Page 18 of Desperate Proposals
Marcus frowned. That was something he’d learned of only that past spring, when his newly hired housekeeper had expressed her disgust at the state of the bedrooms. That one had been quite efficient; he’d been sorry to see her go so quickly.
“By the by, what is her name?”
“What?” Marcus frowned, lost in his concerns about how Fennel would get on in London this winter with no one to assist him.
“This young lady, the one we are here for.”
“Ah yes, her. The Wolfenden.”
He felt his chest tighten in shame at the mention of the lady who’d so fortuitously appeared on his doorstep that summer night. She’d asked for his help, and he’d neatly botched the encounter. Marcus, it seemed, could not curb his self-righteousness, not even for one damn conversation.
“If you could but hear yourself!TheWolfenden?Surely she’s not a mere object. Surely she has a name?”
“Surely,” Marcus mused. “One of the lads in the stables is a bit of a conniver. Got him to wheedle more details out of one of the maids from Methering Manor. For a bit of a reward, of course.”
He heard his friend sigh, but let it pass. Dr. Collier spent his days holed up in his study, forever prescribing the same three remedies for the same three ailments. How could he understand what it was like—the constant vigilance, the bargaining for information, the never-ending dramatics?
“Well?” Collier pressed, his tone cautiously optimistic now.
“It’s Evelyn. Miss Evelyn Wolfenden,” Marcus said blandly.
“Well, you certainly don’t sound like you want to marry her.” Collier looked down, fiddling with the reins in his hands. “Hartley, I worry for you. I doubt she’ll be convinced.”
“She doesn’t need to be convinced.” Marcus’s tone hardened. “Just desperate.”
“And that’s a decent foundation for a marriage, to you?” his friend asked, his tone incredulous.
Marcus turned to study him, one eyebrow raised. “Why, Collier. I had no idea you were a romantic. I’ve never seen you so riled.”
At that, the doctor’s color deepened, a humorous sight for one so inclined—an ox of a man brought to blushing at the mere mention of romance.
Thankfully, they were now approaching the village; the roads widened and Knockton now lay before them, ending any more silly talk of love. It was a cozy little town full of tired stone buildings settled into their soft lines, somehow still standing after so many centuries, moss grown thick upon every wall. Years ago, when he’d first purchased Platt Lodge, Marcus had thought the village charming. Now, though, he looked upon it with an appraising eye. Was traffic increasing? Were the roofs in good repair? Were the market stalls on Knockton Green still full of healthy produce and quality goods? Did the residents tip their hats to him, or cross the street to avoid him?
He’d been even more attuned to such things after Miss Wolfenden’s inability to place him, and he’d spent the last week making rounds and shaking hands. It had been exhausting, but it was necessary.
As they rode toward the guildhall, they passed the local wheelwright, who raised a hand and nodded. Marcus gladly returned the gesture, feeling a wave of relief. So he hadn’t fallen out of favor. Not with everybody, at least.
Although autumn was upon them, the chill had not yet arrived, and there were groups of people outside the guildhall conversing in the fine weather. Marcus scanned the crowd, doing his best to remain circumspect.
And then he saw her: Evelyn Wolfenden, done up in a mauve, tassel-covered creation. He’d nearly forgotten how she looked, and felt no small measure of relief at her appearance. Decent complexion, round cheeks, and a robust figure—perfectly adequate. She stood arm in arm with a short, dainty woman dressed in all black. Her companion bore a distant look, as if her mind were somewhere else entirely. Marcus deduced it must be her brother’s widow, Mrs. Selina Wolfenden.
His informant, a Methering Manor housemaid by way of his own stable boy, had imparted that tensions were rife at the storied manse.
The fragile-looking Mrs. Wolfenden was prone to melancholy, her daughter a nuisance, and Baron Methering himself seemingly unconcerned with anything aside from his newfound fascination with pedestrianism; he supposedly spent his days walking ceaselessly about the grounds, checking his pocket watch after each lap. The maid had explained that Miss Evelyn Wolfenden—much to Marcus’s irritation—had been socializing heavily after half a year of mourning but, thankfully, had no serious suitor of which to speak. He could not fault Miss Wolfenden for wishing to marry, especially considering his reasons were as pragmatic as hers. What he did not enjoy, though, was the thought of his plans being usurped. Evelyn Wolfenden would be an asset to his status in the borough, and he did not care to lose out now that he had his sights set upon her.
Fortunately, according to his source, he was safe in that regard. For the moment, at least. The two ladies were speaking with a gentleman he recognized as Mr. James Robert Reed, a member of the town council whom Marcus knew to be married. And even were he not, he had all the personality of a damp rag. Marcus felt buoyed.
“Alright, Collier. The game is afoot. We’re not dragging her to the altar today, so have no fear on that count.”
“Then what is the objective for today?” Dr. Collier blew out an exasperated breath, as if he were nervous about what Marcus might do.
“To open doors. Gain an ounce of trust. Perhaps broach the idea, if all goes well.”
“I still think it’s foolhardy, treating marriage as a political scheme. But… at least this shall prove entertaining,” Collier said.
“Entertaining?” Marcus frowned. This time he wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t. “It’s only marriage, man. A civil contract and an excruciating church service. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps.”
