Page 37 of Desperate Proposals
Suddenly she felt a slight disappointment that she’d decided upon the Methering chapel rather than the Knockton parish church. Never mind that that girl was off working in Wigan, but now she truly would never see Evelyn as a bride. Nor how she measured up alongside the memory of Selina.
Had this been a different kind of marriage, she might have had something new done up. But as it was, she wore her best coral silk and the gold and turquoise set her mother had gifted her upon her first season. She hadn’t worn all the pieces together since Mama had died—just the earrings on festive occasions. But Dutton had insisted, gushing over how well the color of the gown set the stones off.And besides, her maid had added,turquoise signifies true love, miss.Evelyn dismissed that as tosh. But she allowed that the set paired nicely with the dress.
And she ought to look as well as she could.
Suddenly Evelyn felt that odd, unsettled feeling low in her stomach. She would not move an inch, but she did allow her gaze to drift.
Mr. Hartley knelt alongside her. He was perfectly still as well. It was difficult to see him fully without turning her head, which Evelyn dared not do, but he seemed placid. So handsome he’d been, waiting for her there at the front of the aisle. For a moment she wished he were not, for it would make thismariage de raisonmuch easier.
She did not need to be stealing glances at her new husband like some besotted girl.
For Evelyn was not besotted, but relieved. When they had both spoken their vows, and Knockton’s vicar blessed them, the weight of worry had lifted from her. No longer was her future in peril, nor was Selina’s or Leonora’s. Here she prayed, offering her silent gratitude for that.
Soon all that was to be done was done, and the chapel organ kicked up. Though she could not see, she knew Wright sat before it, playing the hymn with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Bouquet in hand, Evelyn graciously took Mr. Hartley’s arm. It felt so firm. How strange. She’d been led into many a dinner by many different men. Why should her fingers on Mr. Hartley’s arm so inform her senses?
Without squinting she could barely read the expressions of those assembled, even as they walked past, for she trained her face forward, her chin up. The only attendees on Mr. Hartley’s side of the chapel appeared to be his mother, who was swiping embarrassingly at her eyes, and at the back, a wilted-looking man whom she assumed to be one of his servants. On her side, there was her father and Selina—both looking as if they wished to be anywhere else—plus several of her widow acquaintances and the entire town council, including Mr. Reed, whom they’d last seen at the musicale the day Mr. Hartley had offered her this arrangement.
They breezed through the main entrance, right into the library.
Mr. Hartley did not release her; instead, he placed his other hand upon hers.
“Was it as you wished?”
Evelyn nodded, avoiding his eyes. That prickling warmth was creeping across her shoulders.
“And the ring is satisfactory?”
She allowed her gaze to travel to her fourth finger, now adorned with a plain gold band. “All is well, I assure you.”
He released her from his arm, then grasped her free hand in his.
“Thank you.” He looked at her, guileless. His calm blue eyes imparted a feeling for which she had no name.
“Whatever for?” she murmured. Would their child inherit the warmth of his eyes? Or the chill of hers?
“For accepting me with such grace.” He sighed and looked down, idly caressing her wedding ring with his thumb. Her body responded with a startling heat. “For standing alongside me with such dignity. I can’t think of a better…”
He let the thought float away, engrossed in the sight of their clasped hands. “Your hands are so soft,” he said wonderingly.
Now she looked over her shoulder with anxiety. Soon the parish clerk would arrive. And then the guests would filter out, small in number but as ravenous for the promised hospitality as any wedding attendees ever were. She had no wish for them to see her like this, exchanging intimacies with her husband amongst the shelves, the mustiness of timeworn tomes hanging about them.
“Mr. Hartley,” Evelyn chided, her voice thick. She cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hartley?” He let go of her and smoothed the front of his morning jacket. In the buttonhole he wore another aster, matching the bouquet she carried. “Surely we can do away with such formalities,” he jested good-naturedly.
Evelyn set her face sternly. “Certainly we will not.” She was not about to adopt the customs of the middle class just because she’d married a solicitor. “If you’d a title, then perhaps I would dispense with thelord, but as it is you are still Mr. Hartley to me, and I, Mrs. Hartley to you.”
The shadow of a frown crossed his face. Evelyn straightened her back instinctively. But his apparent displeasure quickly melted away, and he merely shook his head.
“As you wish, Mrs. Hartley,” he said with a gently taunting affectation.
How exhausting this will be, Evelyn thought as she studied his wide shoulders and sturdy limbs, his playful expression. He seemed so painfullyfeeling; why, he set his back up at the smallest inducement, and would argue the toss over just about anything! How would she manage such a self-righteous and capricious spouse? How ought she respond to such teasing? She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Shewouldmanage. For although she was officially Evelyn Hartley now, she would always be a Wolfenden.
But there was no chance for her to respond just then, for the door opened and the parish clerk hastened in, a strained smile upon his face. In the work of a moment, he’d spread out the register on a long, dark table.
“Mrs. Hartley?” the clerk asked, extending a pen her way.
