Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Lord Marklynne called later that afternoon.
Eleanor was in the morning room reviewing household accounts when the butler announced him.
She closed the ledger at once and set aside her pen, smoothing her hand over the leather cover as though willing the figures to reorder themselves in the absence of her efforts.
There was no reason to feel unsettled. He had said he would call, and she had agreed to receive him.
It was nothing more than that. It was only Caroline and Adrian putting notions in her head about the man’s intent.
Still, she paused before leaving the room, steadying herself with a small breath and quickly tidying her hair. She had weathered far more daunting encounters than an afternoon visit from a gentleman. If there was an unfamiliar tightness in her chest, she chose to attribute it to novelty.
Lord Marklynne stood near the mantel when she entered the drawing room, tall and composed, his posture so erect it gave the impression of careful cultivation.
He bowed as she approached, his movements precise and unhurried.
He was not an unhandsome man. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
He was perfectly acceptable in every way.
But her heart did not race at the sight of him.
She did not find herself staring at him to memorize the most minute detail of his appearance.
Anger at herself bloomed inside her. Anger at having the unfortunate luck to be drawn to someone as wholly unavailable to her as Adrian Grant.
“Miss Harcourt.”
“My lord. You are very welcome.”
“I trust I have not intruded upon more pressing concerns,” he said, all politeness and decorum as the social conventions were maintained. If it felt stiff, awkward and rather cold, perhaps it was only because they did not yet truly know one another. She hoped.
“Not at all,” she replied, offering what she hoped was a warm and friendly smile. “I was only attending to household accounts.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward her hands, as if inspecting them for ink stains,, then returned to her. “Admirably diligent. One seldom encounters such industry applied with… consistency.”
She was not certain whether this was praise, veiled critique or perhaps just an idle social observation. “When one is responsible for a household, diligence becomes less a virtue than a necessity.”
“Quite so,” he said, as though confirming a point already settled in his own mind. “Practicality is a most undervalued quality.”
He did not sit until she had taken her seat, and even then he chose the chair opposite rather than the nearer one, placing a much greater than demanded by propriety distance between them.
If she’d thought him even remotely taken with her, his adherence to keeping distance between them would have robbed her of that notion.
His actions were those of a man determined to be proper in all things, yet there was something in the deliberateness of it that suggested propriety was not merely instinctive but governed by rule.
Did he laugh, she wondered? Did he ever break that rigid protocol and simply enjoy himself?
“I hope you will forgive my calling so soon after our somewhat unusual introduction,” he began. “I prefer not to allow useful acquaintances to languish for want of attention.”
The phrase struck her as oddly formal, yet not unkind. “There is nothing to forgive. Your call was quite welcome, my lord, as was your assistance last evening. I thank you again for coming so quickly to my aid, though I confess to being terribly embarrassed that such aid was necessary.”
“Not at all, Miss Harcourt. The ballroom was terribly stuffy—the heat claimed more young ladies before the night wore on. I think perhaps Mrs. Eagon does this on purpose. It’s her contribution to the marriage mart… providing ladies with reason to faint and gentlemen with reason to rescue them.”
Eleanor stifled a giggle. Mostly because she didn’t think he was joking.
In fact, he seemed not at all amused by the notion.
It tickled her precisely because it might be true.
Mrs. Eagon did fancy herself a great matchmaker and such a machination was not beyond her.
But Lord Marklynne said it all with such a straight face and serious demeanor that amusement seemed an unwelcome response.
“That is likely an accurate estimation, my lord,” she observed blandly.
He shifted a bit uncomfortably. Reaching up, he started to tug at his cravat and then, catching the potentially indecorous action, he stopped and placed his hands once more at his sides.
When he spoke, his voice sounded somewhat strained.
“At the risk of seeming forward, Miss Harcourt, may I speak frankly?”
“I would prefer plain speaking, my lord,” she replied easily. It was a much better option than the foolish misunderstandings that always occurred when people elected to beat around the proverbial bush.
He let out a relieved sigh and then continued, “I am a man who values clarity. Circumstances have altered the course I once expected my life to take. I find myself now in need of establishing my household with suitable efficiency.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap. There was no mistaking that he was speaking of marriage, yet his tone remained measured, almost administrative.
Either he meant to make some sort of offer to her or he was going to request her assistance in meeting a suitable candidate.
It could go in either direction honestly and she wasn’t certain which one was preferable.
“I have no taste for frivolity,” he went on. “Nor do I subscribe to the romantic excesses that tend to complicate otherwise sensible arrangements. Marriage, properly understood and embarked upon for sensible reasons, is a partnership of mutual benefit and stability.”
His gaze rested on her with calm appraisal. It was not impertinent, but it was assessing in a way that made her feel briefly as though she were being measured against an invisible list of criteria. A laundry list. He looked at her the same way the housekeeper looked at her laundry list.
“You are well regarded,” he said. “Your management of your brother’s household is exemplary. And, from what I have been told, your skill as a hostess is unparalleled. Your reputation is unassailable. You possess steadiness of temperament and an evident capacity for responsibility.”
The enumeration might have sounded clinical in another voice. From him, it sounded simply factual. There was no intonation, no inflection.
“I do appreciate your candor, my lord.”
“I find candor saves time,” he replied. “I do not require a decorative ornament, Miss Harcourt. I require a wife who understands the obligations attendant upon position.”
The words might have stung had they been delivered with dismissiveness.
Instead, they were offered with the calm certainty of a man stating his needs as plainly as one might discuss estate matters.
It wasn’t as if he’d said she were unattractive, after all.
He’d merely stated that he found other qualities to be more significant.
Or perhaps she was choosing to interpret them in such a way because that was a more palatable option.
“I have never aspired to be solely ornamental,” she said lightly. “I prefer industry to indolence.”
His expression did not change, though something in his eyes suggested he approved of the answer. “No. I did not suppose you had. And your industriousness is a welcome change from so many young ladies.”
Silence fell, not uncomfortable but deliberate. He did not rush to fill it, as though he expected her to consider what had been said with due seriousness.
“At present,” he continued, “I see no disadvantage in furthering my acquaintance with you. It would allow us to determine whether we are suited in disposition and expectation for the possibility of a betrothal.”
The proposal was not quite a proposal, yet its intent was unmistakable. “A trial of sorts?” she asked for the sake of clarification.
“If you wish to characterize it so,” he said. “I prefer to think of it as a period of observation, where we might ascertain if initial impressions are accurate. One month should suffice to establish whether compatibility exists.”
He spoke as though the matter were one of estate management, to be evaluated and concluded in an orderly and supremely dispassionate fashion.
Yet there was nothing truly cold in his manner—stiff?
Certainly. Somewhat stodgy and off-putting?
Beyond a doubt. But what he did possess was a kind of certainty, and the unshakeable confidence of a man accustomed to a position of authority.
Eleanor considered him. He was not unkind. He was not ungentlemanly. He was simply… obliviously awkward. Entirely certain of his own reasonableness to the point of being unreasonable.
But perhaps, she told herself, this stiffness was nothing more than unfamiliarity.
They did not know one another. It was natural that reserve should exist between near strangers.
Familiarity might soften the edges of such formality.
And all of those thoughts were underscored by one.
No one else had proposed. And no one else was likely to.
“I believe further acquaintance would be… sensible,” she said at last.
“Excellent.” He inclined his head once, as though a matter had been satisfactorily concluded. “I shall call again… not tomorrow as I have other obligations, but perhaps the next day?”
“That would be most agreeable, Lord Marklynne,” Eleanor replied.
If it was so agreeable why did it feel like a lead weight had settled in her stomach?
And then her own choice of words hit her squarely.
Settled. Settling. Taking the meager offer before her because the likelihood of another coming along was nil.
He rose, and she did likewise. When he took his leave, his bow was precise, his expression composed, his manner unchanged.
Only after he had gone did Eleanor release the breath that had been trapped in her lungs by her clenched muscles.
He was not what she had expected. Certainly, his rescue the previous night had seemed more dashing.
In the glittering flow of the ballroom, she’d thought him rather handsome.
Now, in the bright light of day, he was not nearly so handsome as she had imagined.
Oh, he was not unattractive. But neither was he exceptional.
His appearance, like his behavior, was painfully appropriate.
There was no rational reason to find him objectionable. He was serious, certainly. Structured. Perhaps overly so. But there was safety in such solidity. Dependability. Order. If one had to settle, then settling for a man who understood responsibility was surely not a terrible way to go.
And order, she reminded herself, was not an unworthy foundation upon which to build a life. He was not the sort to gamble away the family fortune and she doubted he was given to libertine tendencies. That would require him to relax.
If there was something in his manner that felt unyielding, she attributed it to unfamiliar ground between them. Acquaintance, she was certain, would soften it.
It must. Either way, she had one month in which to make her decision. Their betrothal was not a foregone conclusion, after all. She had only agreed to a trial courtship. Not marriage itself.
That lead weight did not release its grip on her.
It stayed with her throughout the remainder of the day and well into the evening.
It was only in the business of preparing for the evening’s social obligations that she finally found some freedom from it.
Busy as she was with preparations, she had no more time to think about the trial courtship Lord Marklynne had proposed.
She considered telling Caroline, seeking her friend’s advice, but there was no doubt that her friend would disapprove.
Caroline was a firm believer in romance.
She read Austen almost as an instructional manual rather than merely fiction.
There was no one to whom she could unburden herself.
This was a decision she would have to make entirely on her own.
Fitting really, as that would also be the manner in which she likely would have to live with that decision.