Page 40 of Marquess of Stone

“Marian, I —”

“No, please,” she cut in, her smile brittle. “Let us not spoil the evening further with metaphors and weak excuses. After all, sirens and sailors rarely end up well in those stories, do they?”

His hand tightened on her waist for a fraction of a second, but he said nothing. The music swelled around them, and for a moment, the rest of the ballroom seemed to fade away as they continued their dance.

“I have not failed to notice the Viscount’s persistent attentions. You should be careful around Crowton, Lady Marian,” he said finally, his voice pitched low for her ears alone.

The warning sparked something angry in her chest. “Are you worried for me, Nicholas?” She felt him tense at her use of his Christian name. “Do you care what happens to me? And if so, what exactly does that mean?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he would not answer. “One doesn’t have to… share deep affections for someone to be concerned for their welfare,” he said finally, the words precise and measured as cut glass.

The words struck with surgical precision, each syllable carefully crafted to maintain distance even as their bodies moved in perfect synchronization across the floor. Marian felt them lodging beneath her ribs like splinters of ice, and something in her expression must have betrayed her pain because Nicholas’ face softened almost imperceptibly.

“I apologize,” he said, his voice gentler now. “That was… unkind.”

“No,” she managed, focusing on the intricate pattern of his waistcoat rather than meet his eyes. “You have nothing to apologize for. The unkindness was mine in assuming…” She drew a steadying breath. “In allowing myself to imagine something that clearly does not exist.”

The music swelled around them, the violins reaching a particularly poignant crescendo that seemed to mock the hollow ache in her chest. Nicholas’ hand tightened fractionally at her waist, as if he might pull her closer, but propriety kept them at the prescribed distance — always at the prescribed distance.

“Marian—” he began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.

“Please,” her voice emerged barely above a whisper, “let’s not pretend. I was foolish enough to…” she faltered then lifted her chin with determined dignity. “Well, it hardly matters now what I was foolish enough to do. Or feel.”

The dance was drawing to a close, the final measures spinning out like golden thread about to snap. Nicholas was watching her with an expression she refused to interpret, refused to allow herself to hope might mean something more than simple regret for her misunderstanding.

“You were never foolish,” he said quietly as the music faded. “If anyone has been playing the fool, it’s —”

“Thank you for the dance, My Lord,” she interrupted, stepping back and executing a perfect curtsy. Her composure felt like spun glass — beautiful but liable to shatter at the slightest pressure. “If you’ll excuse me, I find I need some air.”

She turned before he could respond, moving through the crowd with practiced grace that belied the trembling in her limbs. Ladies didn’t run — they glided, they floated, they withdrew with dignity. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, years of lessons in proper behavior providing a counterpoint to the thundering of her heart.

The terrace air struck her heated skin like a slap, the night’s chill a sharp contrast to the stifling warmth of the ballroom. Marian moved toward the stone balustrade, her fingers tracing its cool surface as she tried to steady her breathing. Above her, stars glittered with cold indifference as distant and unreachable as the man she’d just left behind.

A tear escaped despite her fierce determination, trailing down her cheek like a silent betrayal. She brushed it away with angry fingers, despising her own weakness. How many times had her mother warned her that an excess of sensibility was a woman’s greatest failing? Yet here she stood, proving the truth of it.

“Such a tragic figure you cut, my dear. Almost like one of those dreary heroines in those gothic novels your sister is so fond of.”

The Viscount’s voice sliced through her solitude like a poorly wielded knife, more jarring than sharp. Marian quickly brushed away the evidence of her distress though the salt of her tears had already left invisible tracks on her cheeks.

“I was not aware the terrace was occupied,” she said, proud of how steady her voice emerged despite the tremor in her hands. “I shall leave you to your solitude, My Lord.”

“Now, now…” He moved to block her path, his bulk casting an unwelcome shadow in the moonlight. “There’s no need to flee. Though I must say, crying does nothing for your looks. You are far prettier when you are not being disagreeable.”

The comment carried that particular blend of condescension and threat that made her skin crawl. The balcony, which had seemed like sanctuary moments ago, suddenly felt like a trap. Behind her, the stone balustrade offered only the embrace of a three-story drop to the gardens below.

“How fortunate then,” she replied, steel entering her voice, “that I have never particularly concerned myself with looking pretty for your benefit, My Lord.”

“No?” His smile reminded her of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. “Yet here you are, alone in the moonlight, weeping like a jilted lover. Tell me, does Lord Stone know the effect he has on you?”

The mention of Nicholas’ name was like a physical blow, but Marian refused to let it show. “I believe you mistake the situation entirely.”

“Do I?” He stepped closer, and the sickly-sweet scent of port on his breath made her want to recoil. “I think not. I’ve watched you these past days, throwing yourself at him like some love-struck schoolgirl. It’s rather beneath your station, do you not think?”

“The only thing beneath my station, My Lord,” she said, trying to step around him, “is this conversation.”

His hand shot out, fingers circling her wrist with bruising force. “Such spirit,” he sneered, yanking her closer. “Such fire. Someone really ought to teach you the proper respect that is expected of a genteel lady.”

“Release me,” she demanded though fear had begun to curl in her stomach like poisonous smoke, “or I shall scream.”

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