Chapter Six
Miss Wolfenden waited nearly ten days before sending word, by way of an invitation to dinner at Methering Manor.
Marcus was impressed by her restraint; he’d begun to wonder if he’d misjudged her after one week had passed since the musicale and no response seemed forthcoming. But the fact that she didn’t take the entire two weeks informed him of two things: first, that her pride of station was not insurmountable, and second, that her desperation was all too real.
Excellent.
Marcus looked up at the mirror as his valet helped him shrug into his evening jacket. He had never been one to think much about his own appearance; he was tall and handsome enough that he hadn’t wanted for female attention back in his younger days, but since then he’d had no time for that sort of thing, having found himself far more interested in swaying minds than hearts. But now he gave a silent thanks to his mother for granting him her features. She’d been a beauty in her day, so he’d been told.
“Bray?”
“Yes, sir?” his valet responded as he brushed the front of the jacket with brief, firm strokes.
Bray, a middle-aged man with sad eyes and a pervasive silence about him, was the only servant Marcus had employed who’d been able to withstand Fennel’s strong personality. He supposed it was due to Bray’s own colorless nature. For how could one impose their will upon a stone?
“What do you think?” Marcus cleared his throat, uncomfortable with undertaking such vanities. “Might we… spruce it up a bit?” He waved his hand at the mirror. Suddenly Marcus cared very much that he presented himself fashionably to Miss Wolfenden and her relations.
Bray halted and stepped back, clothes brush still in hand, and stared blankly.
“It’s an occasion, after all,” Marcus added in a joking tone.
“Very well,” Bray said with a nod. He disappeared from the room.
Marcus nearly called him back to rescind his request. But then he recalled how Miss Wolfenden had looked that day in front of the guildhall, a pretty color to her cheeks as she stood stoically before him, absorbing his advances and his arguments for making them. Even when he’d so boldly brought up her age and her lack of worldliness, she’d stood proud, with her head held high.
Marcus couldn’t help but admire it. He ought to make some concessions to her, to shine up and put forth his best manners. That is, if he could recall them.
For she was granting him a tremendous boon to his political career: the hand of the daughter of the inexplicably adored local lord. What more could he ask for ahead of a potentially treacherous election? And anyway, were not most marriages just agreed-upon contracts providing mutual benefit of one sort or another?
He had never expected to wed like this, or he wouldn’t have had he ever given the idea much thought. And now that he was on the cusp of it? Marcus frowned at his reflection. Never mind all that, he told himself. The end result is what’s important, not the means.
Just then Bray returned, a blue flower in his hand.
Marcus frowned. “What is that?”
“Why, an aster, sir.” Bray stopped before him and slid the stem into his coat’s buttonhole.
“It’s blue,” Marcus said, staring at the bloom as if he couldn’t fathom where it had come from. “Are we in the habit of growing blue flowers in the garden?”
Not that he would know, spending all his damn time in London as he did, leading his Sisyphean political life.
“Some flowers are blue,” Bray said calmly, adjusting the boutonnière.
“Blue is a Tory color in Lancashire,” Marcus explained, not bothering to hide his distaste.
“Is it now?” Bray stepped back so Marcus might see.
He had to admit, it did lend a much-needed spot of color to his usually severe get-up. Marcus sighed. “Very well, then.”
At least his host would appreciate it. Or so he assumed. With one final look in the glass, he was ready.
Collier had left the week prior, uncomfortable with being away from London for so long. Marcus truly felt the loss as he spent his evenings walking the empty halls of Platt Lodge, friendless and alone.
It had been a deliberate rebellion, his purchase of the place. A relatively new house, constructed sometime in the last century and then sold off as it was surplus to the original family’s requirements. Marcus hadn’t been thinking so much of his political future back then; his aim had been only to remove himself far from the city and the memory of his father, and the family they’d once been. In the throes of emotion unique to youth, he’d considered himself, as Dr. Johnson had so eloquently put it, tired of life. And Knockton had seemed as removed from London as a place could be.
So he’d gladly signed the deed and parted with a portion of the family fortune, courtesy of his mother and Sedley’s Satin Black Boot Polish. Which was why it amused him to no end that his mother wanted nothing to do with Platt Lodge, a neat and comfortable residence, or Knockton as a whole.
But these days, coming to Knockton felt less like freedom than it used to. Truth, there were more staff here than in his London home, since many of those who had served the previous tenants had stayed on. But they were largely aloof and wary of him. Since Collier’s departure, Marcus had barely said a word to anyone, save Bray.
Which was why he arrived at Methering Manor with more excitement that he’d anticipated. He’d been curious before about the old place and the old baron, but now he was eager to view them from a different angle—not just as institutions of the district, but as they related to Miss Wolfenden. Her family.
And Marcus was desperate for conversation, of any kind.
The manor house rose up from the center of a gravel yard, attended by a cluster of outbuildings and encircled by the ghost of a dry moat, now shallow and gently sloped. The house was ancient, but not outwardly in disrepair; it even boasted large bay windows, facing east, no doubt to collect the light and warmth of the morning sun. A detached tower stood at the northwest corner, and Marcus studied it as he rode in, wondering just what use the family got out of it these days. To Marcus, who had been reared in a London home—save for the occasional excursion to the garish, sprawling Sedley family manse in the south—the notion of children growing up here seemed odd. And cold.
As he dismounted his horse and handed the reins to the waiting groom, he found himself reconsidering Dr. Collier’s recommendation; a carriage would indeed be more comfortable, not to mention warmer. He’d have to see to that now, and hire a coachman, if Miss Wolfenden was indeed serious with her response. Which meant speaking with the housekeeper and the groom at Platt Lodge, not to mention writing to Fennel and ascertaining whether there might be space available at a nearby mews in London, as his home there had no such facilities of its own. And as for his London home, it was quite small, he knew, but he was loath to part with it. How would Miss Wolfenden get on there? Or would she at all?
Not wanting to dwell on such an unpleasant topic based on so many assumptions, Marcus dutifully shelved such thoughts as he mounted the stairs.
Atop them stood what he surmised to be the butler, an imposing presence quite unlike Fennel in every manner. Tall where Fennel was stooping, youthful where Fennel was ancient, and wearing that very particular look of veiled displeasure meant to inform Marcus that he was far beneath the occupants of this household.
He felt an irritation rise up without warning, like the bite of an old injury reasserting itself after a bad step. But Marcus didn’t allow it to throw him off, and he restrained himself as the butler led him within. Marcus could admit to all of Fennel’s faults, but the man’s loyalty and regard were never in question.
While the exterior of the manor was old, it still exuded strength and fortitude, old Saxon bloodlines and heedless commitment to power and rule. Inside, though, was another story. The halls were lined with moldering tapestries in desperate need of repair, pieces of furniture sagged under their own weight, weary with the burdens of generations, and dark portraits glared at him with disapproval, as if they all marked him for an interloper. The son of a solicitor, the grandson of trade.
How had she responded that day, when he’d informed her of his origins?
Ah yes, that’s right; Marcus could see her now. Evelyn Wolfenden, all done up in that strange tasseled creation, blinking as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. I beg your pardon, did you say boot blacking?
He would not care, were it a stranger or someone with no bearing on his future. But it had bothered him. For she was no stranger—granted, only just—and she was to be his wife. So he assumed.
Once that first worry had broken through, another, beastlier one easily followed: that perhaps she would not have him. Perhaps this was some jest, a scheme to parade him before her family and make a mockery of his ideas. Then, once he’d made a cake of himself, bowing and scraping with this ridiculous aster in his buttonhole, she would refuse him. And then for years afterward they’d all snigger at the thought of him, Marcus Hartley, thinking well enough of himself to seek the hand of a baron’s daughter.
The butler left him in the long sitting room with all the bay windows, which now, in the late afternoon, did little to light or warm the space. Thankfully there was a fire going in an ancient behemoth of a fireplace, so large that he might walk into it. Instead he stood before it, staring into the flames, hands in his pockets, welcoming the intensity of its heat.
It might be the only warmth he’d find here.
After several minutes of reflection, he’d managed to regain a share of confidence. She was just a woman; he was just a man. People had coupled for ages. She’d either have him or not, and he reminded himself that he did not care whether or not Miss Wolfenden admired him. This was simply another understanding, a mutually beneficial contract.
Then the door opened.
Marcus was relieved to see that it was a footman, rather than the scornful butler, who held the door open. The man didn’t even spare him a glance as he announced his mistress, Miss Evelyn Wolfenden.
She, however, pinned Marcus with an intense look that did not waver as she drifted into the room. So resolute, this one, he thought. So certain of her place in the order of things.
The door shut behind her.
“Mr. Hartley.” She paused to drop a curtsy, then made her way briskly over to him. “Are you not overwarm, standing here?” Her voice betrayed not a hint of nerves.
He supposed that was a good sign.
Ignoring her inquiry, he got straight to the point, not caring whether he might cause offense. He suspected she’d manage.
“Am I to assume, then, that this is an affirmative response?”
Her gaze dropped momentarily. Then she looked up at him from under her lashes, reminding him that her eyes were actually quite nice. A lovely light blue.
“If you are referring to your proposal of marriage…” She looked away, sparing a glance at the darkening landscape beyond the large windows. “Then yes, I believe it better that my situation be settled swiftly, before things become…” Her words petered out. She looked back to him, her face solemn. “Well. Before circumstances become even more tenuous.”
Relief washed over him, followed by a strange lightness. The feeling startled him, and he found himself momentarily uncertain of how to respond. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke. “Excellent. I think we shall be able to come to a general—”
“Yes, yes. We will discuss the arrangements, but there is one thing I must make clear at the outset. I take responsibility for my brother’s widow and child, and you must therefore make them yours as well.” She watched him, unflinching.
“Of course—”
“In the manner we are accustomed to,” she added with a slight sternness. “I have asked around, you see, and consider myself much more educated now on the, er, ubiquity of your family’s shoe polish.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” He raised an eyebrow. “And you have no compunction about marrying someone who dabbles in boot blacking?”
“Do not forget, Mr. Hartley, that I am a Wolfenden.” She tipped her chin upwards. “I am not a fanciful or simpering maid. We are made of sterner stuff. I would never fret over what might be said in London ballrooms. I do not wish for gaudy trinkets and beribboned gowns. My concerns lie with Methering Manor and the health and happiness of those within.”
She’d be a hell of a negotiator, he thought, staring as if he’d never seen her like this before. But he had, he realized. She’d spoken with such fortitude the night she turned up on his doorstep. Something stirred in his chest, a begrudging admiration. With what could he meet such a speech? Certainly he’d several responses at hand, but nothing felt quite right.
“Alright then,” he finally said. He reached for her hand. It was cold.
She started at his touch, but quickly recovered, her fingers closing gently around his. He felt himself warmed by a sudden desire. Marcus had never been careless with his attentions to the opposite sex; he’d forgone any manner of liaison since he’d left the Inns of Chancery, and it had never much bothered him before. But in this moment he felt positively juvenile, overwhelmed by an urge he could barely recall.
Perhaps that was why he suggested it.
“Shall I kiss you?” he murmured.
“What?” Her brows rose.
“Since we’ve come to an agreement.”
“Is that not what the wedding night is for?” She was clearly baffled.
“Of course,” Marcus sighed, and dropped her hand.
She quickly folded it within her other and placed them over her middle, the only sign of her discomfort. He, however, ran a hand down his face, irritated with himself for abandoning his tact for some foolish romantic improvisation.
“So, shall we have a wedding night, then? Or do you wish for this to be a marriage in name only? I am perfectly amicable, if that is your desire.”
“Oh, no.” She frowned, then shook her head. “No, no, pray, do not misunderstand me. I am willing to fulfill all duties as a wife. I am…” She took a breath, then shut her mouth, a slight color coming to her cheeks. “It is only… it seems awfully brazen, kissing in public like this. Surely we must keep our… kisses… to the privacy of the marriage bed, wouldn’t you think?”
“Public?” Marcus glanced over his shoulder, then scanned the room, wondering if perhaps a silent footman had slipped inside to stand sentinel. Thankfully, he found none. “Would you truly consider—”
“At any rate, we have much to discuss before dinner,” she interrupted, glancing once more out the windows. “See? ’Tis dark out. Let us converse as we walk. I shall show you the manor, so you might be prepared to meet everyone.”
“Er, prepared?”
Suddenly Marcus wondered just what sort of marriage he’d committed himself to, with a cold, aloof wife and whatever strange relations she possessed.
She approached him, pausing to look at the flower adorning his jacket. The smallest hint of a smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “I do love asters,” she mused. “A patient flower. They only bloom when all the others have gone.”
“Do they?” Marcus said, his eyebrows rising in amusement. “A poor choice, then, as I am far from a patient man.”
Miss Wolfenden regarded him with a look somewhere between curiosity and scorn. Finally she sniffed, then moved gracefully for a door opposite the one through which they’d both entered. “One should strive to overcome their faults.”
Now he grinned, following her to where she stood. “I possess more than a lack of patience, then, by your measure.”
“I did not say that.”
“Then please do. Name my failings, every one.”
She looked away, twisting her hands against one another. Aha! Finally, he’d breached the wall of ice. His chest filled with pride at the accomplishment.
“Come, now,” he said, dropping his voice. “We ought to embark upon this agreement with honesty and transparency. It’s apparent you’ve considered my many imperfections, so I invite you to expound upon them. You might find that I, too, am made of sterner stuff.” He chuckled. “I am a politician, after all.”
She looked up at him again from under her lashes, clearly dubious. For a moment Marcus expected her to shy away and change the subject. He almost took pity and did it himself.
But then she spoke, her face set impassively, her voice flat.
“Vanity.”
The door opened to reveal the same footman standing there, his face betraying no hint as to how he knew of their approach. Marcus hadn’t seen Miss Wolfenden reach for a bell. Still, she didn’t move to exit, so neither did he.
“Of mind, perhaps,” he admitted.
“Hmm.”
Again she held her hands together before her, a gesture so delicate and controlled it would feel forced in any other. But for her it seemed her most relaxed position. And then, with her excellent posture and cold expression, she led the way out.
“Your manners are lacking,” she said without turning.
Marcus glanced at the footman still holding the door. Though the young man didn’t flinch, and indeed hadn’t even shifted his distant gaze, Marcus sensed he was summoning his entire strength of will to refrain from cracking a smile.
“Some women fancy that, you know.”
The footman finally looked to Marcus, his eyes wide. Marcus smiled.
“How unfortunate for them,” Miss Wolfenden replied against the echo of her footsteps down the dark, cavernous hall.
Thankfully the hall was not lit by torches, which spared the atmosphere from being exceptionally foreboding. Instead, two rows of candles in worn metal sconces sent their shadows dancing about the stone walls in a manner that was merely slightly foreboding. Up ahead of him, Miss Wolfenden halted.
“Shall we continue, Mr. Hartley?”
Patient he was not, though bold he was. Marcus shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned. “By all means.”
He dutifully followed her, into the unknown.