Page 73 of Desperate Proposals
“Or,” Mrs. Charlton piped up again, “have you a cause of your own to advance?”
“Suffrage for women,” Mrs. Ferguson said,sotto voce.
Evelyn reared back. “I should think not,” she breathed.
The two elder ladies chuckled at that.
“Spend a good decade listening to that lot bicker and pitch fits like spoiled little gits, and I wonder if you’ll change your tune,” Mrs. Charlton said with a wink.
“Or perhaps you intend to advance our Mr. Hartley’s current pet issue,” Mrs. Ferguson offered eagerly.
They both paused expectantly, but Evelyn did not know of what they spoke. Her uneasiness grew as the silence stretched on.
“And that is?” she said, praying it did not sound as pathetic as she thought it must.
The women exchanged a look that Evelyn did not care for.
“Unwed mothers,” Mrs. Ferguson explained, her voice bordering on shrill.
“Were you not aware?” Mrs. Charlton offered gently.
Evelyn lifted her punch and took a long sip, hoping it would calm her nerves. But even as the rum warmed her body, all she could think of was her own voice, rising with indignity as she indicted Mr. Hartley the night she’d turned up on his doorstep.Anyone with a scrap of decency wouldn’t speak of such… things.
“I am well aware, thank you,” she finally said, her words cool as she stared at the remains of her punch. She could smell the spice.
Mrs. Ferguson raised a brow. “And you do not share this concern?”
Evelyn’s heart pounded in her chest. Echoes of her father, railing about criminals and wanton women, rang in her head. That was followed by the image of Mr. Hartley, charging her with being heartless. And then his hand upon hers, squeezing it gently.
Her heart continued to thud, and her body felt overheated. The sounds of the ball seemed to be rising to an overpowering volume, music and laughter blaring in her ears.
“I… I am not sure,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
It pained her, confessing such ambivalence. But soon her heartbeat slowed and the heat dissipated. When she looked up, the two elder ladies regarded her with such gentleness as to alleviate Evelyn’s worry.
Somehow, in admitting her ignorance, she felt more at ease than she could remember being these past months.
She gave a small smile of relief, and lifted the punch to her lips once more.
Marcus was in a sour mood.
It wasn’t just because he’d endured toast after toast to the newly minted baronet, Sir Philip Towle, though that certainly hadn’t helped.
It was that Evelyn would keep him at arm’s length. Still she maintained that chilly aloofness. Even when he was making an effort, damn it. She’d even rebuffed his offer of a second dance.
And Marcus Hartley didn’t dance as a rule.
Removing his hands from his pockets, he crossed his arms as he paced before a handsome fireplace. The gathering had moved to an upstairs apartment where Sir Philip was presiding over an informal caucus of some of the more progressive members of the government, but for once Marcus found himself without an opinion to offer, so mired in self-pity was he.
If only he’d a blasted title of his own, then perhaps she’d pay him court outside the bedroom. And then he’d even—
“Hartley! You’ve been unusually quiet. What say you?” MP Arthur McCrea, an even-tempered northerner, called out.
“Don’t be fooled, gentlemen. Hartley’s merely outlining the jeremiad he’ll be penning later tonight, no doubt,” jibed MP Hughes, a hardened veteran with harsh features.
“Which he’ll expect us to read in full and offer a nuanced account of by the following day,” MP Ferguson added before erupting into peals of drunken laughter.
Marcus would take offense, except that Ferguson was a well-known quockerwodger, whose wife pulled his strings. And cutting down puppets was of no interest to him at the moment.
