Page 30 of Marquess of Stone

“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? Howconvenientfor 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. Thesemodernwomen with theirreadingand theiropinions… 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 mereprincipleof 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.”

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