Page 58 of Marquess of Stone

“Speaking of the Duke,” Elias murmured, his gaze shifting toward a corner of the room where Jane Brandon stood in what appeared to be animated conversation with Richard Riverstone himself. “Your sister seems to have found a conversational partner of unexpected… intensity.”

Across the room, Jane’s posture radiated the particular tension of someone working diligently to maintain social composure despite profound provocation. She stood with her spine straight as a rapier, one hand gripping her champagne glass with such force it seemed in danger of shattering while the other gestured with precise, controlled movements that suggested anything but the casual exchange of pleasantries.

The Duke, by contrast, maintained a posture of perfect aristocratic composure, his tall figure inclined slightly toward Jane in a gesture of attention that might have appeared courteous had it not been for the unmistakable spark of challenge in his eyes. His responses, though clearly delivered with modulated volume appropriate to the social setting, caused visible reactions in Jane that ranged from widened eyes to compressed lips to one particularly dramatic intake of breath.

“Fascinating,” Lydia murmured, observing the tableau with growing interest. “I have never seen Jane quite so… affected by anyone before.”

“Particularly someone she claimed was ‘insufferably dull’ upon their introduction at our house party,” Elias added, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Their speculation was interrupted by the arrival of the newly wedded pair, Nicholas’s hand still resting with casual possessiveness at Marian’s waist.

“What mischief are you plotting now?” Marian asked, her gaze following the direction of her sister’s attention. “Your expressions suggest conspiracy of the highest order.”

“Merely observing the unexpected fruits of our previous endeavors,” Elias replied, raising his champagne glass in a subtle toast. “Your sister appears to have found a worthy intellectual adversary in the Duke of Myste.”

Marian turned, her eyes widening as she took in the scene unfolding across the room. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “I have never seen Jane quite so… animated. What could they possibly be discussing with such fervor?”

“The relative merits of Byron versus Wordsworth, I believe,” Nicholas supplied, his expression suggesting both amusement and mild concern. “With occasional diversions into the practical applications of classical education and the proper role of the aristocracy in contemporary politics.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise. He shrugged, the elegant movement causing sunlight to catch on the new gold band adorning his left hand. “I passed within earshot during their initial engagement. The conversation appeared to be escalating rather than resolving, so discretion seemed the better part of valor.”

“Jane has always held strong opinions regarding the Romantics,” Marian observed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Though I confess, I have never seen her quite so willing to express them to a duke.”

“Particularly one she dismissed as ‘a fossilized repository of outdated scholarly opinions’ upon their introduction,” Lydia added, her tone suggesting that the assessment might warrant reconsideration.

As they watched, Jane’s expression transformed from irritation to outright indignation, her free hand rising to punctuate whatever point she was making with uncharacteristic vehemence. The Duke responded with a comment that, while delivered with perfect composure, clearly proved inflammatory, for Jane set down her champagne glass with such deliberate care that the action itself became a statement of restrained fury.

“Perhaps someone should intervene,” Lydia suggested though her tone lacked genuine concern, “before diplomatic relations between the houses of Brandon and Riverstone deteriorate beyond redemption.”

“On the contrary,” Nicholas murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the interaction with the calculating assessment that had made him such a formidable presence in business circles, “I believe we are witnessing the opening movements of a much longer game.”

Marian tilted her head to regard her husband with newfound curiosity. “You cannot possibly suggest —-”

“That history repeats itself?” Nicholas finished for her, his mouth curving into a smile that transformed his aristocratic features with unexpected warmth. “Not precisely. But certain patterns do seem to recur with fascinating variations.”

Before further speculation could ensue, a lively footman approached to inform the couple that their carriage awaited whenever they wished to depart. The announcement sent ripples of anticipation through the assembled guests, who began to position themselves for the traditional send-off of the bride and groom.

“Shall we make our escape, Lady Stone?” Nicholas asked, offering his arm to Marian with a gesture that managed to convey both formal courtesy and intimate promise.

“I believe we must,” she replied, placing her gloved hand upon his sleeve with the comfortable certainty of a woman who has made her choice and embraces it without reservation. “Though I confess to some curiosity regarding the outcome of Jane’s unexpected tête-à-tête with the Duke.”

“A mystery for another day,” Nicholas murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate register that sent visible color rising to Marian’s cheeks despite her usual composure. “We have our own adventure awaiting.”

Their departure proceeded with all the ceremonial fanfare that society demanded — rose petals scattered before their path, good wishes called out from the assembled guests, Marian’s bouquet tossed with deliberate aim toward Diana — who caught it with a blend of embarrassment and secret delight. Through it all, Nicholas maintained physical contact with his new wife — a hand at the small of her back, fingers intertwined with hers, a steadying presence as they navigated the gauntlet of social expectations together.

As they settled into the carriage that would carry them to Stone House for their wedding night before departing for their honeymoon tour of the Lake District the following day, Marian reached into a concealed pocket of her gown and withdrew a folded piece of paper that had accompanied her through every significant moment of their courtship.

“My list,” she explained unnecessarily, unfolding it with careful movements that betrayed its importance beyond the casual observer’s understanding. “I believe we have now completed every item.”

Nicholas leaned forward to examine the document, his shoulder pressing against hers in a gesture of comfortable intimacy as the carriage began to move through London’s crowded streets. The original items had all been crossed through with neat lines, including the final one that had once read “Fall in lo-” before being amended to “Kiss someone.”

“Not quite complete,” he observed, reaching into his coat to produce a golden pen of exquisite craftsmanship. “May I?”

Marian’s expression softened with curious affection as she handed him the paper. “What remains to be added?”

With deliberate strokes, Nicholas added a new item at the bottom of the list: “Begin the greatest adventure of all — a life shared with someone who loves you exactly as you are.”

Marian’s eyes glistened with unexpected moisture as she read the addition. “That’s not an adventure with a defined conclusion,” she observed, her voice carrying a hint of the academic precision that had first captured his attention. “It cannot be simply crossed off upon completion.”

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