Page 29 of Marquess of Stone

“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.”

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