Desperate Proposals: A Steamy Victorian Marriage of Convenience Romance (The Sedleys Book 4)

Chapter One

Blackburn, Lancashire, June 1873

Evelyn cast a sideways glance at the young woman sobbing on the train platform. She was a slip of a girl, her face slick with rivers of tears, her tiny hands clutching pathetically at a soggy handkerchief that was no longer of any use.

And the keening, goodness, the keening. Evelyn tried to maintain a neutral expression. Mercifully, it soon began tapering off, drawing closer to a natural conclusion of heaves and sniffles.

Looking away, Evelyn pretended to focus on the station’s giant clock, though she wouldn’t have been interested in what it read even if she could make out the position of the hands at this distance. She didn’t need to know, for Wright had delivered her to the railway station, purchased her ticket, thrust it into her hands, and told her to board the next arrival. Wright was always such a hand at these things. Strange things like rail travel. Evelyn couldn’t remember how they’d gotten on back before he was with them.

She’d only been to London once, as a girl, and it had been enough excitement to last her until now, her thirty-first year. Wright had been so worried upon their arrival at the station that he’d begged once more to accompany her, or at least remain on the platform to see her situated on board. But Evelyn had shooed him away. This was something she ought to accomplish on her own, without her family’s butler as a chaperone.

A sharp, guttural wail cut through her thoughts, signifying a new spell of sobbing.

Evelyn shook her head, tutting.

Even though she should sympathize with the girl, with her own spirits having been rather low these six months past, she could not fathom what misfortune might compel one to put on such a maudlin—and worse, public—display. Why, when Wright had informed the family of her brother Edmund’s passing last winter, she’d certainly felt wretched, but to lower herself to sobbing? Actual sobbing? A Wolfenden would never.

When the poor soul honked again into her crumpled rag of a handkerchief, Evelyn could bear it no longer, and went over to her.

“Please,” she said, extending her own crisply folded square of white linen in the girl’s direction, all the while keeping her eyes toward the tracks before them. “Do take mine. I think yours is rather done in.”

Evelyn felt the handkerchief yanked away. She kept her gaze politely averted as the girl scrambled to compose herself amid a flurry of sniffs and hiccups.

“Thank you,” came a sputtering voice, high and timid. “I don’t mean to make such a fuss, and oh, I’m sure I look a fright!”

“Well, now,” Evelyn said, venturing a glance to gauge the girl’s recovery, “you’ll be set to rights soon enough.”

The girl blinked, two final tears rolling down her cheeks as she stared at Evelyn, wide-eyed as if waiting for her to say something more. The thought of continuing the exchange held little appeal, to put it mildly, so Evelyn looked away again, concerning herself with the very boring brick wall on the other side of the tracks.

A hesitant tap on her shoulder interrupted her count of the bricks. She turned to find herself face to face with her now soiled handkerchief.

“Thank you ever so much, miss.”

“Oh, er, you keep it.”

“It’s just I’m missing my lad, is all,” the girl continued, pulling her hand back as she clenched the square of fabric for dear life. She babbled on, barely stopping for a breath. “I’m to Wigan for work and he’s staying here, and I can’t help but feel it’s a terrible thing, our separation. Especially since he’d been talking about marriage and all. Perhaps I ought’ve stayed, but the pay is too dear and… oh, I don’t know!”

Egad, is this what passed for small talk in the world these days? Evelyn did not think herself a total na?f; she did leave Methering Manor at least once a year to spend August with the Goodens in Yorkshire, after all. But she found herself perplexed by this girl’s rough manners and easy familiarity. So she looked to the brick wall once more. Hopefully that would send the intended message.

“Oh, begging your pardon, miss, I didn’t mean to go on,” the girl’s voice hitched.

Evelyn did not wish to endure a third round of the Wigan-bound girl’s lamentations, but she turned back toward her anyway. But what ought she say? She did not know.

Head lowered, the girl wiped at her nose with Evelyn’s former handkerchief, sniffing as she twisted the cloth over in her hands. A small hat sat atop her head, almost like a sailor’s cap but generously trimmed with grosgrain ribbon.

“E.W.,” the girl said slowly, thumbing the embroidered initials on the handkerchief. “That’s pretty, isn’t it? E.W.”

Were trains often this late? And so early in the morning, as well! Evelyn looked back to the giant clock and squinted. It seemed to be half past…

“What’s it for, if you don’t mind my asking? The E.W.?”

Oh, but she did mind. Evelyn could not imagine a greater argument in favor of the cautionary nature and homebody tendencies that had been ingrained in her since birth than her experience so far today. And she hadn’t even boarded the train yet. She ought not have ventured out like this, alone, even if it was to save her family. She turned once more to the girl, her face expressionless save for one raised eyebrow.

“Wolfenden. Evelyn Wolfenden.”

The girl gasped, giving Evelyn a start. She stepped back.

“Oh! But I’m from Knockton! My whole family, going back ages! Even my great-granny was born there.”

“Ah, I see.” Evelyn patted the back of her straw bonnet, uninterested in speaking of Knockton just now, lest she lose heart and decide to stay. Did women in London still wear bonnets? She frowned as her eyes fell upon the girl’s own hat, for the question had not occurred to her in the two weeks since she’d decided upon this path.

“Are you truly a Wolfenden?”

The girl’s eyes shone, not with tears now but with admiration, and for that Evelyn supposed she could be grateful.

“Of course I am,” she sniffed, slightly irked by the question. What would she be if not a Wolfenden, whose family had resided at Methering Manor for centuries? The mere idea of being anything else was appalling.

The girl tilted her head appraisingly. “Now, you must be the baron’s daughter, not the fine lady who married his son.”

The unfavorable comparison to Selina, her newly widowed sister-in-law, irritated Evelyn more than she thought it should. She did her best to appear unaffected.

It must have shown on her face, though, for the girl followed up by stuttering, “N-not that you’re not a fine lady, only I… I can recall the wedding that day, six years ago. She was a such a handsome bride.”

“Yes, she was,” Evelyn added disinterestedly.

Handsome and useless. She loved her sister-in-law, but the past six months had been trying for everyone in the house, and especially worrying for Evelyn as her father had no other issue. It had been only her and Edmund. Her father didn’t have any brothers, and his father hadn’t any brothers either. And her father, the current Baron Methering, was getting on in age.

Not to mention his penchant for recklessness. Why, just last month he’d given them all a dreadful scare, as he’d taken it upon himself to scale the manor gatehouse, for no other reason than because the half-timbered frame offered excellent footholds. Somehow he’d managed it with only minor damage to the building and none to himself, but Evelyn had begged him to cease all scaling from that point forward.

Selina had offered no opinion on the matter, as per usual since Edmund’s passing. Rather than offer up any ideas for solutions to their plight, Selina had done nothing but mope about the manor, red-eyed and listless, allowing her daughter Leonora to terrorize the entire household. Though at least Selina had the decency to keep her sobbing confined to the privacy of her room.

The girl spoke again, bringing Evelyn back to the railway platform.

“I’ve been away since,” she said, “and I don’t recall hearing of any others. Weddings, that is.” Her last words were tinged with sorrow, perhaps at the thought of matrimony and the fellow she was leaving behind in Blackburn. “Have you married?”

At that Evelyn laughed.

The girl colored, then hastily added, “I mean, are you to marry? Ought you to marry?”

“I vowed never to marry.”

“Oh,” the girl said, her voice betraying a hint of disbelief.

“Stupid of me, really.”

She had no inclination to explain further. Thankfully there would be no need to, as the sound of an approaching whistle blasted through the air, followed by the train heaving into the station, all hissing and chugging, overpowering any potential attempts at conversation.

And besides, there was no time for it, for Evelyn had urgent matters to attend to. Her brother would not be coming back. Her father was beyond siring children. Selina had no connections of which to speak and even fewer inclinations to save her and Leonora’s futures.

No, it all fell to Evelyn.

For the entirety of her charmed, bucolic life, no one had ever expected much of her. And, she supposed, no one now expected her to save the Wolfenden women’s livelihood, either. But she expected to save herself. She had to.

Evelyn blinked, the smoke from the engine stinging her eyes.

The train was coming to a stop, and Evelyn had her ticket and her instructions. Board this train. Disembark in Manchester. Board the next train. Disembark in London.

Propose to her prospective husband.

She turned to the girl and offered her a wan smile before walking toward the first-class carriage.

The girl stared after her, open-mouthed.

“And you’re quite sure they’ve been opening the windows in the evenings?” Towle asked as he mopped his face with a handkerchief.

“Why wouldn’t they?” the Honorable Marcus Hartley, member of Parliament for Knockton, replied, perturbed that the conversation had once again derailed.

He didn’t want to speak of his servants at the moment, hot though his house may be. He’d stood for election to right wrongs, not to play host. If he’d wished to be a society darling he might’ve attended more parties, leaned harder into his mother’s connections. She’d been born a Sedley, famously wealthy purveyors of boot blacking.

Shecould afford to engage in such frivolities.

“Yes, indeed.” The elder MP sighed and picked up his newspaper to fan himself again.

“Now, as we were speaking of the Smoke Regulation Act, I would very much like to bring it to the floor again. I’ve some support in unlikely quarters; the Duke of Marbury, if you would believe—”

“My dear boy.” Towle always addressed him thus when he was working his way up to a set-down. “I don’t doubt your passion, but I worry you’re spreading yourself far too thin. Is the poisonous nature of factory smoke your chosen crusade, or is it this issue of illegitimacy and bastardy?” He made a gesture to a thick stack of papers sitting atop the end table alongside him.

The treatise Marcus had been up all night penning. He’d handed it to Towle the moment his mentor had crossed his threshold. Marcus stared at it, wondering if he’d spent enough ink excoriating the menace of baby farmers, or condemning the paltry, discriminatory efforts of charities.

When he didn’t respond, Towle sighed and continued.

“You must see that it’s unseemly for a young man to be so… invested in the plight of unwed mothers and… unsavory women. Perhaps smoke nuisance is—”

“And why should it be?” Marcus interrupted. Bollocks, it was terribly muggy in here, wasn’t it? Perhaps he ought to speak with his housekeeper. “Plenty of men direct their charity efforts toward prostitutes, foundling homes—”

“Married men, Hartley. Family men.”

“Ah, you’ve been speaking with my mother.” Marcus forced an amused tone. “Ready to wed me to whatever woman she can hook at any given moment. Her daily catch, if you will.”

Frustratingly, Towle did not bite. “You’ve an uphill battle in Parliament on this one, and with nothing to recommend yourself aside from the usual accusations of radicalism that you’ll be met with. There are rumors—”

Anger and frustration rose in Marcus’s chest, not wanting to hear someone he admired give voice to the horrible things that had been said about him.

“And they’re more concerned with censuring them than aiding them! Why, they call the residents of the London Foundling Hospital ‘inmates,’ as if it were some sort of… disciplinary institution! And don’t speak of the Infant Life Protection Act, as if that were a solution. You know as well as I that the Metropolitan Board of Works has done absolutely nothing to implement it.” Marcus halted, placing his fist before his mouth to keep any further grievances at bay.

Across the sweltering sitting room, the Honorable Philip Towle of Birmingham looked on him kindly, but with decades of experience tempering his bearing. He was a lean, compact man with wiry white side whiskers, which were the only hair left on his head save for his equally wild eyebrows. His borough was traditionally a fiercely contested one, though he’d managed to hold on to his seat for decades, often by the skin of his teeth. Marcus had always admired the man’s tenacity in that regard, but begrudged it when it manifested as the shrewd sort of patience he was displaying now.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, Towle cleared his throat and leaned forward to pick up his tea. He took a long sip, then leisurely set the cup and saucer back down before speaking once more.

“The government is not popular, the income tax even less so, and that’s before we even get to the Education Act! Then there’s this Post Office funds mess—”

“There’s always something. And Gladstone needn’t call an election for a year and a half.”

Towle sighed again, shaking his head this time.

Marcus continued. “A year and a half, that’s—”

“Nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

Marcus stood up, impatient. “It’s quite enough time!”

“Sit down, sit down.” Towle waved his hand in the same exasperated manner Marcus’s professors had at Cambridge. “I know you came to the House of Commons with stars in your eyes and a fire in your belly. Do not forget, my boy, that my principles are very much in line with yours.”

Marcus wanted to scoff, to remind Towle of the women and children dying for lack of clean water and safe refuge every day in this very city. Of the women forced into prostitution when no one would extend a hand to help them. Of the children suffering needlessly because their birth was not legitimate, through no fault of their own. But he had too much respect for his mentor. So he bit back his rejoinder and took his seat, fists clenched atop his knees.

By chance, Marcus had been born to comfort and uselessness, a fact he’d never allowed himself to forget. One’s station was all due to the lottery of birth. Nothing more.

“It’s abhorrent,” he finally spat out.

“It’s politics,” Towle said with a shrug. “You ought to batten down the hatches. There’s no guarantee the next election will be another victory for us. The country is restless, and the conservatives have been gaining strength through by-election victories. I take that as a warning.”

Now it was Marcus’s turn to sigh, and he buried his face in his hands. “And what do you propose?”

“Knockton is rural. Truth, you benefit from its proximity to Manchester, but at its heart it is a rural borough, and its politics will always naturally lean thus. How long have you resided there?”

“Six years, or thereabouts.”

“Well, it’s past time you ingratiated yourself with the locals. Forget these immovable mountains of policy for the moment—you cannot have an impact in government if you are not in the government, and we as a party can accomplish little if our members cannot hold on to their seats. Leave London for a while, and go tend to your own garden.”

Marcus guffawed. “And how do you suggest I go about doing that more than I already am? I’m already patting babies’ heads and opening Sunday markets.”

Now it was Towle who stood up, pausing to tug at his collar. “It really is miserable in here, Hartley. Creature comforts are not a sin, you know. Life is not meant to be an endless struggle just for its own sake. You ought to enjoy it on occasion.”

Frowning, Marcus stood up as well.

He knew what Towle was thinking but had left unsaid. Marcus Hartley, champion for the proletariat, was forever practical, always feeling the need to justify his place in the world with good works. What time was there for fêtes and fripperies when injustice reigned throughout the country?

He bristled at the common characterization of him, but it was true. He’d never be like the toffs in the House of Lords; they’d made that clear from the moment he’d started school. He was the son of a solicitor, the grandson of shoppy people. So he’d aligned himself with the working class, seeking to rise above the aristocracy, at least morally. Perhaps if he did enough good, he’d one day be able to rest. Just as his father had instilled in him.

But not now. There was no time for it now.

Following Towle out into the hall, which was cooler—but only just—Marcus replayed their conversation in his head. On Towle’s advice, he ought not push for further reform of the Bastardy Clause due to his lack of a wife and children. It remained to be seen whether or not Towle was in cahoots with his mother on that issue.

Towle had also suggested he take steps to shore up support in his borough. With arms crossed and one hand across his mouth, he tapped a finger on his cheek, thinking.

Fennel was waiting with Towle’s effects. The elderly butler seemed more stooped than usual. Or perhaps Marcus was just in a pessimistic mood.

“Oh,” Towle said, hat in hand as he turned. “I’d meant to tell you right off, but, well, the conversation got away from it.” He looked down awkwardly at the papers he held, as if he didn’t know just where to begin. “The Prime Minister is granting me an… honor.”

Marcus froze. He wanted to exclaim, but he’d already blustered enough for one afternoon.

“A baronetcy.”

Ah, a common reward for backbenchers with significant personal means; Towle was descended from some powerful industrial family in Birmingham. Still, Marcus felt a creeping, insidious twist of envy in his gut. Ashamed, he pushed the feeling down, far from the surface.

And he smiled.

“Congratulations are in order, then.”

“Yes, well.” Towle donned his hat, looking downright bashful.

“By all means, you’ve worked tirelessly for the party and the cause.”

“Bah, a silly old man I am, nothing more.” Towle waved off the praise, but then schooled his face into seriousness. “But I will accept the honor, all the same. No doubt my wife will have some sort of to-do to celebrate.” He gave Marcus a stern look. “You’ll attend, won’t you?”

His mentor’s meaning was implicit: You should accept the invitation, as well as every other that crosses your threshold.

“Of course,” Marcus said, polite as could be, even as his soul roiled with an unpleasant mix of emotions. “So you’ll be taking the Chiltern Hundreds, then?”

Something akin to relief passed over Towle’s features, but it was gone in a moment. He scoffed, reaching out to clutch Marcus’s shoulder more forcefully than usual.

“Still have the fight in me, don’t I? You shan’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckled.

But it was obvious. He was more than ready to happily resign to his retirement as a newly minted baronet.

Towle had toiled for years, mainly to enfranchise working men. And though the Second Reform Act had finally doubled the electorate several years ago, it felt a cold comfort when Marcus tallied up all the work not yet done. And to lose his mentor now, when he needed his guidance more than ever? Truth, Towle would be about—no MP could ever leave well enough alone, retired or not—but he would no longer be in the chamber with him. Marcus worked his jaw, trying to sort it out.

After he bade Towle good day, Marcus stood in the hall for a moment, staring at the door, hands in his pockets.

There was a time when he’d have given his eye teeth to be Sir Marcus Hartley. He’d gone off to Harrow thinking himself quite an admirable young lad. He’d found, though, much to his youthful chagrin, that he barely held a candle to boys boasting courtesy titles—little viscounts thoroughly unimpressed with his common pedigree. For a time, Marcus longed to be like them, with their signet rings and heraldry. His family had properties, yes—houses chock-a-block with gilt and polished silver. They had money, plenty of money.

But it wasn’t collected from rents. It was from sales of shoe polish.

By the end of his first year he no longer wanted to be one of them. He hated them. Hated everything they stood for. Hatred felt much more mature than envy, and actionable as well. He’d been waiting, waiting for years now, to even the score. He’d followed his late father’s example and become a solicitor, with an obstinate need to not emulate the social-climbing Sedley side of the family. And on top of that, he sought to ensure that he would become worthy through deeds, not titles.

Unfortunately, those deeds had yet to manifest, as nearly every scrap of legislation he touched died before it even reached committee. Yes, the Infant Life Protection Act had passed last year, but he knew it was not enforced. It rankled. At least he’d had a hand in the Life Assurance Companies Act, but not enough so that Towle would think his seat safe. It felt rotten, failing everyone in the country, but it felt especially cruel to disappoint a man he’d come to view as a surrogate father of sorts. A man who would now be compelled to hang up his hat, now that he’d reached such rarefied air. Marcus couldn’t fathom following that path, even if he could acknowledge its siren song. He dropped his head with a sigh.

His butler cleared his throat.

“Yes, Fennel?” Marcus’s voice sounded weary to his own ears.

“I thought you might like to review the menu for tonight.”

Marcus waved a hand backwards, using the other to wipe sweat from his brow. “I find myself incapable of forming an opinion at the moment.”

Fennel cleared his throat, a thick, off-putting sound. “Then there is the matter of your mother, sir.”

“What about her?” Marcus turned now, his brows lowered.

He’d brought his mother to live with him a couple years prior. She had previously resided with his cousin Harmonia, but once she had wed, there was no longer any need for his mother to function as her chaperone. But she had not settled in with him as easily as he’d hoped, and constantly butted heads with the staff. They’d since gone through several housekeepers, though Marcus secretly supposed their departures had less to do with his mother’s frivolous demands of them and more to do with her continuing war with his ancient butler who refused to be pensioned off. He couldn’t fault the housekeepers for not wanting to be caught in the middle. For Marcus was, and oh, how he loathed it.

“It’s the windows, sir. She thinks we ought to open them all in the evenings.”

Marcus opened his mouth, then shut it again before finally responding. “And you are not of the same opinion?”

“Goodness, no. Cold night air is poor for the constitution, sir.” The butler scoffed, shaking his head at the inanity of the question.

“Do you recall, Fennel, that today is the twenty-ninth of June?”

“June, sir?” Fennel’s cloudy eyes stared at something in the distance, so intently that Marcus turned about to see if there was anyone behind him. There wasn’t. “Ah, it shall be St. Swithun’s day in a fortnight. Then we shall see, sir, about the rain.”

Fennel nodded, as if to punctuate whatever point he was supposedly making, his white wig coming askew. Then he shuffled away, silent as a wraith.

Belatedly, Marcus wished he’d offered an opinion on dinner. For while he was sick of his mother’s constant entreaties for him to take a wife, he was even sicker of hearing her tirades against the cook.

With one last glance at the front door, he reached for his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He ought to speak with the housekeeper about the windows before dinner. That is, if he currently had one. He wasn’t entirely sure where that stood at the moment. Perhaps he ought to set his household to rights with the same fervor he brought to his radical politicking. The thought made him realize that, unfortunately, his mother was right, after a fashion—it was easier to leave these matters to a wife.

He hastened down the hall after his butler. “Fennel!” he called. “About dinner…”