Page 5 of Desperate Proposals
“Yes, Fennel?” Marcus’s voice sounded weary to his own ears.
“I thought you might like to review the menu for tonight.”
Marcus waved a hand backwards, using the other to wipe sweat from his brow. “I find myself incapable of forming an opinion at the moment.”
Fennel cleared his throat, a thick, off-putting sound. “Then there is the matter of your mother, sir.”
“What about her?” Marcus turned now, his brows lowered.
He’d brought his mother to live with him a couple years prior. She had previously resided with his cousin Harmonia, but once she had wed, there was no longer any need for his mother to function as her chaperone. But she had not settled in with him as easily as he’d hoped, and constantly butted heads with the staff. They’d since gone through several housekeepers, though Marcus secretly supposed their departures had less to do with his mother’s frivolous demands of them and more to do with her continuing war with his ancient butler who refused to be pensioned off. He couldn’t fault the housekeepers for not wanting to be caught in the middle. For Marcus was, and oh, how he loathed it.
“It’s the windows, sir. She thinks we ought to open them all in the evenings.”
Marcus opened his mouth, then shut it again before finally responding. “And you are not of the same opinion?”
“Goodness, no. Cold night air is poor for the constitution, sir.” The butler scoffed, shaking his head at the inanity of the question.
“Do you recall, Fennel, that today is the twenty-ninth of June?”
“June, sir?” Fennel’s cloudy eyes stared at something in the distance, so intently that Marcus turned about to see if there was anyone behind him. There wasn’t. “Ah, it shall be St. Swithun’s day in a fortnight. Then we shall see, sir, about the rain.”
Fennel nodded, as if to punctuate whatever point he was supposedly making, his white wig coming askew. Then he shuffled away, silent as a wraith.
Belatedly, Marcus wished he’d offered an opinion on dinner. For while he was sick of his mother’s constant entreaties for him to take a wife, he was even sicker of hearing her tirades against the cook.
With one last glance at the front door, he reached for his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He ought to speak with the housekeeper about the windows before dinner. That is, if he currently had one. He wasn’t entirely sure where that stood at the moment. Perhaps he ought to set his household to rights with the same fervor he brought to his radical politicking. The thought made him realize that, unfortunately, his mother was right, after a fashion—it was easier to leave these matters to a wife.
He hastened down the hall after his butler. “Fennel!” he called. “About dinner…”
Chapter Two
London, June 1873
“Miss Wolfenden,” Rowland sputtered,standing a step behind the threshold, as if he were too terrified to enter his own sitting room.
Ten years prior, Evelyn would have rolled her eyes at his timidity. Now she smiled sweetly, waiting for Mr. Rowland Hindmarsh to enter the room in his London house like a meek, biddable maid. And a lovely house it was, exuding an airy sense of comfort with high ceilings and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. With a roving, practical eye, Evelyn had decided it would suit her nicely.
At least, that was until she’d been ushered into this room.
Every wall in the sitting room was completely covered from floor to ceiling with small shelves. Upon each shelf a glass bottle sat on its side, and in each bottle was a highly detailed model of a ship. Warships, every one. Even the windows were flanked by shelves in the same fashion, with the same decoration.
And not just the shelves, but upon every other possible surface sat the same impossible bottles. Evelyn was relieved that the seating, at least, was free of such nonsense. Perhaps one ortwo might have been interesting pieces to observe and foster conversation. But an entire room full of them? And a sitting room, at that! How could one entertain visitors in a place resembling a naval-themed curiosity shop?
Evelyn focused on Rowland, her lips pulled back into a treacly smile. The ships were no matter; they would be banished as soon as she could see to it.
“It’s been… gad, how long has it been?” Rowland began fidgeting.
“Eleven years, I believe,” Evelyn said, curbing her rising impatience. The handsome footman holding the door had given her a sideways glance, then colored when she noticed. A sense of unease crept over her, but Evelyn ignored it. All would be well. It had to be.Aut constantia aut nihil, she reminded herself. Steadfastness or nothing.
“You look… well,” Rowland ventured, rocking back and forth on his feet, fingers still twiddling.
“As do you,” she responded, ignoring his lush velvet suit, distastefully long hair, and unfamiliar pencil-thin mustache.
Evelyn did not care for the effect; she’d correct all that soon enough as well. Rowland had always taken direction readily, eager to please.Much like a hound, Evelyn realized. It cheered her a bit.
“Shall we sit?” She looked to a rather fetching sofa upholstered in some sort of Turkish pattern.
“Oh, right, right. Why not?”
