Page 38 of Desperate Proposals
Evelyn spared a satisfied smile for Mr. Hartley—her way of sayingSee? This is the correct manner.She signed her new name, taking up as much space as was allocated, then laid down the pen and stepped back.
Mr. Hartley stepped into her place and took up the pen, then looked at the open page and immediately guffawed.
“Evelyn Anna Maria Blore Wolfenden Hartley?”
“What?” Evelyn said, feeling peevish now. “That is my name.”
“All of them? One, two, three—three first names, and three surnames?” Mr. Hartley chuckled as he signed his own name.
“Is that so strange?”
“Hmm, for you? Point well taken,” he said, casually tossing down the pen.
The clerk frowned and rushed forward to collect the tools of his trade.
Evelyn craned her neck and squinted, but she could not make out his signature. And as she refused to step forward and admit curiosity, her chance was lost, as the clerk snapped the massive tome shut.
No matter—steadfastness or nothing, she reminded herself.
Then Mr. Hartley offered his arm, and they moved on to the great hall.
The breakfast was a staid affair, more akin to a rote meeting of some stuffy society comprised of middle-aged and elderly members than a celebration. Indeed, there was little laughter, only gentle conversation that ebbed and flowed like the tide, interspersed with the clinks and clangs of flatware upon china. Evelyn couldn’t help but take detailed notice of the mounted stag heads, the heralds carved into the wooden panels, the tapestry depicting a hunt, the imposing marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. It was as if she were seeing them for the first, and possibly last, time.
But that was silly. Surely she would return. Her father was not upon death’s door, and she, with Wright’s aid, had for the time being managed to steer him away from the more dangerous pursuits he had previously taken an interest in, like the stilt-racing that was popular in Bordeaux.Thathad been a terrifying couple of months.
She clung to this hope as the meal went on.
They were seated separately from the guests, at a small table drawn up against the wooden screen to the vestibule. Itwould have offered an excellent opportunity for Evelyn to give voice to all the questions floating about her head, but she was unfortunately unable to focus long enough to catch one, for she and her new husband were interrupted by a continuous flow of well-wishers.
Between small sips of champagne, she recalled her worry about whether or not Mr. Hartley would expect her to entertain guests—aside from his mother—at Platt Lodge.Six or seven bedrooms at most, Selina had warned.
But before she could ask him about it, Mr. James Robert Reed of the town council strutted toward them, one hand tucked into his jacket. Affecting such a pose, and with such a look of confidence upon his face, he called to mind the old depictions of Napoleon. As he drew closer, Evelyn realized he suggested the emperor in more than just his carriage; why, if it were not for Mr. Reed’s massive side whiskers, the resemblance would be obvious.
“May I offer you all the happiest wishes in the world,” Mr. Reed said, bowing his head slightly to Evelyn before turning to her husband. “And Mr. Hartley,”—he shifted, his hands now gripping his lapels—“I do not wish to step upon the authority of my fellow council members, but allow me to extend congratulations to you, not just on behalf of myself, but on behalf of all of Knockton.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reed, and well said.”
Evelyn turned to look at her husband. His face was tighter than it had been up until now.
“Miss Wolf—well, Mrs. Hartley, now, I suppose, shall always have a home here, and shall always have the love of her district.” Mr. Reed smiled affably, adjusting his hold upon his jacket. “Quite a benison for you, Mr. Hartley, if I may say so.” He laughed.
“Of course,” Mr. Hartley responded in a cool tone. “My wife is many things; a daughter of Methering is but one of them.” Now he turned to face her, his expression fierce. “She also possesses admirable strength of character and sharpness of mind.”
A sudden light fluttering bloomed in her chest and head. It was nearly like that fateful afternoon, months ago, when she’d nearly fallen apart in Rowland’s ship-infested study before taking off running into the streets of London. But that had been an awful, confusing feeling.
And this… was awarmand confusing feeling.
Mr. Reed laughed again, then halted when Mr. Hartley did not join in. Indeed, her husband sat stock-still, his face as serious as she’d ever seen it.
Mr. Reed’s expression was now of another manner, turning a uniform, particularly unflattering shade of puce.
“Surely… sharpness of mind… but of course you’ve heard…” he sputtered, dancing around what Evelyn could only assume to be the circumstances of her brother’s life and death. Woolly Wolfenden.
“And I would be remiss if I did not mention her grace,” Mr. Hartley reached for her, his hand hovering over hers, as if asking for permission. When Evelyn did not respond, he gently settled his hand upon hers. “Or her beauty.”
The fluttering inside her burst into heat, one so intense she could feel it in her face. She hoped Mr. Reed—or anyone else—would not notice. She did not wish to be perceived as a silly, blushing bride.
“So you’re correct. Itisquite a boon to me, to gain such a wife.”
