Page 36 of Desperate Proposals
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” she sputtered, exasperated. “You ought to be happy. Look at Harmonia, the joy she finds in her little girl. Look at your uncle, even! Why, I can barely recall—”
“Please, no more.” He raised a hand to his forehead; he could not bear this talk. He had to enter into this marriage; he could not—wouldnot—lose his seat in Parliament. He refused to be like them—the vainglorious dukes and marquesses who chased nothing but their own pleasure, shooting enough pheasants to fill a barrow from the comfort of their verdant estates while their countrymen toiled and children starved in the cities. Heneededto use the resources he was lucky enough to have to make a difference. And if there was a selfish aspect to that burning desire, then so be it.
Now deprived of ear scratches, Walter abandoned Marcus’s lap, leapt down to the floor and back up next to Mrs. Hartley, and settled himself into the plush, new burgundy velvet.
“Perhaps you’ll change your tune once you learn of the lady’s family,” Marcus said, his eyes closed, his hand still shielding his brow.
What would his father say, hearing his own son speak thusly? Marcus felt his chest tighten. He could not endure this. Perhaps it was his just reward for tormenting his mother so.
“Oh?” she said timorously.
Marcus drew out a long sigh. Then he sat up and readjusted himself, brushing off the front of his coat.
“Her father is a baron. A baron who just so happens to be quite the consequential landowner in Knockton.”
The look on his mother’s face suggested that was the most shocking thing she had heard in quite some time.
“Do tell,” she breathed, stunned.
“Yes, Mama,” he said, buoyed slightly by her response. “I’m not martyring myself for the cause. Far from it. Truth is, it’s cutthroat. Politically advantageous.” He would never be mistaken for a saint, which usually didn’t bother him. But just now he felt downright Machiavellian, and he did not like it.
“A noblewoman? For you? Why, I never dreamed of it!” His mother fanned herself uselessly with one hand.
“A baron, Mama. Hardly reason for such excitement.” Marcus lifted his eyes heavenward. “It’s nearly the lowest rung on the ladder.”
“Bless me,” she said with a positively girlish laugh. But then she stilled, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Are you quite sure? You’ve always spoken so derisively of… of…”
“Them?” he supplied aloofly, finally feeling in control of himself once more. It was a relief. He would have to be on his guard; this entire marriage situation seemed rife with pitfalls.
“Well, yes.” His mother sat back and blinked.
He felt that old pang of envy, the one that had most recently struck when Towle informed him of his impending honors. Marcus stamped it out, hoping his countenance was betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.
“Why should I think differently of her? She’s a lady, like any other.”
But even as Marcus spoke the words, he knew they were not true.
She was a Wolfenden, as she herself reminded him at every turn. She’d grown up alone, haunting dark and ancient halls, rarely venturing beyond the uplands and moorlands of Lancashire. She seemed incapable of giving or receiving affection. She believed herself apart from others.
Set apart—a puppy, then, Marcus decided.
Her loyalty was to her own, and to Knockton. She wound herself tighter, and held herself more rigid, than he could ever imagine doing.
And in a matter of days, she would be his wife.
The last time she’d stood in this chapel, it had been with him, alone.
No, that wasn’t true. Since then there had been the usual Sunday service, and then they’d met here yesterday to prepare, along with the wedding party. Leonora, their tempestuous flower girl, had thrown a fit of epic proportions upon being informed that she would not be strewing flowers about until the moment of the actual ceremony. Her niece had gone to theground right then and there, kicking and wailing at the top of her lungs.
Mr. Hartley had looked quite spooked by the entire thing. Perhaps there was hope for his manners after all.
Despite those more recent visits, though, Evelyn couldn’t help but recall that evening when they were here together, alone, as she escorted him on a tour of the manor. When he’d questioned her lack of need for companionship, and how she could endure a life without romance.
Romance? Why would Evelyn invite such unnecessary chaos into her life?
Certainly she would not. Which was why she’d agreed to a marriage of this sort. She would never behave as that poor girl off to Wigan with a broken heart and Evelyn’s handkerchief.
