Page 99 of Desperate Proposals
Not one to do anything by half-measures, he’d thrown himself fully into the domestic sphere, into Evelyn’s orbit and her desires. He knew he’d remain in Knockton as long as she would. And he was glad for it.
Glad for their days, when he’d watch her from across the room as she discussed household matters with Mrs. Gill. He would watch her take the air with Milburga from an upstairs window, and in the evenings, watch her hold court before the entire household in the drawing room. He would catch hold of her as she walked past him in the hallway, just to fluster her with a stolen kiss pressed into her hand or neck. And in the night, he would do as he was told, on his knees before her, in her bed or his. They’d always stay through the night, and he could never believe his good fortune. He was besotted; he was hers.
Winter crept along, his family safe and warm within the homey walls of Platt Lodge. Why, they’d even had Baron Methering over for Christmas dinner.
It was a peace Marcus hadn’t known since his youth, before his father had passed.
He hoped his father would have been happy with him now, even as he’d tempered his ambitions for knocking down the powers that be and rebuilding them in a more just manner.Finally, he’d taken his mentor’s advice to heart, and allowed himself a bit of happiness.
It suited him.
So much so that when, in January, he received a letter from the Honorable Arthur Peel, his party’s chief whip, summoning him back to London for the dispatch of party business, Marcus froze at his desk. How would Evelyn react? How long would he be away from her this time? He cursed his last foray into the city, chastising himself for the unnecessary trip.
No, that wasn’t fair. His work was necessary, his aid a matter of life and death to the women who sought it. He simply hadn’t realized at the time that he loved his wife. An easy enough error to make, to be sure. However, this time he knew, and he knew that time spent apart from her would feel hollow and bitter.
He felt overwhelmed with melancholy. How long he sat staring through the letter containing the bland and courteous, yet hateful words, he had no idea.
Eventually he shook off the shock of it enough to set the letter aside and muddle through the rest of his correspondence.
It wasn’t until later that evening, when Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Wolfenden had retired for the evening—Mrs. Wolfenden still pale and quiet from her most recent trauma—that he dared broach the subject.
Evelyn had seemed more vivacious as of late, with a pleasing color to her cheeks and a luminous shine to her hair. On this night she sat before the fire, a small lap desk balanced elegantly upon her knees, as if keeping it level took her no effort at all. She was reading through plans for the goat willow’s celebration, turning pages every minute or so, crossing things out here, making notes there. The only sounds were the scratch of her pen and the crack and pop of the fire.
And Marcus was about to ruin it all by starting a quarrel.
“How’s all that coming along?” he ventured, gesturing to her work with the open journal he’d been pretending to read.
She didn’t glance up, but her lips pursed momentarily.
“Mr. Reed’s come around to the idea, it seems.”
“Oh, has he now?”
She made another quick note, still not looking up from her work.
“Yes, apparently he’s engaged an arborist from London. Out of his own pocket.”
“Naturally,” Marcus said, smirking. “And, naturally, you refused.”
Evelyn glanced up ever so slightly and gave him a reproachful gaze.
“I did no such thing.”
“What? Even when he’s so clearly attempting to steal a march on your husband?”
Marcus grinned, thoroughly enjoying the thought of James Robert Reed wracking his feeble mind for what he might do to compete with Marcus’s gesture of personally funding the festivities.
Evelyn sighed and sat upright, setting her pen down decisively upon her lap desk.
“Mrs. Henham was over the moon at the idea of a professional appraisal of the goat willow, as were the other ladies. I would never dream of dashing their hopes over something as petty as the ballot.”
“By all means. I know better than to meddle with that cursed tree.”
Marcus stood, ready to share his unfortunate news and get it over with. Evelyn’s gaze remained steadily upon him as he crossed the room and reached out to cup her cheek. Only then did she shut her eyes, leaning ever so slightly into his caress.
“I’ve had word from the party.” Her eyes shot open, but he continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “We’re being summoned to London for some unspecified business matter.”
“Why… but it’s the middle of winter!”
