Page 59 of Desperate Proposals
Once Mr. Reed had finally stalked out, Marcus lowered himself back into his chair, giving his anger time to dissipate. By god, what had overcome him? He’d lost his temper and made an enemy out of a town council member, and for what?
Because oftender feelingsfor his wife?
Marcus groaned and collapsed forward, head in hands.
James Robert Reed would oppose him in the next election. And now he would be out for blood, all because Marcus could not tolerate his slander of Evelyn.
Especially because it just wasn’t true. There was nothing plain about her—her face was lovely, her eyes delightful. And when she flushed, why, there was nothing and no one prettier. And her body, her softness, hiding such strength of will. She was aperfectly adequate wife. The image of her from several days ago, in that dark blue dress, came to mind. How she’d sat primly in this study, in the same spot where he’d kissed her today. Where she’d melted for him.
It made him feel strangely proud, the fact that his wife desired him. Even if physical attraction was all it was. Marcus released a long sigh.
He pushed back from the desk, his gaze falling upon the stack of letters and documents that demanded his attention. With another steadying sigh, he sat back down and reached for them. He needed to address all his constituent correspondence before he and Evelyn left for Towle’s ridiculous party-thing in Birmingham. For there would be little time after that before he’d have to return to London for a fortnight or so; he needed to make sure all was well with the house and Fennel, as well as oversee his charitable business. He’d left Dr. Collier to dole out the money in his stead, and though he’d no doubt about the doctor’s ability and soundness of mind, the man was a bit softhearted; there was no telling whether or not dubious individuals might play upon his good nature. It would be best to check in.
Evelyn, no doubt, would remain behind. She’d all but said so, and Marcus had vowed to respect her wishes.
He felt a twinge of disappointment at that. Perhaps there was a chance she might opt to accompany him? The flicker of hope that accompanied the thought startled him so much that he quickly shoved the subject aside and got to work.
Hours later he’d sorted everything neatly in his mind. Dinner passed without event, with Evelyn regarding him aloofly as usual, and Mrs. Wolfenden present in body but not mind—also as usual. This allowed his mother to commandeer the conversation, and she regaled the other ladies with the epic tale of her quest for a portrait of Walter and the myriad obstacles she’d encountered along the way. Marcus offered littlecommentary of his own, for he quite enjoyed hearing about the vicious pickpocket who’d assaulted Walter’s portraitist and stolen the completed canvas just when it had been so nearly in hand.
He reveled in his imagined bathos of the thief as they unfurled the portrait, only to find Walter’s daffy visage, tongue lolling, dressed in ruffles and sky-blue satin. Utterly worthless. The only person willing to pay good money—or any money—forthatwas sitting here at his table.
After dinner he finished the last of his work, then, in high spirits and still assured that he’d everything sorted, he made his way to Evelyn’s chamber. At least this evening Walter had not absconded, and he’d had enough time to bathe and for Bray to help him into his nightclothes. His hair was still wet and slicked back, but he doubted Evelyn would mind. She’d all but admitted that she found him handsome.
Still smiling at that thought, he knocked and entered.
“Oh. You’re here,” Evelyn said from her spot before the vanity, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I didn’t expect you so early.”
Her lady’s maid, an older woman, was still tending to her, hairbrush in hand. Marcus cast about for her name, relieved when he finally recalled it.
“Dutton,” he acknowledged, striding toward them, “we’re quite alright here—you can turn in.”
“But ma’am, your hair.” The maid looked to Evelyn, unsure.
A pretty blush settled upon Evelyn’s cheeks, and she found his eyes in the mirror again. “It shall only be a few more minutes—” she began.
“Not to worry,” he interrupted, holding out a hand to Dutton. “If I may?”
The maid studied him in disbelief, but finally handed over the brush, a fine, heavy-handled silver thing with horsehair bristles. Marcus nodded his thanks. A knowing smile teased at Dutton’slips, which she barely concealed as she bobbed a curtsy and beat a hasty retreat.
When the door shut, he reached forward, gently taking a lock of hair in hand. It smelled clean, a floral scent hanging about it. He resisted the urge to bring it up to his face, and instead let it slide through his fingers before taking the brush to it, ever so gently. Its light brown color seemed so varied up close in the lamplight, highlighted with glints of silvery ash. He purposely avoided Evelyn’s gaze in the mirror, wanting to do this properly, with care.
As she deserved.
He paused. Now, why had he thought that? Marcus glanced at the mirror. She was watching him, her eyes wide. Quickly he looked back to the brush in his hand, and set to his task again.
Once, a bitter envy against people like her and her family had festered within him. Once, he’d never have believed he’d one day marry someone whose family was listed in Debrett’s. Oh, he’d checked, to be sure. But just as easily as he’d slapped the book shut upon finishing the Wolfenden entry, he pushed aside the question of what Evelyn deserved. And why.
The atmosphere of the room felt delicate, and Marcus allowed himself to become engrossed in his task, reveling in the sound of the brush pulling through her locks, the feel of the smooth strands slipping between his fingers.
“Have you made a habit of tending to ladies’ hair, then?” Evelyn finally broke the silence, her voice low.
He paused the brushing and looked up. In the reflection her eyes were closed, her lips gently pursed. His body warmed at the sight.
“Not really, no,” he responded, then started up again.
“Then am I to trust you? Or should I call Dutton back?”
“I can execute a decent enough plait,” he scoffed, gently gathering her locks into one hand, eager to prove his point. “I did grow up with a female cousin. We were close.”
