Marian smiled and slid her arm through his, squeezing it as she replied, “You didn’t need to. It is not far, and I am safe enough.”
“It is my pleasure.”
The autumn air nipped at her, and Marian drew the shawl closer, though it did little good. With the sun out, the days were warm enough that a proper jacket was unnecessary, but with evening passing soon into morning, Marian was shivering. Releasing her arm, Mr. Finch shrugged off his greatcoat and settled it over her shoulders. It smelled of him, though she could not put a finger on what that scent was precisely; Mr. Finch was not one to use cologne, so it was not the spice or bright zest of so many other gentlemen. It was simply him and was as familiar and welcome to Marian as roses or lavender.
“You needn’t be miserable simply because I am too silly to bring a jacket of my own,” Marian said with a laugh. “I fear my thoughts have been entirely scattered about everything but this concert.”
But Mr. Finch ignored her protest and straightened the lapels of the coat, pulling it close around her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and he met that with a smile that held a hint of sadness.
He threaded her arm through his once more, and the pair strolled along the empty lanes in silence. Except for the grasses and leaves shivering in the breezes, the world was quiet with not a sound that nature did not produce herself, and Marian could not bring herself to break it. The moon hung high in the sky, though a sliver of it still hid in the shadows, not ready to reveal itself for another few days.
And still, Mr. Finch said nothing. It felt different from her own silent mood. Where her attention was turned outwards to the muted beauty of the night, Mr. Finch’s attention was inwards, his thoughts churning so much that Marian could hear them spinning into butter. The more introspective he became, the more her attention became fixed on him. It wasn’t until they reached Wrenwood Lodge that her curiosity was too great to keep her silent any longer.
“You wait for me out in the cold night air for ages and then say not a word to me. Do I need to beg you to speak your mind, or are you going to leave me dying of curiosity?” asked Marian with a teasing smile as they halted on her front steps.
Mr. Finch stood before her, but he did not meet her gaze. For all his energy of spirit earlier, he seemed quite empty at present—except for those roiling thoughts that remained hidden away.
“I have much on my mind at present,” he said.
“One of the joys of friendship is not needing to suffer through such things alone, Mr. Finch. You might feel better if you unburden yourself. Heaven knows you have listened to my problems countless times.” Marian spoke in a light tone, hoping it would put him at ease, but it did no good, as Mr. Finch did not look at her.
“I fear this is something you do not wish to discuss.”
Marian’s brows pulled low. “You cannot pique my curiosity with such a statement and expect me to leave that be.”
Mr. Finch drew in a breath, letting it out in a heavy sigh, his eyes turning to finally meet hers. “I wish to be a good friend to you. To support you. I do.”
The fellow paused there, his tone rife with unspoken things, though Marian did not know what he intended to say. Mr. Finch’s brows knotted together, his expression grim, and her heart sank when she considered all the possibilities.
“But?” she prodded.
“But I cannot watch you alter yourself so entirely to please a man.” Scratching at the back of his head, Mr. Finch turned as though to pace, though there was no space on the steps. “Tonight you held your tongue again and again despite the nonsense Mr. Highmore spouted, acting for all the world as though you were some docile mouse who lives to do her beau’s bidding. I wish to be your friend, but I cannot bear to see you reduced to that.”
Marian’s shoulders fell, her fingers fiddling with the edges of his jacket as she studied the large buttons. “It sickened me to say nothing, Mr. Finch, but I have little other choice. Mr. Highmore may not be an ideal match, but he is far preferable to anyone my father chooses for me.”
A shudder ran through her, settling into her heart as she added, “And being true to myself has not won me any suitors. Clearly, I lack the attractions necessary to win a husband, so I must make some alterations if I wish to gain Mr. Highmore’s good opinion—”
“No.” The word was firm, with a hardness she’d never heard from him before. It was certain and unwavering, cutting short any other argument she might’ve made. His expression hardened, his eyes lighting as though candles blazed within them, and he drew closer until he was nearly touching her.
“You do not need a man who douses your spirit, Miss Marian. You need someone who adores your passion and fire. Yes, your temper can get the better of you, but you are learning to control it, which is entirely different from snuffing out your heart and soul.”
Marian didn’t know when he’d drawn closer, but Mr. Finch’s arms circled about her, his eyes holding hers as he spoke, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Blinking, she tried to comprehend what was happening, but between the lack of sleep, her efforts with the concert, and the sudden shock of having Mr. Finch holding her so close, she couldn’t grasp what was going on.
“You love deeply, and you should be with a man who adores that passionate heart of yours. Anyone else isn’t worthy of you.” Mr. Finch’s voice was little more than a whisper, though he spoke as sure and certain as if he’d shouted the words.
*
His hands had a mind of their own, for though George knew he ought to step away, he could not release her. One remained firmly at her waist, and he cursed himself for having given her his coat, for it kept him from feeling her; his other hand rose to her cheek, feathering a touch across the edge of her jaw.
“Marian.” Though he had thought of her in such intimate terms for so long, speaking it aloud filled him with warmth. Wrapped in the darkness and with her encircled in his arms, George couldn’t bear to distance himself in any manner.
She gazed at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight, and his heart shuddered at the sight of her confusion. Surely this was not such a great surprise. How else could one explain all the time he spent at her side? A man did not wait for hours in the cold autumn night to walk a lady home for no reason.
There were so many things he wanted to say, but George’s lips could not seem to form the words; of course, he could hardly speak, and it felt as though he’d eaten sand. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst straight through him as he considered what he could say to convince her. But she hadn’t believed his marriage proposal. What if she laughed once more?
His gaze fell to her lips. Perhaps action was the better course.
