Page 87 of Desperate Proposals
“I beg your apologies, sir, ma’am, but I’ll go tend to the team and, er, see to the matter we were discussing. That is, if it’s alright with you… sir,” Murphy said in his lilting accent.
“Of course,” Mr. Hartley said, without looking away from Evelyn.
The coachman left, leaving them with only the sounds of gentle whickering and equine sighs.
Evelyn fluttered her lashes, willing herself back to form.
Mr. Hartley’s eyes trailed down her front and back up again, and he frowned, reaching for a burr that clung to the lining of her cloak.
“What’s all this? Did you take a fall? Are you—”
“I am well, thank you,” Evelyn said in a rush, catching his thick wrist before he could wipe at a streak of mud on her sleeve.
His gaze fell to it, and remained there for several achingly long moments, until his expression transitioned into something sterner, stronger. As if her delicate grasp were a crucible, alchemizing whatever this new feeling was between them, turning it into something akin to…
She dropped his hand.
Akin to what? Her heart stuttered, unwilling just then to consider the ending to that thought.
“Evelyn,” he began, reaching for her once more.
She turned away, her cloak swishing about her muddy hem.
“What were you discussing with Murphy? And why here? Are you not weary from the journey? You ought to have come to the house immediately,” she said, her voice somewhat strained. She hoped he would not notice.
For a moment she feared he’d not allow the pivot in conversation, but then she heard his long sigh, and her body relaxed the smallest amount.
“We were checking something. To see if Gerry was in his stall.”
Her stomach flipped, even as she held herself as still as a doe warned by the crack of a twig.
“He was not.”
She could hear him come up behind her. A selfish desire shot through her, that he’d place a hand upon her shoulder at the least, or, dare she even wish it, snake his arm about her waist and pull her into him.
Alas, he did neither.
She turned her head, just slightly, that she might locate him in her periphery. “Oh?”
“You know what this means, then,” he said. He had lowered his voice, ostensibly to remain circumspect, even though they were the only people within the stable.
Selina.
“Mrs. Wolfenden,” he said in a foreboding tone, “has ridden out to the manor.”
Evelyn felt a hot flush in her face, even as a shiver ran up her spine. She placed a hand upon her cheek. Was she ill?
She lowered her hand, balling it into a tight fist. She could feel his eyes upon her, waiting. But what could she say? She had begun to consider herself a clever, desirable woman, more than capable of being a competent wife. Certainly not some foolish naïf. But surely someone worth their salt would be able to manage such a meager household, consisting only of herself, two widows, and a small girl. Suddenly she felt herself laid bare; that she was in no way worthy of her forebears, the brave men and women who had been the stewards of Knockton across the centuries. And she was in no way an adequate partner for him, the Honorable Marcus Hartley, MP.
“Right,” he said firmly. “I’m heading over.”
“What?” she gasped, spinning about. “But you only just returned home!”
“That I did,” he said blandly.
Mr. Hartley crossed the stable and retrieved his neatly folded coat from where it had been laid over the wall of an unoccupied stall. He put it on without ceremony, then gave one last exaggerated shrug before smoothing down the lapels.
Evelyn was confused. Was he cross with her? Disappointed in her? And her father—what would her father say upon Mr. Hartley’s arrival at the manor?
