Page 6 of Desperate Proposals
Rowland laughed uncomfortably before making his way to the seat farthest from her, though still close enough to make conversation. The footman finally shut the door, leaving the two of them alone. Rowland stared at her, wide-eyed and wary as a cornered doe.
“And how have you been getting on in London?” Evelyn ventured.
“Er… well, very well. I enjoy my club. My home is adequate, as you can see.” He motioned to their surroundings. Pauses between his statements hung in the air as he cast about for scraps of acceptable subject matter. He ran a hand over his hair and looked about the room. “My hobby; I spend most days putting ships into bottles, as you can see.” His eyes flickered to life and his words came faster. “Only just now I was adding color to the putty I use for the sea, you see. I’ve nearly finished fashioning a scale model of the HMSIapyx, the central battery ironclad that Sir Colin Gearing—”
“Really? How interesting,” Evelyn interrupted in a voice that suggested she was not interested in the least.
The concept of displaying models of warships seemed tacky and vulgar to her. Especially in such number! Why, there must’ve been nearly a hundred, by her estimation. Perhaps she could convince him to move them to his study—or, even better, the attic.
Rowland looked down, his hands fidgeting in his lap.
They sat in silence, the discomfort in the room expanding exponentially as the seconds ticked by.
Finally, Evelyn could bear it no more.
“I must apologize for the late hour, but you see, it takes ever so long to make the journey to London. I never realized. I ought to have written you ahead of my visit, but I daresay I was single-mindedly focused on my overall purpose, rather than the logistical details.” She recalled then that perhaps Wright had warned her about the hour of her arrival, but she was not certain. For all his usefulness, Wright could be an awful bore.
“You… you’ve arrived… just now? All the way from Knockton?” Rowland’s head swiveled to the large walnut longcase clock alongside the door. He turned back to her, alarmed. “But surely… is Methering not with you?”
Evelyn chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. I am perfectly capable of finding my own way, without my father.”
She simply hadn’t seen the need. All she’d needed to do was make it to London, following Wright’s instructions, then hail a hansom cab and give the driver Mr. Rowland Hindmarsh’s address. From there they would hammer out the terms of their marriage, and he’d put her up in one of his bedrooms for the evening. Then he would escort her home to Knockton the following day, with everything neatly taken care of.
It would be quite scandalous, of course, but they’d be engaged. Tongues might wag, but what damage could they do? Rowland was the third son of a viscount and Evelyn the spinster daughter of a rural baron. Who would truly care? Besides, Evelyn had no worry that he might take any liberties, for that had never been Rowland’s way, even in their first blush of youth. Why, he’d never attempted anything more than a chaste holding of hands.
“No maid, either?” Rowland stammered.
“As I said, I had no need.” Evelyn frowned, thinking of Dutton fretting about the city’s crowds and smells, frightened by the prospect of going but too proud to tell her mistress. “Rowland? You’re looking a little peaked. Shall I ring for tea?” Evelyn glanced about the room for a bell pull; she ought to become familiar with her future home.
“No! No, please. I’m quite fine.” He bit his lower lip for a moment, before heaving a massive sigh. “I am just… concerned.”
Oh dear. He washurt, wasn’t he, after all these years? Was that the reason for the awkwardness that permeated the room? She ought to apologize, she supposed. She pressed her lips together, wondering how best to go about that.
Before she could begin, though, Rowland spoke again.
“I heard about your brother. Please accept my deepest sympathies. Woolly—” He cut himself off, swallowing Edmund’sridiculous nickname before he could finish it. “He was a real brick.”
Instead of acknowledging his condolences, Evelyn closed her eyes and charged forth with her own. “Never mind all that. Before we get on, Rowland, you must know how sorryIam.”
He furrowed his brow at the redirection, so Evelyn expounded. “For rejecting you.”
“Ah,” Rowland said, dragging out the word in a rather musical way.
She could mark the exact moment of his relief, when his shoulders relaxed along with his countenance.
“Why, that was ages ago. Pray you pay it no mind. I certainly have not thought of it for many years. You may consider yourself forgiven.” Rowland chuckled, at ease now, and he leaned back into the couch, both arms extended along its back. He laughed once more, as if he couldn’t believe this turn of events.
“Well, I’m glad it did not permanently wound your heart,” she said tartly.
“Oh, Evelyn, it’s not anything to do with you, you’re—you’ve always been quite lovely. Only that you yourself told me you never intended to marry. You said you were quite content to live out your days at Methering Manor.”
She had been. Until her foolish brother—utterly deserving of his cruel nickname, Woolly Wolfenden—choked to death on a billiard ball following a drunken bet.
Now, with no male heir to her father in sight, she found her days at Methering Manor precariously numbered, especially with the baron determined to take up every inane activity he found covered in the pages ofSporting Life. Evelyn might not be cunning and sophisticated, but she knew that whatever distant cousin the mantle of Baron Methering would fall to next would not look kindly upon housing a spinster, a widow, and a little girl.
Something ached deep in her chest at the thought. Evelyn did her best to ignore it.
“Well. Never mind that as well. People change, as do their circumstances.” She sniffed. “Why, you’ve never married yourself. And now you’re surely of an age.” She raised her voice slightly at her final words, leading up to the question she’d made this terrible journey to ask.
