Page 69 of Desperate Proposals
He did not know. He’d never breathed a word to anyone of the jealousy and anger he harbored toward his aristocratic classmates—those who would tumble into class soused, pay some poor underclassman to write their papers, and spend their evenings terrorizing the townies. And what would they receive in return? Better marks and outsized influence, the likes of which Marcus could never hope to achieve.
He would rather have died than have his father know of his shameful bitterness. But that would prove unnecessary, for it was his father who would perish instead, slipping away following a brief illness one day while Marcus was away at school.
Suddenly a gloved hand upon his knee returned him to the present.
“Are you quite alright?”
Evelyn was looking at him, her face solemn. When his eyes fell back to her hand upon him, she retreated, curling her fingers into a gentle fist.
Was she concerned for him? He felt a wave of emotion, but he shook his head, and forced his lips into a vague smile.
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
She glanced out the window, taking in the dancing lights adorning the house. The carriage line still stretched out before them, though they’d already been waiting for some time.
“Are your colleagues aware that you’ve… married?”
“They will be soon enough,” he chuckled.
She looked back to him, her lashes fluttering with uncertainty.
“Truly? Evelyn, you are the least of my worries at the moment.”
She flinched ever so slightly at that.
He sighed. “Have no fear, I promise not to humiliate you with affection,Mrs. Hartley,” Marcus said, reaching for her hand.
She allowed him to take it, allowed him to squeeze it, then carefully withdrew, curling her hand into a fist once more. She then slowly unfurled it against her chest and looked down, as if searching for any speck of dirt he might’ve left upon the pristine white of her gloves. But her lips pursed, and Marcus wondered if he’d misinterpreted her meaning.
Before he could ask, she spoke, her voice full of resolve.
“Please, allow me to press you once more: What ought my opinions be to support you? To further your proposals, your causes. I feel poorly prepared for such company.”
They rolled forward a few more carriage lengths, then jerked to a stop. Marcus frowned.
“I would not have you wheedling and inveigling yourself on my behalf,” he said sharply. It was bad enough that he must play these games himself.
“But if pressed—” she began, her voice rising.
“Then respond however your convictions instruct you,” he said, cutting off her plea. He paused before continuing in a gentler tone. “I beg you, do not compromise your nature to please me.”
“I had no such plans,” she sniffed, looking away. “I only wish to do what I might to bolster your prospects. Is that not why you wed me? And as you have certainly upheld your side of the agreement, I intend to uphold mine as well.”
“In Knockton. Uphold it in Knockton, where my name will be on the ballot. Do your charity and your tree parties.”
“It is a monumental tree, Mr. Hartley. And it is its quadricentennial commemoration. Not just some little party.”
“Well, at any rate, that’s all I ask for,” he said, sitting back.
He hadn’t meant to be glib, not with their disagreement from yesterday still lingering. But the thought of compelling his proud, honorable Evelyn to lie through her teeth to please a crowd of strangers… it was beyond the pale. He wouldn’t have it.
“But it’s not all that you need,” she said, making a show of tugging one long glove. “How much money have you given away to women who come begging at your door?”
Anger licked at his chest. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Is it not?” she said as she tilted her head, those wide, bright eyes staring innocently at him. “Are you not my husband? Ought I not be concerned for your reputation?”
“Ah, I see you’ve been speaking with my mother,” he growled.
