"You have sought her out every day," the Dowager Duchess said quietly. She stood near the window of the library, watching her son. There was no manipulation in her voice, no maternal demand for a strategic alliance; her observation was a matter of simple, unavoidable fact. "It is not a criticism, Richard," she continued, her tone gentle but firm. "But you must remember that a gentleman of your station cannot dedicate such marked, indefinite attention to an unmarried woman without it acquiring meaning. If it is only friendship, she does not have the freedom to endure the speculation. If it signifies more, you must eventually make it plain."
Richard stood by the heavy oak desk, staring at a stack of estate correspondence. He knew his mother was entirely correct. The realization triggered an instinct older and stronger than his fascination with Marian: it triggered his absolute need for control.
That evening at dinner, the dining room was bright and loud, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and the clinking of heavy silver. Marian was seated across and slightly down from him. The distance was proper, yet typically it had not stopped them from sharing silent, acknowledging glances throughout a meal.
Halfway through the second course, a neighboring gentleman made a rather boastful remark. Marian offered a quiet, terribly astute reply. It was exactly the sort of dry, understated observation that usually drew Richard's eye, a moment where they would silently share their amusement over the heads of the oblivious party.
Instinctively, Richard began to turn his head toward her. Halfway there, he stopped.
From her seat, Marian saw the exact fraction of a second when the movement was interrupted. She saw the deliberate stiffening of his neck, the conscious decision to arrest the motion. She watched as Richard forced his gaze forward, turning instead to address the lady to his right with flawless, hollow charm.
For the remainder of the evening, he did not seek her out. He did not sit near her in the drawing room when the tea was poured. He did not let his gaze linger on hers. It was an execution of perfect, absolute politeness, and it felt colder than ice.
Richard believed he was acting with honor, protecting her reputation from the very scrutiny his mother had warned him against. But Marian, sitting quietly with her tea, understood it differently: he was retreating behind his walls.
The following afternoon, the autumn sun was warm enough to coax the guests onto the lawns. The sound of crunching gravel followed Richard as he walked the perimeter of the gardens. He had spent the morning successfully avoiding her, telling himself it was the prudent, necessary course. Yet his feet carried him toward the stone benches near the ornamental fountain before his mind could formulate a reason to stop.
Marian was seated there, her sketchbook open on her lap.
"Miss Elwood," he said, pausing at a perfectly polite distance.
Marian looked up. There was no hurt in her eyes, no theatrical coldness. Her dignity was entirely intact. "Your Grace."