Page 100 of Desperate Proposals
“I know,” he murmured, his gut twisting.
“But the goat willow celebration is in March! And there’s still so much left to prepare…”
The slight wrinkle of a frown had formed between her brows; Marcus gently smoothed it out with his thumb. Unfortunately, this seemed to only bother her more, as she caught his hand in hers, her eyes accusing.
“I shan’t be away for long.”
Evelyn looked away even as she adjusted her hold on his hand, bringing it back to the side of her face.
“Come now. All will be well. You’ll see.”
At that her face softened, and she sighed.
“You always say that, thinking it an adequate balm for any ill.”
“And it is. Haven’t all of our woes always resolved in the end?”
She said nothing, only raised one eyebrow and turned away. Lifting up the top of the lap desk, she stowed away her papers and pen. She was clearly still bothered. Marcus sat down behind her on the couch and slid an arm about her, easing her back into him. He placed a kiss on her neck.
“Marcus,” she chided.
“What is it, darling? What worries you so?”
“It is nothing,” she protested, in that remote tone she wielded more effectively than anyone.
“It is if you speak thusly to me,” he chuckled, placing another kiss upon the pleasing arrangement of hair pinned just above her nape. He closed his eyes and breathed in her calming scent. “In that lady-of-the-manor voice. For as much as I appreciate it in the bedchamber, I otherwise seem to catch it only when I’ve been untoward.”
“You haven’t,” she said firmly.
“Alright then,” he murmured, reaching up to trace the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw.
They remained like that for a long moment, Marcus relishing the feel of his wife, until she broke the silence.
“When we came to an agreement… I understood,” she said haltingly. “I said… well, I knew you would not remain here in Knockton every day of the year, and I offered to accompany you to London if needed… and while I infinitely prefer Lancashire, I… I…”
Her words fluttered about, untethered from any conclusion. Despite her upset, Marcus felt a warmth blossom in his chest.
“Are you trying to tell me that you’ll miss me?” He nuzzled her neck, happiness lighting him from within. “That you don’t wish me to leave you here all alone?”
“No,” she said with annoyance. She adjusted her posture so her spine was ramrod straight, no longer leaning against him.
“I… I prefer when you are close at hand,” she muttered, still forcing a coolness incongruous with her words.
“Do you?” he whispered into her ear, pulling her tighter.
“Marcus!” she gasped, exasperated. “The servants!”
“Could it be, darling, that maybe, perhaps in the smallest, slightest, most infinitesimal fashion, that you care for me? That you love me?”
She froze in his arms.
Marcus kissed her neck, allowing his lips to linger before he lifted his mouth to her ear once more.
“Because—and note that I’ve never once doubted my instincts before—I am utterly, completely, maddeningly besotted with you and your scornful looks, your lofty set-downs. You set out to London to ensnare some idle twat, some useless second son, but where you failed in that regard, you absolutely captured my heart.”
He could feel her breath quickening. “Third,” she breathed, her voice strained.
“What?”
