A/N: Oh, thank you so much! I honestly never expected such wonderful reviews for this story. I was wondering if I had gotten in over my head by trying to write fan-fiction based on such a brilliant writer as Jane Austen. I am so relieved and glad you enjoy it. I’m having such fun writing it, though I’m under an enormous amount of pressure to do the best job possible! Believe me, I shall try. Do enjoy this next installment.

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She laughed more easily, and her eyes had a stronger brilliance when she was with her family. Brandon knew she wore no mask. Marianne was very nearly incapable of exhibiting emotions she did not feel, just as she was unable to conceal those she did. She was happier with her family—it was the plain and simple truth. Because of this, Brandon made sure she saw them as often as possible; it seemed the only way he could ever see her so content.

Brandon was well aware that his wife did not despise him, and he took some comfort in that. There may have been a time when she resented him, but it had long since passed. He at least had that security. There were still instances when he wondered if he was mistaken, that she might still dislike him, but then he would be proven wrong.

He would make her laugh, pleasing her with a demonstration of spontaneity one might not believe he possessed. He was enthusiastically obliged if he asked her to sing and play the pianoforte. Just when he wondered if she did it out of a sense of responsibility, she would ask him to sit beside her and practice a duet. One night, she woke with a nightmare—one of many since her illness—and later fell asleep again, enveloped in his arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. Every single moment of that sort made up for the hundreds in which he was wracked with doubt.

Something was amiss, however, and there was no sense in ignoring it. Admittedly, Brandon knew little of young women, and his past experiences had not been exactly uplifting. Perhaps she needed more time to adjust to this new lifestyle than he had anticipated. The past two years of her young life had been strenuous, and rather tragic. Keeping that in mind, he told himself he would give her all the time and space she might possibly need—the rest of his life, and all of God’s green earth, if it came to that. All the same, he had been a lonely man, and in marriage, his situation had not been altered very much.

Marianne retreated to the library as soon as they returned from the Ferrars’ house. They had not been home twenty minutes when he heard the front door open, and the boisterous voices of Sir John and Mrs. Jennings filled the large foyer. Apparently the old woman had become bored with London and again returned to Devonshire.

Brandon stifled a groan, only just then remembering that the lovable but vexing family had been invited to dine that evening. He shut his eyes for the briefest moment before he went out to greet them. Normally he was glad for the lively company of his old friend, but tonight, he would rather be alone with his own thoughts.

“Brandon, my boy!” Sir John exclaimed as soon as he caught sight of his friend. “You look better than ever, I must say. Yes, marriage certainly agrees with you—doesn’t it, Mama?” He quickly turned to Mrs. Jennings for concurrence with his loud opinion.

“Oh, of course, Colonel!” she said. “Why, I always said that marriage does wonders for a man, and in your case, it was about time, too.” She chuckled, her large body shaking with mirth. “But where is your pretty young wife? Have you hidden her away to keep all for yourself?” The ridiculousness of her words only made her laugh harder, and John merrily joined in. Lady Middleton, John’s wife, awkwardly stood back, closer to the door.

Brandon suffered their humor in silence, with only a distracted smile. No one seemed to notice the vacant look in Brandon’s eyes, but when Marianne appeared at the top of the stairs, they were again alight with all the love and adoration he felt for her. Even absorbed in their own hilarity, it did not escape the two guests.

“Sir John,” Marianne exclaimed, hurrying down the staircase, “Lady Middleton, Mrs. Jennings! I almost forgot you were to come this evening.” The delight in visiting Elinor had made Marianne much more convivial toward their visitors, and her bright smile was genuine.

“Aha, look at her, John,” Mrs. Jennings said, grinning slyly. “As lively and bright as you would expect a bride to be! Though I believe it does not compare to the look on the Colonel’s face when he saw her coming.”

“Lovely, lovely,” Sir John said, ignoring the look of horror that had rapidly replaced the smile on Marianne’s face.

She could not remain silent. “We have just come back from visiting Elinor and Edward. I would that they came as well, but Edward could not be spared from his work tonight.” She looked back and forth between the older couple. “Have your children remained behind?”

Brandon hid his surprise at her question, knowing that she had previously held no interest in the Middleton youngsters.

“Oh, my dear daughter does not know what to do with herself without the children nearby!” Mrs. Jennings spoke up, smiling unceasingly. “I convinced her to let them stay at home one night. Annamaria has a cough, and is very fussy, and they would have been far too unruly today to let us have proper conversation here.” Indeed, Lady Middleton looked very self-conscious without a child attached to her skirts.

Marianne’s smile was but half a grimace as she and Brandon led the trio into the parlor. She had done well in the first few minutes of their guests’ arrival, but their presence quickly began to grate on her. The inane conversation continued until she thought she would cry out just to cause a change of subject. Normally she was better able to bear Mrs. Jennings’ loud, incessant chatter, Lady Middleton’s lackluster character, or Sir John’s simple-minded topics of conversation. With everything else plaguing her mind that night, it was much more difficult to bear.

Fortunately, she held her composure—and her tongue—all the way through supper. Staring into her soup, only half-listening to Sir John talking about the latest acquisition to his assortment of firearms, Marianne thought how proud Elinor would be of her.

After the meal, Brandon approached her and whispered a gentle request to play the pianoforte for everyone. Marianne looked up at him with intensely thankful eyes. For a little while, she could absorb herself in one of her favorite pastimes and do without the idle talk. She could be silent while everyone else spoke, and, for at least a short while, transport herself to another place and time. Somehow she resisted the impulse to throw her arms around his neck in gratitude.

How sad, indeed, that the one action she had refused herself was the very thing that would have most pleased Brandon at that moment!

To her chagrin, everyone moved from the parlor into the music room to watch her play, postponing their conversations. She would have much preferred them to sit the next room, letting her music drift in through the doorway, supplementing their conversation. Giving a more formal after-dinner performance was not exactly what she had in mind. She glanced up as Brandon awkwardly took a seat and suspected it was not what he had intended, either.

She sat at the Broadwood Grand for a few moments, her fingers resting on the keys while she thought of what to play. At last, she cleared her throat and began a dark, wretched tune about a sailor who died at sea and left his true love heartbroken. She did not sing the words, but their sorrow was expressed vividly enough. Her throat tightened, and a few teardrops trembled at the corners of her eyes. It was a song she had rarely practiced since her father’s death, but tonight it had called to her from the back of her memory.

When she ended on a gloomy, lingering note, even Mrs. Jennings had nothing to say. Their applause was hesitant, only once pierced by an inapt “Well done!” from Sir John.

“I have never heard that tune before,” Mrs. Jennings at last managed to say. “Have you, my dear?” she asked Lady Middleton, who declared she had not.

Marianne remained seated at the pianoforte, her eyelids clenched to prevent the tears from escaping. Aware of her romantic proclivities, the guests paid little attention to this emotional display. Mrs. Jennings and Sir John had already begun a new course of conversation, as though Marianne’s performance itself had been a sort of intermission. In a moment, she felt a familiar sensation within herself, and looked up. Brandon was standing over her; the look on his face was nothing less than fearful.

“Marianne, are you well?”

She gulped down a breath of air and cleared her throat again. “Yes.”

“Forgive me, I would not have asked you to play if—”

“No, no, it is not that,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It was a regrettable choice of song. It is I who must apologize.”

“There is no need,” Brandon said. “You played it very well.”

Marianne could not hide her exasperation this time. “It was not a question of…” At last taking control of herself, she shook her head. “No matter, I suppose.”

“My dear Mrs. Brandon, this is a lively evening, with lively company!” Mrs. Jennings said at last. “There is no need for such somber tunes as that, even if it was exquisitely performed. You must give us another performance.”

“Let us hear something jolly!” Sir John added. “You two are recently married. This is no time for a funeral dirge.”

Her artist’s ego wounded, Marianne glared up at her husband. He smiled at her, amiably and apologetically, yet with an unspoken appeal to do as their guests had asked. With a martyr’s sigh, she settled her fingers once more upon the instrument and began a bright, lively tune that would have set the youngsters to dancing, had they come along. When the song was finished, even the reticent Lady Middleton managed to curve her lips with pleasure.

Marianne moved away from the piano, feeling as though her tastes had not been appreciated. Unfortunately, this also meant that she had to participate in the conversation for the rest of the evening. It was just as at dinner, with her sitting quietly while pretending to listen to Sir John and Lady Middleton talk about their children, or Mrs. Jennings describe her latest journey from London—again.

Someone nudged her arm. It was Brandon, and Marianne suddenly realized she had been sitting with her eyes closed drowsily, she could not even guess for how long.

To her great relief, Sir John finally announced that they must be on their way. Neither he nor Mrs. Jennings noticed the sign of physical relief in their hosts, and if Lady Middleton had seen, she made no remark. Of course, it was at least another quarter of an hour before they had actually climbed into the carriage and set off for their own estate. Marianne barely managed to linger in the doorway, waving as long as was polite, before she launched herself up the staircase and back into the library. Brandon had no chance to speak a word to her before he heard the door close.

He leaned against the heavy front door, feeling deflated. Was he thus dismissed for the evening, as well? All his years in the army, of marching and discipline, of hard training, of learning not to shrink from the blast of gunpowder…none of it had prepared him for married life, for the maze in which he now wandered. If she did not loathe him, why should she avoid his company? His eyes swept up to the top of the staircase. Conversely, if he was never so pleased with life as when in her presence, why should he remain down here, while she sat alone in a shadowy room?

With a sigh, Brandon stepped forward and grasped the banister. If she wanted solitude, she would have to tell him so.

She was lying on her stomach, close to the fire, when he came into the room. Her lips were slightly curled in reaction to the reading, though from disgust or fear, he could not tell. The crackling flames and her absorption in the novel must have disguised the sound of his entrance, for she did not look up. Her eyes widened, alluringly reflecting the firelight, and she exhaled sharply as she turned the page. It must have been very intriguing.

Feeling like an impostor upon this private scene, Brandon sat in a chair near the door and simply watched her. A few minutes later, Marianne closed the book and sat up, looking depressingly perplexed, her brow furrowed. Not until she had placed the novel back on its shelf and turned to leave did she see him. With a shriek, she stepped back, clapping her hand over her heart.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, gasping.

Brandon stood, mortified at having frightened her so. “Not long. You were so engrossed that I hated the idea of interrupting you, so I waited. Forgive me for startling you.”

“Yes, I…I finished the book, so…I believe I will retire for the night. It has been quite an eventful day, has it not?”

He only nodded, and Marianne could tell he longed to say something else. Feeling exposed and self-conscious beneath that unswerving gaze, she lowered her eyes and turned away. Finally, she spoke again.

“Do you wish to say anything more, or am I free to go?”

“Marianne, you are mistress of this estate. You are every moment free to come and go as you please.”

One corner of her mouth tipped up ruefully. “I am not yet accustomed to it.”

Brandon nodded. “I can understand.” He took a deep breath. “Is that what ails you?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Have I said that something ails me?”

“No, I merely…I thought today, at your sister’s…Well, you seem unwell this evening. I thought perhaps something had affected you.” When she said nothing, he added, “The piece you played had quite an impact on your temper, it appeared. I wondered if there was not something else involved.”

“No, there is nothing. I…I…” She chewed at the tip of one delicate fingernail before admitting, “I cannot yet see myself as mistress of Delaford. Sometimes I think these past two years have all been a haze, a waking dream, and I cannot tell how I came to be standing here now.”

“Is there anything I may do for you?” Brandon asked.

Something about his gentle query touched a nerve. She had expected him to be impatient, exasperated, frustrated at her inability to adjust to being his wife. She kept looking for some kind of outburst, some sign of anger or fear, but it never came. Christopher Brandon never expressed any irrational emotion whatsoever. Instead, there was always that patient, inscrutable stare, and that calm, almost desolate expression on his face. He had waited so long for her, and he constantly looked as though he waited still.

“No,” Marianne cried, “no, nothing! Stop doing anything for me. I am so weary of being beholden to you!” Pressing her palm to her forehead, she took a step back. When she glanced up at Brandon again, he looked stricken.

He had to swallow several times and lick his lips before he was able to speak again. “I had often wondered if you were unhappy here with me.”

Marianne shook her head. “I am as happy as I could ever hope to be. Perhaps more than I deserve.”

He did not ask what she meant, but only said, “I always knew I could never be the dashing champion you used to dream about. But I had hoped that I could come to be your friend, defender, and lover.”

Marianne irrelevantly wondered how a man his age could still blush. Finally realizing what grief she had heaped upon him, she laid a hand on his arm. “You have not failed me, Colonel. I wonder if it is rather the other way around. I do not think I have ever fully understood why you ever wanted me, of all people, to be your wife.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, a breeze of relief seemed to pass across his face. With a despairing little grin, he cupped her chin with one hand and said, “Your warmth and wit and vivacity, Marianne, your capacity to live and love, your youthful spirit captivated me. Beauty like yours I have never found, in all my life before. You possess such traits that I hold dear, but could never emulate.”

Marianne merely stood still, staring at him, utterly speechless. Brandon’s sudden enthusiasm was wholly unexpected, and a little frightening. She had no idea how to react. All she knew was that she had a profound fondness for him—and an even deeper pity, that she could not summon forth anything more for this man who adored her.

What was she supposed to do? She frantically tried to recall her earlier conversation with Elinor.

Brandon removed his hand from her face and inclined his head slightly. “My apologies, Marianne…I am afraid I lack the words to express myself properly. I do not possess your aptitude with poetry.”

Marianne gulped down a breath. Perhaps now she ought to return the favor, and tell him what she valued in him. His whole being seemed to cry out for affirmation, demonstrating a vulnerability she had never before seen in him. All possible words fled from of her mind for the moment, and she was left with nothing to say for herself, or for him, but one simple thing.

“And you, Colonel, are indeed the very best of men.”

Speaking the words made her feel worse; they were her sister’s, and not her own. She herself could think of nothing better to say. And from the way the light left his eyes, Marianne realized Brandon knew it, as well.