Page 55 of Marquess of Stone

“I see,” he said finally though his tone suggested the opposite. “And you believe persisting in this irregular vigil will somehow resolve matters to your satisfaction?”

“Not to my satisfaction, Lord Drownshire,” Nicholas corrected gently. “To our mutual understanding. I ask only for the opportunity to speak with Lady Marian directly, to clarify certain misapprehensions that I fear have influenced her decision.”

Lord Silas exchanged a glance with his wife, one of those wordless communications that develop between long-married couples — a silent conference conducted through minute shifts in expression that nonetheless conveyed volumes. Whatever passed between them appeared to reach some resolution, for Lady Prudence rose with a rustle of silk, her fan disappearing into the folds of her gown with practiced grace.

“I shall speak with Marian,” she announced, but her tone suggested limited optimism regarding the outcome. “Though I cannot promise she will agree to receive you, Lord Stone, regardless of how long you choose to remain.”

“I understand,” Nicholas acknowledged, inclining his head in a gesture of appreciation. “I ask only that you convey the sincerity of my request and my willingness to wait as long as necessary for its fulfillment.”

As Lady Prudence departed, the atmosphere in the small drawing room shifted subtly, the air between the two men carrying a different quality of tension. Lord Silas regarded Nicholas with undisguised curiosity, his weathered features arranged in an expression that invited explanation without directly requesting it.

“You surprise me, Stone,” he said finally when it became apparent that Nicholas would not volunteer further information. “This persistence seems… uncharacteristic, given your reputation for cool pragmatism in all matters.”

Nicholas’ gaze shifted to the window where afternoon light had begun to replace the clarity of morning with the warmer, more diffuse quality of advancing day. “I find myself acting in ways that surprise even me, My Lord. It seems your daughter has that effect.”

Lord Silas’ expression softened fractionally, something akin to understanding flickering in his eyes. “Marian has always possessed the remarkable ability to disrupt carefully ordered systems,” he observed, his tone carrying a blend of exasperation and unmistakable pride. “A quality that has proven both her greatest strength and my greatest challenge as her father.”

“A quality I have come to value more than I once thought possible,” Nicholas admitted, the words emerging with a frankness that clearly startled the older man.

The afternoon light had begun its gradual transformation toward the golden hues of early evening when the drawing room door opened once more. Nicholas, who had been standing at the window watching the lengthening shadows in the small garden, turned with a swiftness that betrayed the tension coiled within him despite his outward composure.

Marian Brandon stood in the doorway, her slender figure silhouetted against the hallway beyond. She wore a simple gown of deep blue muslin, its modest cut emphasizing the graceful line of her neck where a pulse visibly fluttered like a captured bird. Her chestnut hair had been arranged in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, several wayward strands escaping to frame a face that showed signs of recent distress despite her evident efforts to conceal it.

The silence that fell between them seemed to vibrate with unspoken words, as palpable as the dust motes dancing in the slanting sun rays that bisected the room. Marian remained perfectly still, one hand resting against the doorframe as if she required its support to maintain her carefully assembled composure.

“Lady Marian,” Nicholas said finally, her name emerging with a wealth of emotion beneath its formal address.

“Lord Stone.” Her voice carried a careful neutrality that nevertheless failed to disguise the slight tremor underlying it. “My mother informs me you have been waiting some hours to speak with me.”

“Four hours and seventeen minutes,” he confirmed, the precision drawing a fleeting smile from her before she mastered it behind renewed composure.

“A rather extravagant expenditure of a Marquess’ valuable time,” she observed, finally entering the room with measured steps that carried her to the center of the space though she maintained a careful distance between them.

“On the contrary,” Nicholas replied, “I can imagine no more worthwhile investment.”

Something flickered in her expression — surprise, perhaps, or a deeper emotion she was not yet prepared to reveal. She clasped her hands before her, the knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. “My father indicated the matter was urgent. I presume it concerns the arrangements for my stay with your sister?”

“It concerns our future,” Nicholas corrected, taking a single step toward her before halting, acutely aware of the fragility of the moment. “And a request I must make of you with the utmost urgency.”

Marian’s eyebrows rose slightly, her composure wavering beneath what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What request might that be, My Lord?”

Nicholas drew a breath, his next words emerging with the directness of a man who has abandoned careful strategy in favor of absolute clarity: “Do not marry the Duke of Myste.”

Marian stared at him, her expression shifting from confusion to genuine bewilderment. The pulse at her throat quickened visibly, like a hummingbird’s wings caught in momentary stillness. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again, seemingly rendered speechless by the unexpected direction of his request.

“I understand why he might appeal to you,” Nicholas continued, the words emerging with increasing urgency despite his efforts to maintain composed delivery. “His intellectual pursuits, his progressive views regarding women’s education, his extensive library — all qualities you value and rightfully so. But I musk ask you — I implore you — to consider an alternative.”

“An alternative,” Marian echoed, the words emerging faintly as she continued to regard him with an expression poised between confusion and something less easily defined.

“Me,” Nicholas said simply, the single syllable carrying a weight of vulnerability that would have astonished anyone familiar with the Marquess’ carefully maintained public persona. “I love you, Marian.”

The declaration hung in the air between them, as bright and substantial as the sunbeam that now illuminated Marian’s face, revealing the subtle flush that rose to her cheeks and the widening of her eyes at his words.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the ticking of the mantel clock. “Do not say such things if you don’t mean them. It’s… torture.”

“I have never spoken more truthfully in my life,” Nicholas replied, closing the distance between them with two deliberate steps that brought him near enough to detect the faint scent of lavender that clung to her hair, yet still maintaining sufficient space to honor propriety. “I love you. I love your mind, your courage, your refusal to accept the limitations others would place upon you. I love the way your eyes flash when you encounter an idea that excites you and the small furrow that appears between your brows when you are considering whether to voice an unfashionable opinion.”

Marian’s lips parted slightly, her breathing quickening as she absorbed his words. One hand rose to her throat in an unconscious gesture of vulnerability that belied her otherwise careful composure.

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