Chapter One

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The rose was wonderful, perfect in every way. Marianne leaned in close, breathing in its delicate scent. It was crimson and almost like silk to the touch. Straightening up again, she allowed her fingertips to linger on the rose for a moment longer before continuing. She had grown to love the gardens at Delaford; loved the meandering paths, the flowerbeds that burst with a riot of colour and the hothouses filled with exotic flowers from far off countries. Yes, Marianne could happily spend her days lost in their tranquil splendour.

Walking the rest of the way through the gardens, she finally emerged onto the perfectly manicured lawn. Beyond the grass was the great house at Delaford. Of course, it was not as grand as Norland Park, but not even Fanny Dashwood or her tyrannical mother, Mrs Ferrars, would be able to find fault with it. Indeed, the more time Marianne spent at Delaford, the more she came to prefer it over her childhood home.

After spending the morning with Elinor at the parish, Edward had kindly escorted her as far as the gardens at Delaford. She had wished to enjoy them at her own leisurely pace, and her brother-in-law had put up little fight at her insistence. Although as she drew nearer to the front steps of the house, she realised that her walk had not been as leisurely as she had thought. It would seem she was slightly early, as there was no one there to greet her. Nevertheless, Marianne climbed the stone steps. The Colonel would not mind if she were there before their arranged meeting time. She would find a maid or a footman to make her presence known to him.

"Hello!" she called once she was inside the hallway.

She waited a moment for the sound of approaching footsteps, but no one came.

"Is anyone there?"

After another minute or two, she decided to go and find someone. The soft, leather soles of her shoes barely made a sound on the polished wooden floors as she walked. Glancing from wall to wall, she took in the different pictures, ranging from portraits to landscapes. At the end of the hallway, however, she stopped. The almost life-sized portrait stood out from the rest, not because it was any more vivid than the rest, but because of the man in the painting. Dressed in his officer's uniform, Colonel Brandon stood tall and proud; one hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other rested imperially on his hip.

Marianne took in his rather plain features, her gaze then trailing down his lean form. There was little doubt that Christopher Brandon was a far cry from John Willoughby. A silent and grave man, there was a seriousness to his features, but also an intensity that Marianne could not deny or dismiss. It spoke of conviction, and Brandon had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not a man easily swayed from those convictions. For Marianne, she felt a secure with him as she could always be sure how he would act in any given circumstance. But for all of his noble traits, the colonel lacked one thing – passion. And Marianne often wondered if he was even capable of such a thing.

She looked away from the portrait, sighing ruefully. It seemed like years since Willoughby, who had been her equal in every way, had tossed her heart aside as quickly as he would an old shoe. In reality, though, it had only been a few months. Oh, how she had relished their intense discussions on poetry, music and art. Willoughby's readiness to act on impulse, even if it did break with propriety, had stirred her young heart into a frenzy.

Her throat tightened as she thought of him, of all that he had done. She was not sure the pain of his betrayal would ever fully heal – his pocketbook had been where the affections of his heart had indeed lain. And then there was Eliza Williams. Would Willoughby have ever told her about his affair with the girl...or of their child? At the time, in London, she had wanted to believe that he would have laid the truth bare once they were married, if not before. She had wanted to blame his aunt and even the Colonel for Willoughby's spurned affections. But a brush with death had somehow put everything into perspective. She had been naive to think that Willoughby was the offended party in the whole matter, naive to believe he would suddenly realise the horrible mistake he had made in abandoning would have been more than a fool to have handed her battered heart over to him again.

Marianne fixed her gaze on the portrait once more. The Colonel had surprised her by his intent on keeping their acquaintance. Indeed, he had shown that he was keen to extend it beyond even that, despite the rumours in London that she was damaged goods. At first, guilt had kept her away from Delaford, and then it had caused her to accept his invitations to dine with him – along with her mother and sister, of course. As the weeks went by, however, the colonel began to invite her to afternoon tea – alone. He had shown her the gardens on one such visit, and then his extensive library on another. These alone had caused Marianne to entertain thoughts of becoming the mistress of Delaford. Guilt swiftly followed such thoughts, as while her heart had softened in regards to Brandon she had not yet crossed over from friendship to something more intimate. But by heavens, she had tried. She saw all that was good in the Colonel – he was everything a gentleman should be. His lack of passion, however, was still the great divide between them. He spoke of the Ganges as if he was reading an advertisement from the local newspaper; he even complimented her pianoforte with words such as 'pleasant' and 'well played'. At times she wanted to take her shoe off and throw it as his head.

She could never fully love a man who lacked passion. True, she had learnt to rein in the shameless public flaunting of her feelings, regretful that she had not acted more like Elinor in her dealings with Willoughby. But it had not diminished her need to express the wildness of her heart – far from it, and she still sought that same wildness of heart in a man.

Colonel Brandon was worthy of more than a wife who merely enjoyed his company. Sometimes she caught a longing look in Elinor's eyes after Edward had left the room; she saw the knowing smiles they exchanged. Their passion was silent, but Marianne saw it. They were two people but one flesh – and that is what Brandon deserved.

As she turned away from the portrait and down another hallway, Marianne heard the faint sound of a piano. Following the beautiful but melancholic tune, she slowed as she came to the open door of a drawing room. Silently edging closer, she peeked around the door and saw the Colonel seated at the piano. His eyes were closed, his body slightly swaying in time with the melody. Marianne found herself rooted to the spot, unable to take her gaze off him. She had never seen him play before, only heard Mrs Jennings and Sir John sing his praises. His long fingers moved across the keys flawlessly, almost caressing them. As the piece reached its crescendo, he seemed to embody the deep emotion encased in every note.

Marianne was left breathless as final note faded. The Colonel remained where he was, his eyes still closed. In a moment, though, she had gathered herself and made a quick retreat from the room. All too soon she found herself back in the main hallway of the house. The image of Brandon seared itself in her mind – the passion with which he had played had raised the hairs on the nape of her neck.

"Miss Dashwood."

Marianne flinched and turned around to see the butler, Patterson, behind her. If he noticed she was flustered, he did not allow it to show on his face, for which she was grateful.

"Shall I inform the Colonel you have arrived?" he asked.

"Oh...yes. Thank you, Patterson."

He bowed his head slightly. "Miss Dashwood."

Once the butler was out of sight, Marianne placed her palms on her cheeks, feeling for any sign of heat. How long had it been since she had been moved so thoroughly by a piece of music?

"Miss Marianne, I'm sorry I was not here to greet you on arrival."

The low, velvety voice caught her off guard, and she watched the colonel approach her with long, purposeful strides. For the first time, the familiarly and the unconventional usage of her name registered with her. She was now the Miss Dashwood in her family, but Brandon still insisted upon calling miss Marianne.

"Colonel Brandon," she said as calmly as she could. "I hope I am not too early."

"Not at all," he replied with the hint of a smile.

"But come, we shall have tea and read a little, if that is agreeable to you, Miss Marianne?"

"It sounds perfect," she replied with a smile. "Lead the way, Colonel."

As they walked together to the parlour, Marianne could not fathom that only moments ago this same grave man had not only played the piano, he had made it sing, with a beating heart and breath to match. All of a sudden it became clear to Marianne that the Colonel was not as banal as she had once thought. But why did he not let such passion fly free from its staid cage? She stole a glance at him. Would she ever see that man again?