Page 26 of Desperate Proposals
“Of mind, perhaps,” he admitted.
“Hmm.”
Again she held her hands together before her, a gesture so delicate and controlled it would feel forced in any other. Butfor her it seemed her most relaxed position. And then, with her excellent posture and cold expression, she led the way out.
“Your manners are lacking,” she said without turning.
Marcus glanced at the footman still holding the door. Though the young man didn’t flinch, and indeed hadn’t even shifted his distant gaze, Marcus sensed he was summoning his entire strength of will to refrain from cracking a smile.
“Some women fancy that, you know.”
The footman finally looked to Marcus, his eyes wide. Marcus smiled.
“How unfortunate for them,” Miss Wolfenden replied against the echo of her footsteps down the dark, cavernous hall.
Thankfully the hall was not lit by torches, which spared the atmosphere from being exceptionally foreboding. Instead, two rows of candles in worn metal sconces sent their shadows dancing about the stone walls in a manner that was merelyslightlyforeboding. Up ahead of him, Miss Wolfenden halted.
“Shall we continue, Mr. Hartley?”
Patient he was not, though bold he was. Marcus shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned. “By all means.”
He dutifully followed her, into the unknown.
Chapter Seven
“The nineteenth baron. Mygreat-grandfather. He’s the reason the moat is dry. Fell in after a night of overindulgence and drowned. His son had it drained straight away after that.”
Evelyn stepped back from the dark portrait of a scornful-looking man she’d never met, but whose visage was as familiar to her as her own face. She’d had her entire life to memorize every feature.
How strange it would be to leave it, and everything else, behind.
Mr. Hartley stepped forward, hands still in his pockets, cocking his head to one side. “I know this one. He’s the one who rebuilt the market cross, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, disguising her surprise. “That’s correct. How did you know?”
He turned her way, pride warring with smugness on his face. “My dear, I have opened the market more than a few times. It’s practically my primary function.”
Evelyn paused at that. When had she last been addressed as “dear?” And by whom? A nursemaid? But she turned from suchthoughts, as well as from Mr. Hartley, and made her way to the next portrait in the long gallery.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been circumspect enough.
“Miss Wolfenden?”
Too late she realized his voice was far too near, just before he placed a gentle hand on her elbow. Evelyn jerked slightly, and his hand fell away.
She’d felt queer since he’d taken her hand and offered to kiss her. It shifted her equilibrium, being handled, being called “dear.” Surely she would adjust to it in time. She knew she would have to. Why, she’d thought of little else these past days, since she’d decided to accept Mr. Hartley’s ridiculous proposal after rejoining Selina at the musicale. Absurd though the match may be, it was her only reasonable prospect.
She’d returned home that day and immediately enlisted Wright to her cause, asking him what he knew of boot blacking.
Quite a bit, as it turned out. That evening Evelyn had sat, astounded, holding a tin of Sedley’s Satin Black Boot Polish produced from Methering Manor’s own boot room. It was a handsome design, if a factory-made item could be thus, black with looping gold letters. She further pressed the butler to make inquiries about the MP. For if Mr. Hartley spoke the truth, she would wed him.
And then at least she might stay in Knockton, for Wright had informed her that Mr. Hartley owned Platt Lodge.
“Are you alright?”
Mr. Hartley’s voice had lowered again, to that deep, smooth tone that she felt in her bones.
“We ought to discuss the particulars of your proposal,” she answered.
