Page 53 of Marquess of Stone

Nicholas’ hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles whitening with tension. “The exact qualities I offered her,” he said, his voice tight with controlled fury.

“But perhaps,” Elias suggested gently, “not the ones she believed you capable of providing.”

The statement hung in the air between them, its truth undeniable. Nicholas turned away, moving to the fireplace where he stood gazing down at the dying embers, his expression hidden from his friend’s observant eyes.

“I have been a fool,” he said finally, the words barely audible.

“On that, at least, we can agree,” Elias replied though without malice. “The question is, what do you intend to do about it?”

Nicholas straightened, something in his posture shifting as decision crystallized within him. When he turned to face Elias again, his expression had transformed — the uncertainty vanished, replaced by the focused determination that had built his fortune and reputation.

“First,” he said, his voice taking on the crisp authority that had cowed hardened businessmen and politicians alike, “I need to know exactly who this suitor is and how far arrangements have progressed.”

Elias’ lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “I might be persuaded to share what little I know… if you were to admit certain truths we’ve been dancing around all evening.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You are enjoying this far too much.”

“Can you blame me?” Elias countered. “The great Marquess of Stone brought low by something as common as love. It’s positively Shakespearean.”

The word hung in the air between them — love — stark and unavoidable. Nicholas stared at his oldest friend, internal struggle visible in his eyes for perhaps the first time since they’d known each other.

“Very well,” he said finally, the words emerging with the reluctance of a confession being dragged into the light. “I love her. I love Marian Brandon.”

Elias’s smile bloomed slowly, satisfaction evident in every line of his face. “Well,” he said mildly, “that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Nicholas glared at him. “The name, Elias. Now.”

“Richard Riverstone,” Elias replied, watching carefully for his friend’s reaction. “The Duke of Myste.”

The color drained from Nicholas’s face, leaving him pale beneath his tan. “Riverstone,” he repeated, the name emerging like a curse. “The collector.”

“The scholar,” Elias corrected. “Renowned for his library, his patronage of female authors, and his remarkably progressive views on education.” He paused deliberately. “And, I believe, a man you once described as ‘the most boring conversationalist in England.’”

Nicholas’ laugh held a note of genuine alarm. “He’s also wealthy, titled, and universally respected. Even I can find no fault with his character.”

“A formidable rival then,” Elias agreed, watching as Nicholas began to pace the room with renewed agitation. “Though I understand no formal arrangements have yet been made. The Duke merely expressed… interest in calling upon Marian.”

Nicholas stopped mid-stride, hope and determination warring in his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow, I believe.”

With swift, decisive movements, Nicholas crossed to the bellpull, yanking it with enough force to suggest urgency to whoever might answer. “Then I have no time to waste,” he declared, running a hand through his disheveled hair as if suddenly conscious of his appearance.

“What do you intend to do?” Elias asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

Nicholas turned to him, and for the first time that evening, a genuine smile transformed his features — wicked, determined, and utterly focused.

“I intend,” he said with quiet intensity, “to prove to Marian Brandon that I am not merely capable of love but that I love her with a depth and sincerity that would put Riverstone’s scholarly devotion to shame.” His eyes gleamed with newfound purpose. “And I intend to do so before that impeccably mannered, intellectually superior Duke of Myste has the opportunity to offer her everything I failed to convince her I could provide.”

As his study door opened to admit his butler, Elias watched his friend issue rapid instructions for a carriage to be prepared, fresh clothing to be laid out, and a message to be dispatched immediately to his sister’s estate in Derbyshire. For the first time since entering the gloomy study hours earlier, Elias felt the tension in his shoulders ease.

The Marquess of Stone — calculating, controlled, utterly rational, Nicholas Grant — had finally admitted what had been obvious to everyone except himself: he was completely, irrevocably, and quite inconveniently in love.

CHAPTER 15

“My Lord, I regret to inform you that Lady Marian is not receiving visitors today,” the Brandon family butler announced with the particular blend of courtesy and firmness that distinguished the truly accomplished servants of good houses. His impassive expression betrayed nothing of the turmoil that the Marquess’ unexpected arrival had undoubtedly caused within the household.

Nicholas, stood in the entrance hall of the Brandon townhouse, his imposing figure a study in controlled determination. The morning light filtered through the fanlight above the door, casting geometric patterns across the polished marble floor and illuminating the aristocratic planes of his face with uncompromising clarity. Gone was the dishevelment of the previous evening; today he presented the immaculate appearance expected of his station — perfectly tailored coat emphasizing his broad shoulders, cravat arranged with mathematical precision, boots gleaming like obsidian mirrors.

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