Page 34 of Desperate Proposals
The front door heaved open with a violent groan. Evelyn wondered if she would miss it one day.
“To be sure, I am simple-minded, and I would appreciate—”
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She nearly stepped away, still unused to such gestures. But she managed to stand firm, tilting her face up to his. They were engaged now, after all.
“Simple-minded? When you so cleverly primed your father—though, I admit, the execution could be improved upon—but when you set the stage so wonderfully for my success? Ha, no.” He smiled, startling Evelyn with the warmth of the expression. “There may be plenty of things I would do in the name of furthering my cause, as I have come to learn about myself. But I would never marry a fool, Miss Wolfenden.”
Evelyn marked the groom’s presence, waiting for Mr. Hartley near the door. She felt incredibly exposed, being extolled so publicly.
“But—”
“Ah, not another word.” He released her, then watched her face, as if he meant to say something more. If he did, he decided against it. Instead he backed away, and offered her a nod.
“Until next time.”
“Goodnight,” she said.
It took her far longer than usual to fall asleep.
Chapter Nine
Against his better judgment,Marcus had written his mother.
He’d considered waiting until after it was all over to spring the whole slapdash arrangement on her, but his pesky heart could not fathom doing such a thing. Even so, the thought of every Sedley descending upon him ahead of the wedding did not sit well with him. While he tried to tell himself that their presence would interfere with the myriad preparations that needed to be made in haste, deep down he knew: He did not wish to endure the same treatment from the likes of his uncle Ajax or his cousin Harmonia that he himself had visited upon them in the days leading up to their respective nuptials.
Namely, suspicion and censure. And questions. By god, the questions. He could be a nosy bastard, that was the truth.
No, he did not care to have to defend himself on the matter; the decision was made, and he’d have a Wolfenden in his back pocket come the next election.
Of course, he could’ve written his friends. Dr. Collier. MP Towle. But they’d hear soon enough, wouldn’t they? And Marcushad work to do, besides. He wanted everything settled as quickly as possible.
So he’d requested only the presence of his mother, and no one else. And now he would have to tell her why.
That was a task he was actually looking forward to.
A whistle alerted everyone to the approach of an engine, followed by the toll of the bell. People shuffled back from the track, with some anxiously lifting their baggage from the ground only to set it back down again as the locomotive took its time, its gentle progress at odds with its pounding clamor and deafening roar. A child jogged alongside it, one hand holding his cap to his head.
The sight recalled the strange conversation he’d had with Baron Methering on the subject of competitive walking, the apex of sport. Or so the baron held.Everyone walks, you see. So it follows that there is no greater skill than that of pedestrianism. Marcus hadn’t followed that logic, exactly, but he’d nodded along earnestly all the same. It’d been nearly too easy, how he’d cozened the baron’s approval.
And Miss Wolfenden had set it all up for him. All while sitting there stoically, her back rigid, her speech unassuming.
And squinting down the prodigious length of the table.
Marcus had wondered at that. He ought to ask Dr. Collier about it. To be sure, the distance between them had been so great as to be comical, but he’d had no difficulties making out her face from the other end.
It was a face he’d spent more time considering over these past days than he’d expected to. Perhaps his mind was just trying to normalize the entire arrangement, and get him used to the idea of her.
After all, they’d be together for some time.
And it was a fine face, he’d decided.
“Marcus!” he heard his mother’s exasperated voice call out. “Marcus, can you not see me?”
Sure enough, there she stood, alongside a massive trunk and a carpetbag on the other side of the platform. She was waving frantically with one arm while she clutched at her scraggly black and white spaniel, Walter, with the other.
He gestured for his groom to follow him as he went to meet her.
“Mama,” he said, in as soothing a voice as he could manage, stooping to give her a peck on her proffered cheek. “Walter,” he nodded perfunctorily at the dog. Walter regarded him blankly, panting all the while. “I trust the journey was not difficult?”
