He shows Mr. Pinney into his study and closes the door.

Ugh. I had a mind to walk and still do, so I head out the door and for the back of the property. He has 100 or so acres so I don't plan to walk it all right now, just see what I can see. Once out of sight, I jog a bit to the forest edge.

There is a little copse of trees that looks like something right out of a fairy tale or Shakespeare. Perhaps some long lost princess rests her head on a hollow tree stump here at night. "Puck, are you hiding around here somewhere?", I joke.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."

I gasp and spin around. "You startled..."

Standing in front of me, hidden in the trees, is John Willoughby.

"What are you doing here?", I ask with a ferocious desire for him to be anywhere else.

"You can't hate me enough to have lost your manners so completely. I purchased Hattan", he informs me.

"I'm sorry, what?", I ask, too bewildered and shaking to register John Willoughby just gave me a dressing down on my manners.

"Hattan. The house...it's just over the hill..." He points, smirking in pleasure at my discomfort. His black suit is the finest I've ever, as are his hat and gloves. Clad in all black that matches his hair and eyes, he's remarkable looking, with a sinister edge he can no longer hide. The former Miss Grey is certainly taking good care of him.

"How are you buying houses, Willoughby?", I ask. "I thought you were broke but for Mrs. Willoughby's 50,000 pounds", I state, trying to think of a way to get back to the house quickly. Dammit, why didn't I wait for Christopher?

"Oh I kept the 50,000 and lost the bride. The divorce went through last week. We were simply incompatible. She let me marry her, knowing I did not care for her. But it was all a lie—she has a lover in London. Destroyed both our reputations. Such a woman is not worthy of your pity, Marianne. So now I have three homes", he humbly brags.

"Three?"

"My aunt has forgiven me the libertine ways of my youth. Especially since I assured her I'll soon be marrying an innocent young woman with a spotless reputation. So I still own Combe Magna in Somerset, now I own Hattan, here in Dorsetshire, and will inherit the magnificent Allenham in Devonshire upon my aunt's death. I'll come to my new bride with quite a dowry", he jokes with a wink.

We just stare at each other.

"My sweet Marianne, are you just going to stand there?", he asks. "I tried to apologize, but your sister would not let me see you."

"She knew I had no desire to see you", I respond.

"You once wanted to marry me very much. I wanted to marry you also, but the fates would not have it..."

"It's the fates we're blaming now?", I mumble, shaking my head with irritation.

"I don't ask for forgiveness for being young while I had the chance", he insists, "But now I'm ready to be serious." He falls onto one knee.

"Willoughby, no!", I shout.

"Yes! You are the only woman I've ever loved. Marry me, Marianne Dashwood." He is in earnest, sweating, his dark eyes larger and more passionate than ever.

"I would not marry you under ANY circumstances, but so you know, I am already engaged, and your presence on his property is wildly inappropriate as is your question. I would suggest you disappear before he sees you", I comment.

"Ahhhhhhh", he says smoothly, not surprised at all. "You are engaged to Colonel Brandon." He stands up. "You cannot fool me. We know each other's minds. We finish each other's sentences. I know you don't think he'll be able to keep you satisfied..."

I want to smack him until that smirks disappears forever.

"I know you don't love him. You love me. It's that simple, Marianne. Do you think your Colonel could have quoted "Midsummer Night's Dream" to you? Don't you fear he will be boring, cumbersome, that he will get old so very fast? Don't you fear he's dull? That you'll be 40 someday married to a nearly 70-year-old man in a push chair, or in a coffin, a lifelong hobbledehoy, who cares more for shooting small animals than what lies in your soul?", he asks, and I reach out to smack him. He seizes my wrist and squeezes hard.

"No, you don't, you don't get to hit me for speaking more of the truth than you want to hear", he accuses and throws my hand down violently. I rub my wrist.

"Get out of here!", I shout.

"I've overstayed my welcome", he says. "But I'll return when you're ready to leave with me. Think about what I said."

He turns and leaves, and then I run as far as I can until I have to stop and pant for breath. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone. He didn't follow me. He didn't need to. He's a short walk away.

I walk the rest of the way to the house.

"Marianne! There you are, I was so worried!", Christopher shouts, "You didn't even tell Beryl you were leaving..." The housekeeper is giving me a look that says I better not worry her master again.

"Where did you go? I said I was going to come with you", he states. I let myself fall into his arms. He stops talking and rubs my back.

"Did something happen, sweetheart?", he asks, anxious.

"Nothing", I answer, squeezing my eyes closed. He doesn't need another worry. He takes my hands and I flinch.

"Marianne, your wrist is red...is it sore?"

"Um, a bit."

"Did you fall?", he asks.

"Um...yes...jammed it when I caught myself"

"Oh my darling", he sighs, enfolding me in his arms, "No more walks without me."

"You can't make me less clumsy", I say.

"What kind of oaf do you think I am that I couldn't catch you? Let me get you something cold from the larder to put on it..."

"No, Christopher, it's getting late. If your driver is to make it to Barton before dark, we should start out", I say.

He sighs heavily. "You're right of course. But it gets harder and harder to let you go."

"Next Wednesday", I remind him, standing on my toes to kiss him, "You wouldn't disappoint me, would you?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep me from marrying you", he says, holding me close.

Reluctantly I pull away and follow the driver outside.

In the carriage back to Barton, I sit and think and twist my hands, hurting my wrist even worse. My stomach is on fire, my brain feels like it's going to explode. Why didn't I tell him about Willoughby? It may have been a lie of omission, but it was still a lie. To avoid causing him more stress for sure.

Maybe Willoughby will disappear. He'll never come back. Or he'll move. Or he'll die. And I'll never have to look in those eyes again.