Page 30 of Desperate Proposals
“You purchased that lodge six years ago. And yet I, the justice of the peace, have never met you until this evening.” Baron Methering snorted derisively, then leaned back in his seat, glass in hand.
Ah, the eternal paradox of power. Never would Marcus have merited an invitation to this man, but his absence was a mark against him and his character. He would chuckle, except Miss Wolfenden had warned him against quips, so he continued to give anything humor-adjacent a wide berth.
“I’m not a barrister, my lord.”
“Bah.” Methering waved his hand in reply. “I’m well aware of what you are. Your lack of consideration does not surprise me; in fact, it only confirms my suspicions.”
Indignation welled in Marcus’s chest, an involuntary reaction he could never quite shake in situations like these. Marcus wanted to challenge the man, to defend not just his own good name, but his father’s. And that of every solicitor who dared be born to middling ranks. But he tamped it down, a practiced habit supported in this case by the need to wheedle his way into the baron’s good graces. Marcus glanced sidelong at Miss Wolfenden, who’d already finished her plate and was now watching her father like a hawk. Her brother’s widow, Mrs. Wolfenden, hardly seemed bothered by the division between diners, as her vacant stare suggested her mind was someplace else entirely.
“I suppose we should both thank Miss Wolfenden, then.”
Baron Methering looked down the length of the table to his female relations.
“For extending the manor’s hospitality to me,” Marcus said.
“Er, yes. Well done,” the baron conceded with a dismissive nod, before setting to work at his potatoes.
Thus began another extended period free from conversation, if one could call the preceding arraignment conversation. When Marcus glanced again at Miss Wolfenden, she appeared reserved, but relieved. It was then that Marcus realized with horror that this must be the way of every family dinner, when, after two weeks of dining on athletic training fare of kidney beans and groats in his chamber, the baron indulged in meat and wine with his family.
In absolute silence.
He watched Miss Wolfenden, recalling how she recoiled at the offer of a kiss, jerked away at the touch of his hand. What manner of unnatural people were these?
And then, unable to control his thoughts any longer, he recalled his own father. Generous, kind. Teaching Marcus his figures before the fire, always patient, always with a kiss atop his head before sending him up to bed. Cleaning his spectacles with a small cloth before glancing up with a warm smile.
He suddenly felt as if his heart were ripped in two.
“My lord, if I may,” Miss Wolfenden piped up, breaking the spell of melancholy that had settled upon him and, seemingly, the rest of the room.
The baron grunted, then gestured for her to continue.
“I invited Mr. Hartley to dinner when I encountered him at the village green. He spoke of a desire to lead a more sporting life, but admitted he knew not where to start.” Her voice came out a little too strong, too forced to disguise the fabrication.
Miss Evelyn Wolfenden was anatrociousactress. Still, though, spinning falsehoods was apparently not beneath her. Not when she stood to benefit from it. A small smile settled upon Marcus’s lips.
“Is that so?”
The baron, apparently, did not pay enough attention to his daughter to detect when she might be lying. He turned to Marcus, regarding him in this new light.
“Absolutely,” Marcus said without hesitation. “Unfortunately, I fear the only physical activity I manage to undertake these days is, well, taking a turn about the grounds at the lodge.”
Something sparked in the old man’s eyes. He calmly set down his silverware, then gestured for the footman to refill his glass as well as Marcus’s. He leaned forward over the table, and when he spoke, his voice was deathly serious.
“Competitive walking, man. Have you heard of it?”
Now it was Marcus’s turn to lie. “No, I haven’t.” Thankfully, his feint was much more passable than Miss Wolfenden’s. “Not at all.”
The loud scraping of a chair interrupted the ruse, but only momentarily.
“I am retiring to my needlework,” Mrs. Wolfenden declared in a thin, airy voice. “I cannot endure another lecture about the superiority of pedestrianism as an athletic pursuit.” She turned to the footman. “Please ask Wright to fetch my basket.”
Miss Wolfenden stood as well, and made a curtsy toward Marcus.
Baron Methering, either so absorbed with what he planned to say or entirely uninterested in his own kin, did not so much as look down the table. Rather, he’d already begun explaining the basic rules of a walking contest.
Marcus watched Miss Wolfenden leave.
“Now, I’ve an article fromSporting Chroniclethat lays it all out neatly, if you wish…” the baron went on.
