(Reader: Want a song to put you in the mood for this fic? Listen to "Go Home," by Lucius.)

Rain pattered, gentle but insistent, outside the window. The Colonel is reading aloud in the drawing room, something from Donne-and I catch myself staring at him and thinking thoughts no proper young lady should ever think. About, of all people, the Colonel.

His mouth produces the words, "Any man's death diminishes me," and suddenly, from where I perch with my face hidden in the copy of Lyrical Ballads I found mysteriously waiting for me on my bedside table when I arrived at Delaford this afternoon, I notice with awe the manner in which his lips curve over the words. I note how his left eyebrow raised gently as he emphasizes a syllable. And I attend, all at once, the way his long, slender fingers caress the page of the book as he traces the lines of the poem in his reading. My mother and Elinor are smiling gently at him as he reads, and Edward, who has been listening as well, then engages him in a discussion of the theological implications of Donne's work. Elinor and Mother gather their sewing more firmly in their laps, attending to the lace they are affixing to a layette for the expected baby. Margaret, Sir John, Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings make up a foursome and are playing at whist in the corner, Margaret's howls of loss causing laughter from the other three. I, alone, am perplexed.

I loved Willoughby so completely a year ago that it seemed impossible I should ever even be able to spend time in another man's company, much less befriend one in the way I have befriended the Colonel. Willoughby and I-well, I have spoken at length with my mother since the end of our entanglement, and she assures me that it is quite normal for a young woman of sixteen to fall helplessly in love, to lose her heart in such a desperate and dramatic way, but that doesn't make it any less real. We shared so many weeks of passion, and one kiss-one perfect kiss, stolen from me in the empty halls of Allenham, a kiss that I believed I could have built a life on. There was nothing improper about that kiss, other than its having taken place between two people who were not formally attached. Nothing came of it except an understanding of mutual affection. All it had consisted of were two pairs of lips, meeting briefly in the cool air of early evening. But it had assured me-back then-that my feelings for Willoughby were not only well-founded, but strong enough to lead both of us into a happy future. (Whatever nebulous idea that meant-I couldn't really envision domestic life and motherhood with him, even at the height of my passion. I assumed that kind of life would simply fall into place with him.)

I have only told two people about our kiss, other than Willoughby himself-I have told Elinor, and I have told my mother. Elinor of course chastised me, while my mother, to whom I have grown much closer since Elinor's marriage, allows that little things like this are part and parcel of growing up and learning about the ways of love. She is almost as glad as I am, of course, that Willoughby's kiss didn't turn into anything more unchaste, the way it did with poor Eliza. (After meeting and befriending Eliza, by the way, I have been even more horrified to discover that before her seduction, Willoughby began with a simple kiss as well.)

I find myself wondering now what would happen if I confessed to Colonel Brandon, on one of our long talks in his study, that Willoughby kissed me. Would he draw back from me in shame? Would he care at all? Do I want him to care?

As I continue to watch him, he smiles, laughs a bit at something Edward has said. He doesn't smile very often, but I find that I like it when he does. His face-which I used to think plain, but which now I allow to be handsome, in an unconventional way-lights up, and he looks younger and more vibrant. He is now seven and thirty, an age which should to all intents and purposes be beyond anyone's finding handsome-and yet, there it is. But there is more-I find myself watching his mouth as it changes shape, from contemplative to happy to neutral, from speech to silence-and I wonder what it would feel like if he kissed me.

I'm not a fool. I know that my mother and sister, as well as Sir John and Lady Middleton, all secretly wish I'd set my cap at him and marry him. He's eligible; we're thrown together constantly; I'm at an age when I need to be thinking about marriage; his home is convenient to my sister's future abode at the parsonage. I have wondered from time to time-like today, when I saw the book waiting for me in my bedchamber with the Colonel's stamp in the front cover-if perhaps he too thought it was for the best that we married, and that he wanted to encourage my affection. But somehow, until this moment, I haven't been able to really think about us as potential suitors. There's the age difference, yes, but more than that, there's the difference in temperament. He's so solid, whereas I feel like I'm afloat half the time, moving from whim to whim. I've gotten better about this since Willoughby, but it's always going to be part of my character. And Brandon-he is also so serious. Is it possible that he could be passionate about anything? I know he once loved Eliza's mother very much, with all the passion that his youth could muster-but is it conceivable that he is still capable of anything approaching the all-consuming desire I felt to be in Willoughby's arms?

As I study him, I find that a part of me, a part I didn't know existed, wants to find out. I look at his posture-the way his ankle intersects with his knee; the way he rests his arm across the back of the settee; the way his shoulders (have they always been so broad, so expansive?) relax into a curve; the way he holds his hat, almost twirling it; the way the book is splayed across his thighs; the way he runs a hand through his soft-looking hair.

And all of a sudden I want to know if I am beautiful enough, interesting enough, to make him smile more often. Could I feel those hands running through my hair? Would those shoulders relax under my touch? Would he kiss me and feel young again, thrilled again?

As I ponder all of this, the Colonel makes to stand up and break away from the group surrounding him. He walks in my direction, towards the study, and notices that I am not reading, but that I'm looking out the window (having been careful to avert my gaze from him when he stood). He pauses, looks down at me.

"Are you quite alright, Miss Dashwood?"

I smile up at him. "Why, yes. Why do you ask?"

"You seem… more pensive than usual." He looks down at me, then takes the ottoman at my feet. The look he gives me-is it tender, or just concerned? I'm not sure.

"I'm just thinking…" I fetch for an answer. "I'm thinking about this-about Mr. Coleridge," I gesture blindly at the book in my hand, which I have barely opened.

"Ah, yes," he closes his eyes and smiles (oh, how nice it is!) and recites, "She listened with a fitting blush,/ With downcast eyes, and modest grace;/And she forgave me, that I gazed/ Too fondly on her face." But when his eyes open again, they lock on mine immediately, and he blushes and immediately looks away. "I thought perhaps you would like it, since you liked the Goethe so much." He smiles again, this time tight-lipped, into his lap.

"I like that-what you just recited-very much." I don't know why I do this, but I reach out to him and place my hand on his. He looks up at me. "Unfortunately, I must confess I haven't read that poem yet."

"Ah." He clears his throat. My hand still lingers. His own hand doesn't move. He seems to be staring at it, transfixed. I may have broken him. Do I disgust him? Has he merely been being kind to me, out of charity? I withdraw my hand.

"Well, I do thank you for the book." I compose my face and thoughts and gaze at him coolly.

"Of course," he replies, meeting my eyes again. "Anything that is mine, is-that is to say, anything that Delaford-" he paused, took a breath, smiled a smile that was mostly grimace. "It's yours, Miss Marianne-Miss Dashwood. All you need do is ask." He stood up and bowed to me, then walked into the library. I can't help but look after him as he walks away, notice the strides made by those legs, strong, confident, even after our awkward encounter. I feel confused, and warm all over.

I notice that Elinor is watching me watch him, and I primly bury my nose back in the book.

Tonight, as I lie awake by the light of a candle, reading and re-reading the poetry in this slim volume, I think about his hands holding it, his lips forming the words, his voice pronouncing them. I wonder if he dreams his time away, like Wordsworth. I wonder if he is like the leech-gatherer, living a life that many (like me, once) view as unappealing, with his flannel waistcoats and his somber demeanor-a life that is in actuality extremely noble and worthy. I wonder if he could have read about strange fits of passion and not remembered his own. And most of all, I wonder if he is lying awake right now, and if there's even the smallest chance he's thinking of me.

This thought now occupies my head: I wish that he were here now. I know that it is wrong. I know that it would ruin me if I even hinted at it, to him or to anyone, especially after all my indiscretions with Willoughby. But I wish he were here, all the same. I'm not sure exactly what I would do with him. Crack him open, perhaps. Peel away the layers of Colonel Brandon and get to the essence of him. I know from Sir John that his Christian name is Christopher. Would I whisper his name to him? If he kissed me, how would he hold me?

And I think a thought I never fully fleshed out as a conscious thought, even with Willoughby-would he want to see me undressed? Would I want to see him as such?

Would he be a good father?

Would I be a good wife?

Could we possibly be happy together?

All thoughts of reading given up for the evening, I blow out the candle and spend a fitful night tossing and turning.