Page 54 of Desperate Proposals
“Hmm.” He returned to his desk chair and stared into the middle distance. “Hmm,” he repeated, then turned to regard her.
She could feel the heat in her cheeks.
“Would it be appropriate to amend the terms of our contract, then?”
Evelyn eyed the chaotic stacks of paper covering one half of his desk.
“No, don’t fret,” he said as he followed her gaze. “It’s still unwritten. But what say you?”
She looked into his eyes, wary. “To what? What is on offer?”
“Assignations. More frequent ones, that is.” He lifted his eyebrows. “At any time or place agreeable to both parties.”
Before, she might have gasped at his cheek. But now she closed her eyes, recalling the feel of his lips upon hers just moments before. She bit back a sigh, and her eyes fluttered open.
“In exchange for what?”
“That I may call you Evelyn.”
She drew a sharp breath.
“These are my terms,” he said, opening his hands as if the dictate had come down from an authority higher than him, rather than from his own crude sensibilities.
Would this man never cease in his desire to drag her down to the middle classes? She’d come here to discuss the problem with Selina and her overly familiar behavior with Wright—amuchmore pressing matter—and he was determined to push Evelyn into an unbecoming familiarity of her own. How had that happened? She regarded him with a begrudging admiration; perhaps he possessed more savvy than the typical lunatic liberal.
Evelyn sighed. “Very well.”
“Wonderful,” he said, then gave her a look that spoke of everything their kiss had been, and everything they’d shared their wedding night.
“Evelyn,” he said into the empty space of the study, testing it out in a tender voice.
For some reason, hearing him say it out loud made her feel even more at sea.
“Now, Evelyn, pray tell, what did you wish to discuss?”
A little voice warned her that she had erred, that this was the top of the slippery slope that would erode her pride and eventually rot the very foundation of who she was. But that little voice was drowned out by his own—so silky, so deep.
Speaking her given name.
She squared her shoulders and sat up tall.
“It’s Mrs. Wolfenden. She’s developed an inappropriate familiarity with our old butler, Wright.”
“How familiar?” The teasing, smug Mr. Hartley was gone in an instant, replaced by the harsh, haughty man whose doorstep she’d landed on that summer.
“Merely overly friendly, I pray. Not…thatfamiliar.”
His face darkened. “Has he ever been inappropriate with you?”
Evelyn gasped, a hand upon her chest. “Upon my word! Wright? Never! I assure you, the blame for any impropriety lies solely at Mrs. Wolfenden’s feet.”
She felt cold all over, speaking scornfully of her sister-in-law and, by association, the ever-reliable Wright. But she must protect his good name, as well as their entire family’s.
“What makes you think that?” Mr. Hartley pressed, unmoved by her avowal.
“Why, it’s simple, really. Wright would never!” she said, her voice stern. “Frankly, I do not know how we all got on before he was with us. He’s a brick of a fellow.”
“They all are,” Mr. Hartley sighed, “until they aren’t.”
