CHAPTER ONE

~X~

The rose was beautiful, perfect in every way. Marianne leaned in close, breathing in its delicate scent. It was crimson and 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, 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 looked at portraits of the colonel's long-dead ancestors, as well as those of his father and brother. At the end of the hallway, however, she stopped. The life-sized portrait stood out from the rest, not because it was any more vivid than the others, but because of the man in the painting. Dressed in his officer's uniform, Colonel Brandon stood tall and proud; one hand gripped 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 secure with him as she could always be sure how he would act in any given circumstance. But for all his noble traits, the colonel lacked one thing – passion. And Marianne often wondered if he was even capable of such a thing.

Marianne fixed her gaze on the portrait once more. The colonel had surprised her by his intent on keeping their acquaintance. Indeed, he continually showed he was keen to extend it beyond even that, despite the rumours in London that she was damaged goods. At first, guilt kept her from Delaford, but then it 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 ideas 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 earth's wonders, such as the Ganges or the Nile 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 at 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 spirit 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 began 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. She hurried back up the hallway, not wanting the colonel to know she had seen him play. But she could not forget what she saw; 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 am 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?