Page 15 of Desperate Proposals
“Am I correct in my assumption, then?”
Suddenly Evelyn felt incredibly tired. What hour could it be? She glanced about the room for a clock but found nothing; just sad wallpaper the color of mud. She longed to be in her bed at home, safe behind the ancient fortified walls, waiting for Dutton to bring her nightly glass of warm milk. Funny to think that her desire to preserve that comfort—to bottle it up and protect it, not just for herself, but her brother’s widow and daughter too—had brought her here, to this loud, cruel city and this depressing hovel within.
“Mr. Hartley,” she began, then paused.
His name was familiar, was it not? She hadn’t recalled earlier, but now she thought she might have heard it before. He did claim to be her neighbor in Knockton, after all; perhaps she’dheard it in passing here and there. She shook her head. There would be time to think on it later.
“I require no assistance of that nature. I only wish to return home to Knockton.” Her tone wavered briefly, and she steadied herself. She would not allow this man to see her despair. “And I do not know the location of the railway station.”
“Which one?” Mr. Hartley asked from behind his hand. The amusement in his eyes suggested he was hiding a wry grin.
“I beg your pardon?” Evelyn decided she disliked him even more. “There’s more than one?”
At that he laughed. Evelyn scoffed, appalled at his bad manners, and frustrated again by her own naïveté. Of course there would be more than one in a city this size. How foolish could she be?
“At any rate, I apologize for having to inform you, but no line runs past eight. You’re stranded until morning, it seems.”
Oh no.
Why hadn’t she thought of that? Why hadn’t Wright… oh, that was why—so confident in her plan was she, that Evelyn had informed her butler there would be no need for a return journey. She’d expected to spend the night at Rowland’s residence—chastely, in separate bedrooms, of course. She thought back to earlier that day. Rowland was probably not even abed yet, but up with his impossible bottles, working by lamplight, perfectly content. Whether it was from the humor or the pain of the thought, Evelyn did not know, but how she wanted to laugh at the visual.
But she wouldn’t. Not in front ofhim. She shot the most contemptuous glare she could manage at Mr. Hartley.
“Then, Mr. Hartley, what I require is lodging.”
She stood up once more, collecting her bonnet and gloves from the table. She wondered why she hadn’t thought to pack a casewith some necessities. Her clothes would look positively done in tomorrow.
“Is that something you could assist me with?”
He turned away from her. Studying his profile as he did so, she found herself in disbelief at the strength of his features, from his heavy brow to his well-cut jaw. It was a shame he was such an ill-mannered, unpleasant man, completely at odds with his physical characteristics.
“This gentleman,” he said after a pause, still looking away, “the one you said you supposed you might marry. What happened?”
Such audacity! She hadn’t expected to be called out. Evelyn turned away. She’d never been quick on her feet. Perhaps if she shared a scrap of information, he’d finally leave off.
“I rejected his suit, once. Years ago. I thought he might still care… enough.”
“Enough?” His voice was so smooth. And incredulous.
That unfamiliar prickly feeling hit her again, as if every inch of her body, from her head to her fingertips, was urging her to run away and escape. How irritating.
“Enough to renew his affection.”
“You love him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She spun about to find him watching her intently, his eyes sharp. Evelyn shook her head. “This is wildly improper, I hope you—”
“Then why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why marry him now? You said it’d been years. And we’ve established that there’s no medical condition compelling you to wed in haste.” He stood up, hands in his pockets. “And you clearly do not love him.”
Evelyn glared, but he would not let up.
“Why, Miss Wolfenden?”
In her discomfort, and to her mortification, the truth slipped out.
