Marcus exhaled deeply and leaned against the side of the desk, grateful for his friend’s presence.
“That is not far from the truth,” he said, shaking his head.
Alexander shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the arm of a nearby chair before lowering himself into the one opposite. The leather groaned beneath his long frame. He glanced at the untouched tea tray, then at Marcus.
“Well,” he said, reaching for the cup and sipping without ceremony. “If you had any last-minute thought of flee, I doubt the horse would oblige you. Mine very nearly turned back twice on the road here.”
Marcus allowed a faint smile but said nothing.
Alexander watched him for a moment before continuing more softly.
“You are not certain,” he said with gentle compassion rather than judgment.
Marcus looked at the hearth. The fire burned low, barely sufficient against the damp.
“I am marrying a woman I have known ten days,” he said softly. “It would be strange if I were not uncertain.”
Alexander nodded.
“That is true,” he said. “However, strange does not necessarily mean unwise.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“What if it is unwise?” he asked, struggling against the overwhelming wave of doubt rising in his belly.
Alexander smiled softly.
“You would not be the first,” he said.
He spoke lightly, but his eyes did not waver. Marcus had known him long enough to recognise the underlying, quiet concern. There was no mockery in his expression now. Only quiet steadiness.
Marcus turned and lifted one of the carved ivory book weights from the corner of the desk, rolling it between his palms.
“Two weeks ago, I stood in this room, barely able to see the floor through the chaos,” he said, vocalising his earlier thoughts. “Manuscripts everywhere. Artefacts in heaps. Mrs Thornberry stood amid it all with the severity of a final reckoning. And then that letter arrived. The Society of Antiquaries, reminding me that they expected a gathering here. That they looked forward to the hospitality of the newly appointed Countess of Penwood.”
Alexander gave a low whistle.
“That was a well-aimed dagger,” he said.
Marcus nodded, running his hand through his hair, undoing what little combing had been done to neaten his hair for the day.
“I had no idea what to do,” he said, setting the paperweight down with care. “How could I explain that there was no countess? That I lived surrounded by relics and footnotes and did not require help managing a household because I barely managed it at all?”
Alexander nodded, his eyes reflecting his steady understanding.
“You needed a solution,” he said. “As any man in your position would.”
Marcus nodded, though it felt more like concession than agreement.
“Yes,” he said. “And Thomas Beaumont offered one.”
Alexander leaned back and stretched his legs out.
“Indeed,” he said. “His sister required a respectable position. You required a respectable countess. Neither of you sought a love match. Neither of you had any expectations beyond those of convenience.”
Marcus glanced away.
“It should be a practical success,” he said quietly. “She understands academic work. She understands order. She managed Thomas’s household for two years without complaint.”
