusatory. Even the portraits of Elias’s ancestors seemed to watch him with unusual scrutiny.

“I assure you, I am just enjoying some… stimulating conversation, Elias,” Nicholas laughed though the sound rang hollow to even his own ears. “Nothing more.”

“Indeed?” Elias swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “I think you meant to say,” Elias sad quietly, “that you have been enjoying Lady Marian’s company.” His voice carried the same neutrality he employed when discussing particularly delicate business matters.

Elias set his glass down with deliberate precision, the soft clink against the side table as pointed as a dueler’s challenge.

Nicholas felt his smile falter and quickly recovered it with another sip of brandy. The spirit burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat but did nothing to ease the sudden tightness in his chest. “She is rather… interesting, I’ll admit.”

“Interesting enough to make you act like a fool.” The bluntness of the statement was pure Elias and proof of a friendship stripped of all ornament. “Forgive me, but your interest rather looks like you are a moth that is interested in a flame.”

“Your metaphors grow more dramatic by the glass, old friend.”

“And your evasions grow more transparent. Tell me, what exactly are your intentions toward Lady Marian?”

Nicholas’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Must every interaction with a woman come with intentions attached?”

“When the woman in question is my sister-in-law? Yes, decidedly so. Do not think I failed to notice the way you watched her during dinner last night. You cannot convince me that it was merely… a casual observation?”

“I was not aware that my dining habits were under such scrutiny,” Nicholas drawled though the lightness in his tone felt forced, even to his own ears.

“No? But then again, I suppose you were not particularly counting the number of times she smiled? Or perhaps you failed to notice how your expression changed every time she spoke?”

“Really, Elias, you are beginning to sound like one of the matchmaking mamas.”

“And you, my friend, are rather beginning to act like one of their eager targets. Look, Nicholas, I know you. And I know my sister-in-law. She is not the type for… games. Not yours.”

The word ‘games’ landed like a physical blow. Nicholas straightened his spine, years of friendship suddenly warring with a surge of indignation. “You think I am toying with her?”

The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows that seemed to dance with all the things left unsaid. Elias met Nicholas’ gaze steadily, and Nicholas saw in his friend’s eyes not judgement but concern.

“Not intentionally, I think,” Elias said finally, each word measured. “But intentions do not always matter, do they? You are not serious about pursuing her, Nicholas, and she is not someone you can afford to be careless with.”

“You speak as thought I am some callow youth unable to manage his passions,” Nicholas snapped, an edge of warning creeping into his voice.

“No, I speak as someone who knows exactly how capable you are of managing your… affairs,” Elias countered. “It is the hearts involved that concern me.”

“Hearts?” Nicholas barked out a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rather presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“Is it? Then why, pray tell, do you look like a man who has just realized he is standing on quicksand?”

Nicholas stood abruptly, pacing to the window. “Your imagination rivals your sister-in-law’s novel collection.”

“And your denial rivals the Thames in depth,” Elias replied dryly. “Though I notice you have yet to deny any of my accusations.”

The truth in those words settled over Nicholas like a winter’s frost, chilling the warmth of the brandy in his veins. Unbidden and unwanted, images flashed through his mind — Marian’s eyes sparkling with intelligence as she discussed the writing of Mary Wollstonecraft, her quiet laugh as she climbed the orange tree with him, the way the sunlight had painted her face in shades of gold, and the look of serenity that had settled onto her features as they stood on the cliff’s edge. Each memory a small betrayal of his supposed casual interest.

“Nicholas, please do not use my family members for your… entertainment.” Elias’s voice held an edge of warning.

“Do you truly believe I would sink that low?” Nicholas asked, unable to mask his hurt at his friend’s statement.

“Not intentionally, no.” Elias’ glare softened slightly. “You are not your father, Nicholas, I am well aware, but your intentions, however noble they may be, are not serious. We both know this. Perhaps it would be better to maintain some distance before anyone’s heart becomes too… invested.”

The words struck home with uncomfortable precision. Nicholas stared into his glass, seeing the truth of his friend’s observation reflected in the amber liquid. He had been careless, allowing himself to be drawn into Marian’s orbit without properly considering the consequences. The realization settled over him with a heavy weight — Elias was right.

“Maybe you are correct,” he said at last, his voice quieter than intended. The admission tasted bitter on his tongue. “Perhaps I should… keep my distance.”

“Will you, truly?” Elias’ tone was gentler now, almost sympathetic. “ Can you?”

Nicholas turned from the window, his expression carefully neutral. “It seems I have little choice.”

“There is always a choice, Nicholas. The question is whether you are brave enough to make the right one.”

“It rather seems… the bigger question is what the right choice might be in this circumstance.”

“That depends entirely on whether you are actually being honest with yourself about what it is you want.”

“What I want,” Nicholas said slowly, “has rarely aligned with what is expected.”

“Ah,” Elias smiled faintly, “now it seems we are getting somewhere.”

Nicholas breathed deeply, sighing into his brandy glass. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is best for all concerned if I keep my distance from Lady Marian.”

Elias nodded though something in his expression suggested he had seen more than Nicholas had meant to reveal. “For her sake, I do hope you mean that.”

Nicholas stared into the depths of his glass where the brandy caught and fractured the light. He was accustomed to being the rake, the charming nobleman whose flirtations were as meaningless as they were entertaining. It was a role he had perfected over years of social navigation, a comfortable mask that he had used to protect both himself and others from anything deeper.

But Marian Brandon had slipped past those defenses somehow with her fierce intelligence and carefully hidden vulnerability. She had made him forget his role, forget himself, until Elias’ warning had brought him crashing back to reality.

Distance , he told himself firmly. It was the only honorable course. After all, what could he offer her beyond momentary diversion? His life was ordered, predictable, built on the solid foundation of duty and responsibility that he had constructed from the ruins of his father’s legacy. The last thing he needed was Marian Branon’s intoxicating blend of propriety and rebellion that had upset the careful balance of his mind.

The fire sputtered and popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Nicholas watched them rise and fade, each tiny light extinguished by reality, much like the dangerous possibilities he had begun to imagine whenever Marian was nearby.

“Another brandy?” Elias offered, already reaching for the decanter.

Nicholas nodded, grateful for the familiar ritual of friendship that required no words. Tomorrow, he will begin the necessary task of withdrawal. Tonight, he would allow himself one last indulgence in possibilities — even as the thought of ‘last’ made something in his chest constrict painfully.

“You know,” Elias said, breaking the weighted silence, “sometimes I wonder if we are not all playing parts we have… outgrown.”

Nicholas looked up sharply. “Rather philosophical for this time tonight, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it is exactly the right time to consider whether the roles we have chosen for ourselves still fit.”

“Careful, old friend.” Nicholas managed a slight smile. “You are beginning to sound dangerously like a certain bluestocking of our acquaintance.”

Elias laughed. “And you are beginning to sound like a man who has found something worth risking his carefully constructed world for.” Elias rose, crossing to his friend’s side. “A toast?”

“To prudence,” he raised his glass.

“To truth,” Elias countered pointedly, and Nicholas could not quite suppress his wince at the correction.

The next morning brought with it the particular cruelty of clarity. Nicholas watched intently as Marian sat across from him in the breakfast room, noting how the sunlight seemed drawn to her like a faithful admirer, catching in her hair and illuminating the quiet intelligence in her expression. He forced himself to look away, his tea suddenly fascinating in its complexity.

“You seem rather fascinated by your tea this morning, Lord Stone,” came Lady Prudence’s voice, sharp with maternal observation. “I trust you find it… satisfactory?”

“Quite,” he replied shortly though his grip on the delicate China cup betrayed his tension.

“How fortunate,” Marian interjected as she reached for a pastry, her voice carrying that blend of sweetness and steel that made his chest ache. “Though I fear it must pale in comparison to the… stimulating conversation you seemed to enjoy so yesterday.”

He caught the double meaning in her words, saw the challenge in her eyes when he dared to glance upward. “Some conversations, Lady Marian, are best left in the past.”

“How philosophical of you, Lord Stone,” she remarked, careful consideration in each syllable. “Though I must confess, I have always found consistency more admirable than convenient changes of heart.”

“Consistency can be its own form of cowardice,” he bit back before he could stop himself. The silence that followed before the two ladies hurriedly excused themselves could have drawn blood, and Nicholas hated himself for the look in Marian’s eyes as she departed.

The day stretched before him like an exercise in sophisticated torture. Every social gathering, every casual encounter became an elaborate dance of avoidance. He caught glimpses of her throughout the morning — her figure distant across the lawn, her laugh carrying on the breeze like a haunting melody he could not quite forget.

When she finally approached him on the terrace, her presence was as inevitable as the ocean’s tides. He steeled himself against the warmth in her voice and the tentative smile that threatened to undo his resolve.

“Lord Stone.”

Even her formal address felt intimate somehow, loaded with the weight of shared secrets and unspoken understanding. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point, as if the horizon might offer salvation from the danger of meeting her eyes.

“Lady Marian.” The words emerged clipped and cold, each syllable carefully crafted to build a wall between them.

“I had hoped we might discuss the book you lent me,” she ventured, her voice carefully modulated to maintain propriety while others milled about around them. “Your marginalia were most… illuminating, My Lord.”

“Were they?” He kept his tone deliberately bland. “I rather find my opinions on such matters have grown rather… unremarkable of late.”

“Unremarkable?” The word carried a hint of challenge. “That is hardly the word I would choose for your rather passionate defense of women’s education in the margins.”

“Perhaps I was merely playing devil’s advocate.”

“Were you?” Her voice dropped lower. “How disappointing. I had thought better of your convictions, My Lord.”

Her words stung, and he retorted in equal measure. “Then that is entirely your own imagination you owe thanks to, My Lady.”

He felt, rather than saw her hesitation, the slight shift in her posture that spoke of confusion and growing annoyance. The crease between her brows — the one he’d grown oddly fond of — deepened.

“Your coldness and withdrawal would be more convincing,” she continued, her voice dropping lower, “if you could manage to look me in the eye while doing so.”

“Perhaps I find it easier to maintain a proper distance this way.”

“Proper distance?” Her laugh was cold. “How interesting that you have become so suddenly and unexpectedly concerned with propriety after teaching me how to swim and climbing trees with me.”

“We must all wake from our follies eventually, Lady Marian.”

“Follies?” The disbelief in her voice could have cut through hardened steel. “Is that what you call it now? How convenient for you to be able to dismiss it so easily.”

“Nothing about this is easy,” he said, his voice raw with honesty.

“Those are the first words you have uttered today that I believe, Nicholas,” she said as her eyes searched his face. “Why are you doing this?”

The question hung in the air between them, like a thread pulled taught, ready to snap.

“Are you unwell, Nicholas?” she whispered when he didn’t respond, the concern in her voice almost undoing him. “You seem rather… different from yesterday,” she pressed. When his silence stretched too long, she continued. “Has something happened to cause such a dramatic shift in your… temperament?

“I assure you, Lady Marian, my temperament remains precisely what it has always been.”

“Does it?” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and the sight of it made his heart ache. “How curious. I could have sworn that only yesterday, you were advocating for the value of honesty in all things.”

“Perhaps that was my first mistake.”

“Your first?” She tilted her head, studying him with uncomfortable perception. “How intriguing. I was not aware you were cataloguing them all.”

She looked at him for a moment longer when he didn’t respond. “Are you sure you are all right?” she asked again, her voice a tender whisper.

“Perfectly well, thank you, My Lady,” he replied, maintaining his studied indifference. “If you’ll excuse me.”

His retreat felt like cowardice, each step he took away from her a small betrayal of everything that had grown between them these last few days. But was that not precisely what Elias had warned him against? This dangerous tendency to let something grow where nothing should take root?

Throughout the day, he maintained his careful distance though each glimpse of her gnawed away at him. By late afternoon, his nerves were as raw as freshly scraped parchment. He sought refuge in the garden’s shadowed corners, where the earthy scent of dampened soil and the sharp bite of tobacco might clear his head. The cigar’s ember glowed like a tiny sun in the gathering dusk, its smoke a poor substitute for the kind of fire he had been foolish enough to play with.

A pair of matrons passed by, their conversation carrying clearly.

“Lady Brandon,” one whispered, not quietly enough, “seems to have caught the Marquess’ attention. I found that rather surprising, given her… standoffish personality.”

“Oh, I am certain it won’t last. Flights of fancy rarely do,” her companion replied with certainty. “Lord Stone is notorious for his… fleeting interests. Much like his late father in that regard, though, perhaps more… discriminating.”

Nicholas felt each word like a physical blow, knowing deep down that they were right — and it was precisely what Elias had warned him about and exactly what he had resolved to prove wrong by keeping his distance.

Then another pair of voices drifted through the hedge, carrying the particular timbre of masculine menace that made his spine stiffen.

“The Brandon girl,” came the Viscount’s voice, oily with wounded pride, “had the gall to reject my request for a dance. Twice.”

A rougher laugh joined in. “She is rather bold, I’ll give her that.”

“Bold?” The Viscount’s laugh carried no humor. “I would say insufferable. These modern women with their reading and their opinions … nothing but trouble and irritation.”

“Come now,” his companion cajoled, “surely one dance should not be worth such a reaction from one as distinguished as yourself?”

“It is the mere principle of the thing. When a woman of her station refuses a man of mine… well, it sets a dangerous precedent, does it not? Next thing you know, they will all be demanding to choose their own husbands and joining us in discussions about philosophy.”

“Heaven forbid!” came the mocking reply.

“Indeed. Insolent is what she is.” The venom in the Viscount’s tone made Nicholas’s hand clench around his cigar, threatening to snap it in half. “I rather think a lesson might be in order. One that will teach her some… humility.”

“Tell me, Crowton,” a new voice came, smooth as aged brandy but with an edge like a freshly honed blade, “does your fascination with the Lady stem from genuine interest or merely wounded pride?” The Duke of Myste had stepped from the shadows, his expression unreadable. Nicholas found himself holding his breath, wondering if he had an unexpected ally in the Duke.

“My business with Lady Marian is precisely that — mine ,” the Viscount sneered.

“How territorial,” the Duke observed coolly. “Though I do wonder if the Lady shares your view of ownership.”

“These modern women with their irrational notions,” the Viscount spat, “about women’s choices and freedom — can only lead to chaos. It will take a strong hand to rein such a mind back into place.”

“You mean your own particular brand of order?” The Duke’s smile was harsh and cold. “How fascinating that you equate respect with chaos, Crowton.”

The ash crumbled unnoticed as Nicholas fought the urge to storm through the hedge and demonstrate exactly why his reputation in certain boxing clubs was spoken of with respect. But instead, he forced himself to remain still, letting the rage settle into something colder, more focused.

Marian had grown accustomed to fending off unwanted advances, but the Viscount’s persistence bordered on the absurd. Time and again, she sidestepped his clumsy attempts to corner her, weaving through the ballroom with practiced ease. Each evasion was met with yet another advance, but she remained composed, her smile unwavering and her refusals firm yet polite.

Until she could not.

A misstep — no, merely an ill-fated moment of hesitation — found her trapped near the edge of the ballroom. A flicker of unease coiled in her stomach even before she felt the firm grasp of his hand around her wrist. She turned, schooling her features into calm indifference though the false civility in his bow and the hunger in his smile sent a chill along her spine.

“A dance, perhaps, Lady Marian?” His voice, deceptively light, carried an undercurrent that made her skin crawl.

She lifted her chin, refusing to shrink before him. “I believe I was quite clear in my earlier refusal, My Lord.” The ice in her tone should have been warning enough.

“Clarity,” he mused, tightening his grip, “is not always the same as wisdom, Lady Marian. Come now, surely you can spare one dance.”

She forced her hand to remain limp within his hold, refusing to struggle. “As you can see, My Lord, my dance card is quite full.”

“And yet, I see you standing here alone. Surely you understand that certain… social obligations cannot be avoided forever.”

“The only obligation I recognize, My Lord,” she said coolly, “is to my own conscience which, at present, strongly advises me to maintain my distance from the dance floor.”

His fingers flexed around her wrist, the pressure biting now. “Your conscience? How charmingly novel. And what of your reputation? What of your family’s good name? Are these not more worthy of consideration that your fanciful conscience?”

Her spine went rigid. Anger burned away the first flickers of fear, replacing them with something sharper, more resolute. “My family’s good name?” she echoed, her voice steady despite the storm building inside her. “How generous of you to concern yourself with it, My Lord. Though I cannot help but wonder — does your concern extend to all the ladies of the ton, or am I singularly blessed with such… special attention?”

The Viscount’s smile thinned. “I think you misunderstand my intentions, my dear. It is —”

“I mistake nothing,” she cut in. “Your intentions, My Lord, are as transparent as they are unwelcome.”

A dull flush crept along his cheekbones. His fingers, whitening against her wrist, were the only betrayal of his anger he could not keep from showing.

“You forget yourself once more. Lady Marian.” His voice, now a hiss, carried an edge of threat. “I had thought to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself after our… unfortunate encounter at the picnic by the lake. Your clever tongue may amuse certain members of society, but I assure you, I am not among them, and my patience now grows thin.”

She knew fear well, but she had long since learned to swallow it whole. “How fortunate then,” she murmured, forcing a serenity she did not feel, “that I have never sought to be amusing, My Lord.”

“No?” His smile darkened. “Then perhaps you find yourself in need of a lesson.”

She did not hear Nicholas approach, but she felt the shift in the air — the charged stillness that signaled his presence before she laid eyes on him. A strange relief warred with her pride, but the words hanging between her and the Viscount had already made a mockery of any expectation of rescue. Even so, something in her recognized the moment he stepped forward, the moment his silent promise shattered the distance he had so carefully maintained.

Later that night, when she finally found a moment of solitude at the edge of the ballroom, she let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding in. The evening had taken its toll, the thrill of the dance, the sharpness of unwanted attentions, the weight of expectations pressing heavy upon her. She stared out at the flickering candlelight, only half aware of the music still playing and the laughter ringing through the air.

She did not hear Nicholas approach this time either. She only felt the brush of his presence, the heat of it as he passed by just a fraction too closely.

“My room. Tonight.” The words were a whisper against the air between them, cool and commanding. “There is something we must discuss.”

She turned sharply, her eyes flashing with surprise — but before she could demand an explanation, he was already gone, swallowed by the crowd. Fury sparked in her chest, outrunning the remnants of her shock.

How dare he?

And yet, even as she bristled at the audacity, a quiet, insidious thought whispered beneath her indignation: she would go.