Page 71 of Desperate Proposals
Mr. Hartley let her go, stepping back to offer a small bow.
“It isn’t what I wish that matters,” he finally responded.
His words filled the silence the orchestra had left behind, amplifying the sound in her ears and sending it reverberating in her head, her heart.
Evelyn nodded demurely.
“Shall we dance another, or…”
“No,” she said, already turning from the dance floor. “You’ve done your duty; I’ve no right to ask more of you.”
He reached out and caught her hand. She halted.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do,” he admonished, gently squeezing her. “You’ve more of a right to my time than anyone.”
His other hand came to rest upon her bare shoulder, electrifying her skin. Evelyn swallowed. She could not turn to face him, could not ask for this. With her mind reeling, her insurmountable pride took the reins.
“It’s quite alright.” She pivoted slightly, causing his hand to fall away. “I am certainly capable of amusing myself. Why, there’s a group of ladies within; certainly we shall find something to converse about. Perhaps they’ve some insight into tree parties.” She kept her tone light, even as the words tasted bitter.
Mr. Hartley frowned, following her gaze to one of the adjoining rooms whose doors had been flung open, waiting with long tables of refreshment and ample seating.
“Those old biddies?” he scoffed.
Evelyn responded with only a tilt of the head.
“Alright,” he sighed, releasing her hand with a gentle squeeze. “Go on, then. Discuss your goat willow. I’ll be at your side for supper.”
She walked off, resisting the urge to offer him a parting smile.
On her own now, she very quickly returned to herself. The gnawing uncertainty brought by the little voice that begged for Mr. Hartley’s affection and approval finally ceased. She made for the far corner of the room, where a clutch of elderly ladies were collapsed into armchairs and upon couches, either fanning themselves furiously or merely sighing.
She gave them a considerate nod before taking her seat in an empty chair.
After a brief interlude in which an alert footman brought her a glass of punch, she was finally offered an entrée into the ladies’ conversation.
“Goodness, they’re already playingreels?” a large woman with a pleasant face and three ropes of pearls around her neck said. “This early on?”
“And with such aged guests,” another woman chuckled, her voice reedy. She was seated close to Evelyn, and gestured to her with a folded fan. “Why, you ought to dance, you’re vivacious and hale! Unlike most of us in attendance.”
“Mrs. Ferguson!” The larger woman gasped in mock offense. “I shall have you know my physician informed me I possess the strength and constitution of a milkmaid!”
The thusly named Mrs. Ferguson laughed. “And the virtue as well, are we to assume? Codswallop!” She leaned toward Evelyn, pretending to whisper behind her fan, “Oh, the tales I could tell you of this one, miss. But then again, they’re not suitable for maidenly ears.”
At this, Evelyn glanced uneasily at the larger woman, but relaxed when she, too, laughed heartily along with her high-pitched friend.
“You are mistaken, ma’am,” Evelyn said with a gentle smile, “I’m no maiden. I am recently wed.”
“Ahh!” the ladies exclaimed in unison, glancing at one another conspiratorially.
“Forgive our poor manners. I am Mrs. Charlton, and this harpy is Mrs. Ferguson.” Mrs. Charlton rustled about her gown and produced a dainty lorgnette of mother-of-pearl, which she used to peer more closely at Evelyn. “Ah, a lovely young thing you are.” She lowered the lorgnette to look at Mrs. Ferguson. “Who do we think—Flinders? MP for Ravensrod?”
Evelyn blinked, not following.
“I should think not,” Mrs. Ferguson pulled a face. “He is ancient! And has horrid breath besides. Far too loathsome for such a refined young lady, so neatly turned out.” She tutted, then reached across the arm of her chair to pat Evelyn’s wrist.
“Oh! Perhaps Hipworth, then. I’ve heard rumblings that he was on the prowl for a freshly scrubbed girl.”
“Ah yes, after that sad business with his first wife.” Mrs. Ferguson looked at Evelyn and explained, “Died in childbirth, poor thing. Of course you’d be aware of that, though. Drat. Not Hipworth, then?”
