Page 17 of Desperate Proposals
Parliament had risen, after which he’d spent time setting about other errands in the city. The matter of Miss Wolfenden was never far from his mind, though, and by late August he’d come to his decision.
Marcus Hartley was as ready as he’d ever be to take a wife.
And he had it on very good authority that, today, Miss Wolfenden would be attending asoirée musicale. Whatever the hell that was.
He was about to find out.
“Er, whereabouts are we heading, exactly?” Dr. Matthew Collier asked, looking incredibly uncomfortable atop Lloyd, the stubborn Barb Marcus had purchased on a whim the previous year, then stashed at his Knockton stables and promptly forgotten about.
Collier pulled up on the reins, earning an irritated snort from Lloyd.
“The Knockton Guildhall,” Marcus replied.
He felt a slight regret that he hadn’t offered his friend his own, gentler mount, Dolly, a handsome chestnut Thoroughbred. But then again, Collier was even taller than Marcus, and of a larger build. Marcus had assumed the horse would defer to the stronger man’s will far more readily than his own, which he now realized was incorrect.
They’d still make it into town, at any rate.
“You know,” Collier said with a slight hesitance—for the doctor was not one to criticize, even in jest—“you ought to consider the purchase of a carriage, if you truly wish to find a wife. Most ladies would rather ride in comfort, shielded from the elements.”
“True enough. But you see,Iwould rather spend my money on just about anything else at the moment.” Marcus kept his eyes trained on the cluster of buildings in the distance. It was a lovely day, with a slight breeze blowing intermittently.
The doctor did not respond to that, which was Marcus’s intent. He was exceedingly middle-class, even more so than Marcus pretended to be, and was loath to speak of something as horrifying as personal finances. They rode on, the sound of leaves crunching below their mounts’ hooves filling the silencebetween them, until Marcus felt sufficiently remorseful and introduced another subject.
“So, Collier, tell me. Just what is asoirée musicale, exactly?”
As part of laying the groundwork to gain a genteel wife, Marcus had perused more gossip than ever before. Even more than when his own cousin, Harmonia, had featured heavily in most of the popular rags. During that time he had approached each fish wrapper with a sense of dread, agonizing over what horrifying scandal she might have embroiled herself in. Thankfully, though, she’d ended up marrying a man more than capable of looking after her, and Marcus had given up his study.
But having taken it up again, he found an unlikely expert in his friend, Dr. Collier. Collier somehow knew all the names, all the parties, and all the blasted expectations as well as he knew the odds of winning tricks in a game of piquet. The doctor, it so happened, was a consummate rule aficionado. So Marcus had invited him along on this expedition, not only wishing to avoid presenting himself to Miss Wolfenden as a solitary, friendless man, but also counting on Collier’s social expertise.
“It’s just a music party, isn’t it?”
“That, I’d gathered.”
Dr. Collier sighed, reaching up to scratch his chin as he thought. “Well, seeing as it’s an afternoon affair, rather than evening, there shan’t be a supper. Or luncheon. There ought to be refreshments, but it’s doubtful they’d risk setting it up out of doors this late in the year. Then I suppose a half hour or hour after we arrive the music shall start. If you feel like conversing instead, I’m sure there will be an adjacent room available to satisfy that purpose.” He turned to give Marcus a pointed look.
“What? I’m as silent as the grave.”
“Hmm,” Collier responded, turning back slowly. “At any rate, if this young lady you’ve designs on attends, try to meet withher either beforehand or after. It’d pay a poor compliment to the performers if you prattled on during the program.”
“And am I to be faulted for finding ideas and observations more intriguing than the curate’s wife’s choice of an operaticmorceau?”
“And what of your quarry? What if she bears a passion for music?”
Marcus scoffed. “Then she may do so in her own sphere. Out of my hearing, mind.”
The doctor waited a moment. “You know, I do recall, a year or two ago, that one evening at my club… when was it, New Year’s?”
Marcus groaned.
The doctor kept on, affecting an air of naïveté when they both knew what he was after. “We were all deep in our cups, and you took it upon yourself to commandeer the piano, saying that the accompanist had been plaguing us all with, what did you call it? Oh yes, ‘torturous dirges.’ I would never have marked you as—”
“That will do, Collier.” Marcus sat up straighter in the saddle and brushed off the front of his jacket.
The evening Collier spoke of had been early on in their acquaintance, when Marcus had only known the doctor as a friend of Thomas Rickard, his cousin Harmonia’s husband. That night had turned out to be the catalyst for their own friendship, leaving Marcus with a sore head and a foggy memory the next morning when he came to. Fennel had informed him that the kind doctor had walked him home and seen to it that he’d been fed and watered before passing out. Like an overworked horse.
Collier chuckled merrily at his own recollection of the event.
Sometimes Marcus wished he could be as lighthearted as him, without a care in the world aside from his club standing. Though he did sometimes worry about the man. Collier never had an ill thought or a cross word for anyone, which to Marcus, whoonlypossessed cross words and pessimistic attitudes, seemed awfullyrepressed. One should air their grievances now and again. Just like a mattress.
