Page 31 of Desperate Proposals
Marcus hadn’t anticipated feeling anything for his future wife, aside from a nascent admiration for her spirit. Yet here he was, awash with sympathy. Sympathy for a baron’s daughter.
As the baron continued on, Marcus absentmindedly adjusted the aster on his lapel.
It terrified her, leaving something as important as this in someone else’s hands.
But in this instance, there was naught Evelyn could do. Mr. Hartley would have to manage this aspect of the proposal on his own. Thankfully, the idea to grease the baron’s palms by turning the conversation onto sport—at least, her father’s idea of sport—had come to her in a flash of inspiration. Evelyn wasn’taccustomed to having such deceptive thoughts, or exercising attempts at cunning.
It seemed the poorer aspects of Mr. Hartley’s character were already rubbing off on her.
She flushed, then dropped her eyes to the novel in her lap, in which she’d read the same sentence countless times, for the words would not register with her. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the mantelpiece; she could just about make out the hands. Her father and Mr. Hartley had remained after dinner for nearly two hours. Surely the subject of their engagement had been broached by now?
“What is it?” Selina asked, her voice flat. She stabbed at her embroidery at a steady clip, never looking up from her work.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “What do you mean?”
“You’re silent. More so than usual.”
“Am I?” Evelyn looked back to the mantelpiece without thinking.
“And you keep staring at that dreadful clock as if you were waiting for something to happen.”
“What?” Evelyn quickly looked back to Selina, whose gaze was still steadily focused on her embroidery. “How did you even—”
“Come now. I’m not that foolish. You spent nearly the entire front half of the musicale out on the green, speaking with that horrid man. You invited him to dinner.” Now she looked up, then proceeded with a slyness in her voice that Evelyn had never heard before. “Lost your heart? Finally?”
“What?” Evelyn forced a baffled scoff. “You must be joking. I invited Mr. Hartley—”
“Do not play coy. It is not like you at all. Why, your little trick with his lordship at dinner…” Selina set her needlework down in her lap and focused all of her attention on her sister-in-law. “Evelyn, it was appallingly bad.Appallingly.”
Evelyn swallowed. Needing something to occupy her nervous energy, she shut the book in her lap and stood up.
She could never recall Selina speaking so candidly with her. When Edmund was alive, Selina had only had eyes for him, and directed all her conversation accordingly. Then after she was widowed, she adopted the familial language of morose silence, and spent her time haunting the rooms of the manor, not fully there. The only hint of emotion she ever expressed was a pinched face of exasperation when Leonora threw a fit, or a bout of sobbing hidden behind the closed door of her bedroom.
“Something has shifted in your nature this summer. Do not think I haven’t noticed. Why, whatever happened to Mr. Thirwell? After all your walks together, I had assumed—”
“Absolutely not. He would have me live in Norfolk, I think. And that I could not bear.” Evelyn was pacing now, clasping her book against her.
“So what is it about Mr. Hartley, then? I confess he is of considerable stature, and possesses a handsome enough face. Do you fancy something a bit… rougher?” Selina reflected on this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that must explain it.”
“Rougher? Mr. Hartley?” Evelyn felt a spark of irritation in her chest. Her fingers tightened around her book. “It is true his manners are…”
“Lacking,” Selina finished for her.
“But he is our—” Evelyn halted, then corrected herself. “He isKnockton’srepresentation in Parliament. Surely that makes one worthy enough, regardless of the state of one’s manners.”
When Selina did not answer right away, Evelyn turned about to find her deep in thought. Finally she raised her gaze.
“Edmund always said you would never marry, and I believed him. You did not seem the type. You lack an interest in all feminine pursuits.”
Evelyn was taken aback. Selina had emerged from her torpor to speak so freely, all because of one small taradiddle told over dinner?
“You’ve no mind for beauty, no desire for romance,” Selina went on, a placid look on her pretty face. “You’ve a solitary nature. Your only companions are old maids and widows, whose hobbies and interests you share as well. All this nonsense about greenhouses and family histories!”
“You yourself are a widow, dear sister,” Evelyn attempted.
She hoped Selina hadn’t noticed when Mrs. Henham had called on her earlier in the week. They’d discussed possible remedies for rheumatism, along with ideas on how to celebrate the monumental goat willow upon Knockton Green. Next year would be its quadricentennial, and the town council supposed it to be the oldest in the country.
Selina frowned. “Yes, but I enjoy youthful things! Fashion. Dancing. And you’ve never warmed to me.” She paused. “Even as I’ve been so kind to you.”
