Page 64 of Desperate Proposals
The hired carriage came to a stop, and rather than wait for the groom, Mr. Hartley rudely opened the door himself and climbed out.
Evelyn sighed.
“You reckon he gets on like this at Westminster?” her maid said, incredulous.
“Dutton,” Evelyn warned.
“Of course, begging your pardon. Where is my head, allowing my tongue to run like that?” she apologized, chiding herself with a shake of the head.
Dutton had always been far too forthcoming with her vacillating opinions. On some days, Mr. Hartley was handsome and attentive; on others, boorish and tradesy. At first Evelyn had tolerated it, but now that they’d wed she had done her best to stamp it out.
He was hers, and she was his. She would take care of her own.
So she took Mr. Hartley’s offered hand and stepped out of the carriage with nothing but a gracious smile for her husband.
Once they’d settled into their rooms, with Bray and Dutton unpacking their trunks, Evelyn wondered if she might be able to lie down for the waning hours of the afternoon. The trip to Birmingham had been more pleasant than the one to London, on account of both the shorter travel time and having someone else to read the timetables and make conversation with. Mr. Hartley had even managed to make her smile with his commentary on the passing scenery. Additionally, she hadn’t realized there was a first-class waiting room, much to her embarrassment. That alone certainly would have made her last excursion more tolerable.
Even with the improvements, though, Evelyn felt positive that human beings were not meant to hurtle across the countryside at breakneck speeds in an iron box. It exhausted her in the best of circumstances.
Dutton was closing the curtains for her rest when her husband barreled into the room without so much as a knock.
“Evelyn—” he began, then frowned, noticing her upon the couch in repose. “Are you not feeling well?”
Dutton excused herself with a curtsy.
“No, I’m fine,” Evelyn said, sitting up and smoothing her skirts. “It’s late and I’m travel-weary, is all.”
She disliked being seen like this, in stockinged feet, with her legs up on the couch. Especially by him, their morning notwithstanding.
“Good.” He clapped his hands together and grinned. “We’ve an appointment before dinner. That is to say, you’ve an appointment.”
“What?”
“Don’t be cross; there’s no one in Lancashire with anywhere near this fellow’s expertise.”
Alarm coursed through her. “What do you mean? Why, Dutton’s already helped me remove my bustle and change my dress. I cannot go anywhere!”
“No one will notice,” he assured, still smiling.
Evelyn allowed herself the indulgence of a glower as she reached for her shoes. How dare he be so energetic? So… charming?
“I’m wearing a tea gown,” she said with authority. There. He could not dispute that fact.
“And quite a lovely one, I might say.” He crossed the room and helped her up to her feet. “But we must get on; the doctor is streets away and our—your—appointment is at half past.”
“Half past!” she exclaimed, looking at the clock on the mantel as she broke free from his arm around her shoulders. “Doctor?! Mr. Hartley, what on earth are you on about?”
“It’s nothing to worry about, just… your eyes, lovely as they are…” His voice slowed, and he swallowed.
Her eyes were lovely? She blinked.
She recalled their wedding breakfast, when he’d praised her beauty to Mr. Reed. Evelyn had warned herself against thinking of that too often, as she was sure his meaning was more a charge against Mr. Reed than an accurate appraisal of her.
Her heart accelerated to a quicker pace. Suddenly the moment seemed smaller, quieter, and she dared not speak and breakwhatever spell had fallen. Surely no one mattered besides the two of them.
He lifted a hand to her face, then paused, pulling it back as if he’d been burnt. Evelyn’s breath caught.
He turned around, hands in his pockets, and cleared his throat.
