"Yes," Marian said softly. "You have my permission to court me, Your Grace."
Richard did not make a spectacle of his triumph. He did not pull her into his arms or draw the attention of the room. He simply reached out and offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the small table between them. Marian moved her hand and placed it gently over his. It was a small, quiet gesture, completely proper for a public room, but as his fingers closed warmly around hers, it carried the weight of an absolute vow.
That evening, the atmosphere at Rentham Hall shifted irrevocably. Richard no longer interrupted his gaze when he looked at her across the dining table. He did not monopolize her company, nor did he violate a single rule of etiquette, but he allowed his preference to be clearly, unmistakably seen.
By the time the tea tray was carried into the drawing room, the entire house understood the Duke of Rentham was courting Miss Elwood. And Marian, seated comfortably by the fire, no longer kept her sketchbook in her lap like a shield; she left it on a side table, completely content to sit in the light, allowing herself to be seen.
The weeks that followed were an exercise in a perfectly proper, thoroughly revealing courtship: there were carefully penned letters, morning calls in the presence of Mrs. Ashby in her quiet parlor, and leisurely, escorted walks through the crisp autumn air.
During these weeks, Richard discovered Marian Elwood outside the safety of her observer's role: he learned her opinions on modern poetry, which she found largely exhausting, and her deep appreciation for the quiet, overlooked details of the world; he discovered her small insecurities, the subtle ways she worried about her future after her father's passing, and the quick, dry humor she used when something genuinely amused her. He learned what she expected from life, and he found himself desperately wanting to be the man who gave it to her.
And Marian, in turn, discovered something equally profound: Richard was not only his true self when he was unguarded or relaxed. As she watched him manage his affairs, listen to his tenants, and navigate the heavy responsibilities of his title, she realized her own earlier mistake. His discipline, his deep sense of duty, his unflinching attention to what was right for the people depending on him—these were not merely performances. She admired the Duke of Rentham just as much as she loved the man. The formidable, imposing gentleman in the grand portrait had never been a lie; he had merely been incomplete.
When Richard finally asked her to marry him, he did not do it in a crowded ballroom, nor did he make a grand, theatrical spectacle. They were standing in the quiet, sunlit library of her aunt's home. The house was still, the heavy mahogany doors closed, granting them a rare moment of secluded propriety.
Richard stood before her, his gaze steady and incredibly warm.
"You showed me a part of myself that I did not realize I had allowed to disappear," he said quietly, his voice filling the peaceful room. "But as I have come to know you, Marian, I have realized something greater: I do not want to spend my life simply being understood by you."
He reached out gently, taking both of her hands in his.
"I want to understand you as well," he continued, his thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles. "I want us to build a life where neither of us must hide, where we are both fully, entirely known."