Page 76 of Desperate Proposals
She started, but did not retreat. Her eyes fell to his mouth.
He kissed her.
A different sort of kiss this time. Slow, aching. With a touch as light as a gentle breeze, he ghosted a caress along her jawline, entreating her, begging her. To what, though?
Marcus dared not think it, even as his other hand slid along her waist, up her side.
For he had other ambitions, a nation to change. He’d sooner see himself upon a plinth, wrought in marble: a monument to his tireless fight for egalitarianism and progress. Wasn’t that what he’d vowed to himself upon his father’s untimely death? To make a difference in this cruel world?
But she—she had made a difference in his world, in a startlingly short period of time.
Evelyn leaned forward into him, as if hypnotized. With an urgent hunger, her lips willed his to move faster.
Milburga let out an annoyed sound, halfway between a groan and a whine; she apparently had no desire to be squashed between them. Marcus drew back and smirked at the dog.
“You have an opinion on the proceedings, have you?”
Milburga snapped her wedge-shaped jaw in his direction before repeating the vocalization, warning him back.
“Goodness, I think you’ve offended her sensibilities,” Evelyn said, smoothing down the puppy’s ears.
Marcus stood and returned to the bench opposite, brows raised. “A talkative dog,” he mused. “And prudish to boot.”
At that, the hint of a smile lit upon Evelyn’s lips. Despite his trepidation, Marcus could not ignore the surge of happiness in his chest.
“She’s not prudish,” Evelyn said, lifting her head. Milburga imitated the gesture, throwing her own head back so she might nuzzle her mistress. “She’s refined.”
Marcus glanced out the window, choosing not to mention the period of the trip during which the animal had rather noisilylicked its rear for several minutes. The buildings of Blackburn came into view, easily recognizable even in the dusk’s fading light.
“It’s late,” he observed. “But if we make haste we might return home in time for supper. I’m absolutely famished.”
“We need not wait to eat,” Evelyn said, looking into her puppy’s face as if she were speaking to her. “I’ll have Dutton purchase us a sad cake. There ought to be a street vendor out at this hour.”
“Sad cake?” Marcus said, incredulous. “I wasn’t aware that consumables possessed emotions.”
“Yes, sad cake.” Evelyn looked up at him as she stroked her pet, her expression changing to one of surprise when she saw his own. “Why, you’re serious. You do not know of sad cakes?”
“Ought I?”
“Or perhaps Chorley cakes?”
Marcus shook his head.
“My goodness.” Evelyn’s eyes widened. She pressed her lips together and turned to look out the window, appearing to think. “I did not realize…” she started, then shook her head before looking back. “They’re large, flat pastries, filled with currants. They ought to be big enough to split—that is, unless one is in Chorley. They’re smaller there,” she explained.
“And why are they sad?”
Evelyn blinked. “You know, I cannot say?”
Marcus chuckled.
Evelyn tilted her head as if she meant to elaborate further on the strangely named delicacies, but the bell began to clang as they approached the station, preventing any more conversation.
They stepped out onto the platform and made their way to the waiting carriage. Once Evelyn and Milburga were safely within, Murphy, the coachman, motioned to Marcus and marched over, his face dour as usual.
“Sir, I apologize, but I reckon you should know.” He glanced sideways at the cab of the carriage, then stepped backward, away from the open door.
Marcus followed, positioning himself so that he blocked Evelyn’s view of Murphy as much as possible.
