Page 72 of Desperate Proposals
Then Evelyn realized—they were trying to work out who her husband was.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said, attempting to steer the focus away from herself, “what boroughs do your husbands stand for?”
“How remiss of me! Mrs. Charlton’s husband has represented Ledbury for ages,” Mrs. Ferguson grinned and nodded to her friend in the pearls before adding, “And mine’s borough is a bitof Cottonopolis, naturally, if you couldn’t mark the accent.” She winked.
Manchester, of course. Evelyn knew there had to be a reason why she had instantly warmed to the woman despite her overly friendly manner. Why, they were practically neighbors.
“And don’t think we’ve forgotten you, young lady,” Mrs. Charlton held a finger accusingly toward Evelyn. “Which of these sorry cakes belongs to you?”
“I’m Mrs. Hartley,” Evelyn said with a gentle nod. “My husband is Mr. Marcus Hartley.”
The two older women stared at her, their expressions blank.Oh dear. Her heart sunk; this certainly didn’t bode well for him.
“Of Knockton,” she added brightly. “In Lancashire.”
The two women looked once more at one another.
“Of course!” Mrs. Ferguson suddenly said.
“The lad!” Mrs. Charlton added with a chortle. “He usually brings his mother to these sorts of things—such a kind woman she is.”
“Lovely lady,” Mrs. Ferguson agreed.
They both turned to study Evelyn, with a move that was practically synchronized.
“The lad?” Evelyn asked. Mr. Hartley was two years older than her.
“Well, let’s have a look at you, then!” Mrs. Charlton lifted her lorgnette again and leaned forward.
“Never supposed him the marrying type,” Mrs. Ferguson mused, studying Evelyn with equal intensity.
“Really? With that brooding face and that voice?” Mrs. Charlton looked at her friend over her lenses. “I could listen to the man read each and every volume of Livy,” she added saucily.
Evelyn hadn’t even realized that she agreed until the elder woman spoke the words. She felt the back of her neck heat in embarrassment, and she gripped her glass of punch tighter.
“The history of Rome, indeed, would be a considerable improvement over his usual conversation,” joked Mrs. Ferguson, with a small smile for Evelyn.
“How do you mean?” Evelyn asked, with an edge of hauteur.
“Oh, aren’t you a sweet, naïve thing?” Mrs. Ferguson tutted gently. “Do not get your hackles up, for I mean no offense. Only Mr. Hartley is not often in a mood to match that of these gatherings.”
“Too high-minded,” Mrs. Charlton sighed in agreement. “Not enough merriment.”
“There’s no bit of fun he won’t douse with his screeds,” Mrs. Ferguson said with a shake of her head, before she sighed as well. “Ah, but that’s youth, isn’t it? Always in a hurry to get somewhere, without even knowing the destination.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Never mind all that, darling,” Mrs. Charlton said, flapping her hand. “How areyougetting on?”
“Yes, have you a thought as to how you’ll incorporate yourself into the lifestyle?” Mrs. Ferguson pressed.
“The lifestyle?” Evelyn’s voice sounded airy to her own ears.
“Do you envision yourself a grand hostess, in the vein of the great Viscountess Palmerston?”
“Or perhaps you’re more inclined to constituency work. Making visits, setting up schools, hmm?”
Evelyn looked between the two, her mind racing. “Perhaps the second—”
