Page 94 of Desperate Proposals
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was after darkby the time the three of them returned home. Supper had long since passed, and Leonora had been sent to bed.
Evelyn relinquished care of Selina to Mrs. Hartley, whom she’d come to respect a great deal in the brief duration of her marriage thus far. Exhausted, she ate a heaping assortment from the cold tray that was sent up to her room, then dragged herself into a warm tub. Milburga, appearing equally spent due to the bath that had been inflicted upon her, curled up on her cushion before the fire.
Evelyn sighed deeply as she slipped into the water. She felt as though she’d been caked in grime for days, even though it had only been for the past handful of hours. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d managed to get through the day, but she had—they all had—and now, she hoped, the entire ordeal was finally over. And Mr. Hartley had returned to Knockton, where he belonged.
Her stomach flipped at that thought, and her eyes shifted to the small package he’d brought her, lying upon her dressing table. Her spectacles. The dressing table where he’d…
Her cheeks burned. She reached for the cake of soap.
She somehow managed to set aside thoughts of him as she dried off and allowed Dutton to assist her into her nightdress. Unfortunately, Evelyn had a little more difficulty meeting her own eye in the looking glass as Dutton brushed out her wet hair and plaited it. Instead of fighting it and forcing herself to instead think of the poem selection for the monumental tree celebration, or of what she might say to the housekeeper at Methering Manor about Wright’s departure, or that they ought to purchase another horse that was decent for riding, she allowed him—Marcus—to fill her thoughts.
How strange to think that only last summer she’d found him odious and his house intolerable. Well, his London house, at any rate. As she lay in her bed, unable to sleep, bolstered by several pillows and with her hands folded across her middle, she appraised the many comforts of her room. Platt Lodge, while smaller and less storied than Methering Manor, had been perfectly acceptable; by now it very nearly felt like home. Perhaps it soon would completely, now that he’d returned. But he would only leave again, eventually. She frowned at the ceiling, lacing and unlacing her fingers, unsure of what to do.
Evelyn had thought she’d understood all that passed between a husband and wife. But then she witnessed Selina’s hollow, tear-streaked face on the floor of the Methering Manor kitchen, and the way Selina whispered Edmund’s name. Then there was the way Marcus had looked at her as she held her sister-in-law. Now Evelyn was starting to think she knew nothing at all about any of it.
She thought of the girl on the platform at the station in Blackburn, who now owned her old handkerchief—the only other soul she’d ever seen cry the way Selina did. Did that girl possess knowledge hitherto unknown to Evelyn?
She sighed. It made no sense, trying to puzzle this out now. Her husband had married her for her family’s reputation, whose worth after the events of the day was questionable. Not one to feel maudlin, Evelyn shut her eyes tight. She would have to rise tomorrow and set to work making herself a better helpmeet, a better bargain for him in the end.
No sooner had she closed her eyes than she heard a soft, yet sharp rap on her door. Her eyes shot open and her heart took off, beating fast and heavy. Before she could speak, the door swung open and Mr. Hartley entered, mumbling soothing platitudes to Milburga, who approached him with a wary swish of her tail after an initial warning bark.
“It seems you’ve taken to her, then?” Mr. Hartley said cheerfully, stooping over to pat the uncertain collie.
Evelyn wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or her pet. It did not matter, though, for he didn’t seem to be looking for a response. Milburga finally decided it was acceptable for him to be there, and she jumped up on him, placing her front paws upon his legs. He murmured a few endearments to the dog before ruffling her ears and righting himself.
“And what of those, then?” He nodded to the unopened package on her dressing table.
Her spectacles. She nearly pulled a face.
“Oh, those?” Evelyn sniffed, then plucked at the hem of the bedlinens stretched over her. Suddenly she felt overheated. “With our evening having been as such…” She let her words disappear, preferring not to give voice to all the questions and horrid little feelings that had flooded her mind in the silence of her room.
When he didn’t answer, she looked up to find him watching her, that same queer look he had given her at Methering Manor upon his face, gentling his stern brow.
“May I?”
He asked so softly, in his deep, rumbling voice. How unfair.
“Of course.”
Any refusal would sound pathetically immature just now, with him in her room, standing before her dressing table once more. Evelyn swallowed. It had only been slightly more than two weeks, but everything between them had changed; the very ground they stood on had shifted. Before they’d left for Birmingham, he’d been Mr. Hartley, her husband who had married her for practical purposes, who had done nothing more than tup her in an enjoyable manner. But since then she’d quarreled with him, missed him, chased after him on an ill-tempered horse. Seen him deliver a blow to one of her former household staff. Now she’d called him by his Christian name. And it felt different on her lips. No longer was his name a reprimand, a chastisement; now it was a breath of relief. A soothing prayer. A comfort.
The crinkling of the paper from the package gave way to his soft chuckle.
He turned about, holding the spectacles aloft, squinting as though he were attempting to peer through them.
“They seem sound.” He turned them over as he examined them, his large hands delicate upon the wire frames.
Evelyn threw the blankets off and twisted about, but he strolled over toward her so she need not get out of bed. He paused before her, forcing her to tilt her head back and look him in the eye. Without speaking, he lowered the frames to her face and slowly slid them into place, pausing to tuck her hair behind one ear.
Her dratted heart was still beating forcefully in her chest, skipping along even more rapidly now, and she looked away. She could feel his gaze upon her, but she resisted its draw. For every look, every gesture seemed thick with meaning. If she methis eyes now, she might find herself tangled up in an emotional affair she’d never anticipated or sought.
She had once vowed never to marry. But also, without explicitly telling herself so, she’d locked her heart away. That is, if she’d ever had one.
His hand remained on her jaw, one thumb caressing her cheekbone. Evelyn closed her eyes and sighed into his touch. She reached up and placed her own tentative hand atop his. Not to still him, but to acknowledge the gesture.Thank you. I—
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, interrupting whatever terrifying emotion she’d almost acknowledged to herself.
