Page 68 of Desperate Proposals
“Yes?”
“Ah, I’m here about the puppies.” Marcus removed his hat and smiled. “As advertised in the paper. I hope they’ve not all been spoken for?”
“Not yet,” the housekeeper nodded. “Right this way, sir.”
Marcus returned to the hotel an hour or so later with a sable-coated collie wriggling in his arms and nipping at his sleeve. Thankfully he’d never been a fashionable dresser; one staid coat was easily switched out for another.
Bray met him upon his return to the rooms. His dour countenance brightened slightly at the sight of the yippy thing.
“You’ve actually done it, sir,” he said, taking the puppy from Marcus’s arms. “I confess I did not expect it to come to pass when you spoke of it at breakfast.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Marcus joked, reaching out to ruffle the creature’s soft, downy ears.
“But why not something smaller, sir? An exotic breed, something more… ornamental?”
“Of course not,” Marcus said, striding across the room where a long mirror stood. He tugged his necktie apart in haste, as the hour was growing late.
Behind him, Bray set the puppy down. It bounded forward heedlessly before turning about to bound back to the valet. It paused to sneeze in excitement, then took off running, doing laps about the room.
“Mrs. Hartley is deserving of a familiar as intelligent and spirited as herself,” Marcus muttered, half to his reflection, half to Bray.
As if on cue, the puppy crashed into the bed with a thud. It fell back, then shook itself off before taking off at a gallop once more.
Bray stared at the dog.
“Er, no matter.” Marcus raised an eyebrow, then returned to unbuttoning his shirt in the mirror. “It’ll grow out of it,” he said, with more assurance than he felt.
Before long the animal wore itself out, then splayed itself across the previously tidy bed. Now the coverlet and sheets were a tangle, bunched up around the puppy much like a nest. Before Marcus departed for Towle’s, Bray assured him he’d keep an eye on the animal, and take it out on a lead frequently throughout the night.
Marcus went downstairs, content to wait for Evelyn in the gilded lobby while reading the evening edition in a red velvet wingback alongside a marble pillar. He prayed the puppy hadn’t been too loud that afternoon, as he hoped for his present to remain a surprise until they departed for home tomorrow.
He was frowning at a tirade against Gladstone penned by a Nonconformist when something in his brain, perhaps his sixth sense, told him to look up from the paper. He did, just in time to catch sight of his wife descending the grand staircase into the lobby.
His breath caught in his chest.
She wore a light lavender gown, one he’d never seen before, that appeared cut specifically to her frame, with a cascade of ruffles emphasizing her softness. Her hair was curled and shining, piled atop her head in a fashionable style he’d never seen her wear. She looked every inch a poised and privileged lady.
Marcus swallowed. And she had sworn her vows to him.
He stood and gathered himself before approaching her, doing his best to keep his damn hands from his pockets and that grating smirk from his face.
When he drew close, he reached for her hand.
“Mr. Hartley,” she said, dipping her head slowly.
Nothing about her slow and measured demeanor betrayed a lingering hurt, but still, somehow, Marcus could feel it. She wielded her manners as coolly as a weathered knight did a longsword.
The urge to tease her, to make some sort of jest, came upon him in a rush, but he beat it back. His eyes dropped to the gloved hand he held in his.
“You look exquisite,” he said, his voice slightly rough. And he meant it.
She received the compliment with a gracious nod.
And then they were off.
Leadon Hall, located ten miles outside the city, was the stronghold of the Towles, a family that had grown wealthy from decades of metal manufacture, which was on display in the form of the ornate gate surrounding the property, iron curling and climbing upward as if it were a vine. And now, Towle was no longer just a mere MP, but Sir Philip. Marcus felt a stab of envy, creeping up along his spine just like the metalwork of the gate.
He rapped his knuckles mindlessly against the carriage door where his hand rested. What would his father say, were he to see Marcus’s current circumstances?
