Chapter Fourteen
Marcus endured the next half hour with the patience of a saint.
Mr. Reed’s conversation meandered about, as he offered up his opinions on the prime minister’s “mission” to pacify Ireland (unfavorable), a gentleman in town whom he suspected of being a Nonconformist (appalled), and the implementation of the Education Bill (a headache).
Marcus paid close attention, filing away every scrap of information the councilman shared. As of late he’d held a sneaking suspicion about Reed: The man would block him in any official capacity, by any means. He had previously thought him merely a pedantic bore, and had chalked up his long, monotonous diatribes as nothing more than minor annoyances. But after Towle’s warning, and the embarrassing fact that Evelyn had initially been ignorant of who he was, Marcus had been considering his own local standing with more scrutiny.
“The thing is, Mr. Hartley, the town council agrees with the school board. We must use our funds to pay whatever school fees we’re able to, so a greater number of… unfortunate children might attend denominational schools and learn by the Holy Scripture.”
“Well, that’s above water.” Marcus frowned. He didn’t agree with it, but Reed spoke the truth; Clause 25 of the bill allowed for it. “But what of the board schools? Surely they must pay teachers, buy books, repair roofs… it would all be rather difficult to manage if substantial funds are being diverted to subsidize church schools.”
Mr. Reed scoffed and shook his head, which accentuated his considerable jowliness.
“You do not realize—you do not know. You are from London, and only of Knockton these past several years. People are scared. They see the government overreaching, threatening their church.”
“Not everyone in Knockton counts themselves a member of the Church of England,” Marcus cautioned.
“Hmm,” Mr. Reed said, leveling a stern look at him, no doubt wishing he could respond that such people mattered little to him and those of similar ideology.
The opposite was true of Marcus, of course. In fact, even as he’d stood unopposed, he knew for a fact that a large share of Catholic recusants, of whom there were plenty in Lancashire, had cast their votes in his favor.
“Why, this region was the most Jacobite in England after the Revolution.” Marcus grinned, thinking of Evelyn’s eyes, staring up at the windows in Methering Manor’s chapel. “That included my wife’s family as well, if you’ll recall.”
The elder gentleman’s face darkened at the shift in conversation, away from the minutiae of their local implementation of the Education Act and toward Marcus’s new wife.
Ah, he didn’t like that, did he? Interesting, Marcus thought.
“And how are you enjoying married life, Mr. Hartley?”
He liked it far too well. That was the problem.
He enjoyed teasing Evelyn and watching her blush. He’d felt a strange pride and empathy watching her attempts to comfort Leonora. And then there was today, of course. He’d been so chuffed when she’d all but begged him to return to her bed that he’d pressed his advantage and won quite a victory: the privilege of calling her by her Christian name. He’d committed himself to the physical aspect of her, and he knew himself too well; before long he’d lose his head, were he not careful.
He could not afford that. He had more important things to accomplish than falling in love with his wife.
“Far superior to bachelor life,” he responded blandly, thinking it a vague enough platitude.
“Yes, I’m in agreement. More young men should set themselves up with a gentle and biddable wife,” Mr. Reed responded in kind, offering no insight into his true opinion. “My Lucy is an excellent helpmeet; how she minds the children and keeps our home such a pleasant and agreeable sanctuary, I do not know.”
“How many children again?”
Mr. Reed furrowed his brow; Marcus could practically see the hash marks hovering in the air before him as he tallied up the count.
“Six,” he finally answered, his chest bursting with pride.
Marcus recalled the screams of little Leonora. And then those of Georgiana, his cousin Harmonia’s daughter. That girl had been born with an impressive set of lungs as well.
“I pray that you and Mrs. Hartley will be as blessed as we have been. I know you’re not much of a family man, Hartley, but I believe—”
“What?” Marcus cut in. “Not a family man? How do you mean?”
“Oh, you know.” Mr. Reed chuckled amiably, though his beady eyes darted about, uneasy at being called out.
“No, I don’t,” Marcus said, his tone firm.
“Well.” Mr. Reed made a show of reaching inside his waistcoat pocket to extract a handkerchief and dab at his nose. “This marriage business. Surely it did not come about due to any sort of feeling, a… a… an affection between you and Miss Wolfenden.”
“Mrs. Hartley,” Marcus corrected.
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Reed waved one hand while repocketing the handkerchief with the other. “But you know. Awfully plain girl. Wool-headed. Never suspected she would marry, really—none of us did. And then that bit of haste to the altar. After all of what? One month?”
Marcus crossed his arms and leaned back, surveying this wretched toad of a man, allowing his disparaging remarks to echo about in his head.
What was he after?His undue interest in the Wolfendens seemed at odds with his opinion of Evelyn. Why, how the man had bowed and scraped to the baron at their wedding breakfast! One would assume the same deference would be afforded to Evelyn.
Suddenly it all came together.
Surely the man could not be wary of Marcus’s own machinations… could he? Marcus ruminated for a moment. And then, like a logical proof, with every little premise stacked neatly upon the last, the answer appeared to him, clear as a bell. For if Mr. Reed did have concern about it, that could only mean one thing.
“Plain?” Marcus arched a brow. “I should think not. Wool-headed, not by any means.”
“I did not think it would rile you so!” Mr. Reed guffawed, his eyes betraying a hint of excitement.
Marcus felt cold all over. That vile Sedley temper, the one he’d so carefully diverted into noble, charitable causes over the years, reared up inside him, hardening his heart and steeling his nerves.
“If you continue to insult my wife, Reed, you’ll find yourself quite unwelcome here.”
“Insult your—why, I never!” Mr. Reed sputtered in a strangled, panicky voice.
Marcus stood, deciding to go all in. He might as well draw the line in the sand right now. After all, if his suppositions were correct, he would soon have James Robert Reed as a bitter adversary anyway.
“And not just here, mind you. I shall make it my own personal crusade to make your poor manners known throughout the district.”
Mr. Reed also stood, looking as if he might burst from barely withheld rage.
“Poor manners?!” he exclaimed. “The gall! Some ladies are plain, and that’s the truth of it. Were you raised amongst womenfolk, so tender are your feelings? We are speaking as men, lad!”
“So tender are my feelings? For my wife, yes.” Marcus made a show of reaching for the hefty and handsome tassel of the bell pull that hung behind him.
“Throwing me out on my ear, are we, Hartley?”
“That is the idea, yes,” Marcus said coolly as he pulled the cord, then slid his hands into his pockets.
Mr. Reed gaped at him as if he could not believe his eyes. They stood like that, staring at one another, two men separated by a chasm of opinions and values.
And, as was his way, Marcus refused to yield.
After several uncomfortable moments, Mr. Reed glanced uneasily at the bell pull, then back to Marcus with a strained smile. And folded.
“Surely this is but a misunderstanding, Mr. Hartley. I am loath to find myself at odds with a fellow elected representative.”
“Town council member to member of Parliament,” Marcus said.
“Exactly,” the man responded, a glint of envy in his eye.
There it was.
It was the confirmation Marcus had been looking for, but it barely registered when he received it, he felt so irate. He’d trounce the troglodyte in the general, by hook or by crook. He’d better; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself otherwise.
Thankfully, a knock at the door heralded the footman’s arrival.
“Please, Mr. Reed, do not darken my doorstep until you have something charitable to say,” Marcus said in a disinterested tone as he gestured toward the study door.
The councilman fixed him with another cold stare, holding it for several seconds before turning around with a loud harrumph.
Once Mr. Reed had finally stalked out, Marcus lowered himself back into his chair, giving his anger time to dissipate. By god, what had overcome him? He’d lost his temper and made an enemy out of a town council member, and for what?
Because of tender feelings for his wife?
Marcus groaned and collapsed forward, head in hands.
James Robert Reed would oppose him in the next election. And now he would be out for blood, all because Marcus could not tolerate his slander of Evelyn.
Especially because it just wasn’t true. There was nothing plain about her—her face was lovely, her eyes delightful. And when she flushed, why, there was nothing and no one prettier. And her body, her softness, hiding such strength of will. She was a perfectly adequate wife. The image of her from several days ago, in that dark blue dress, came to mind. How she’d sat primly in this study, in the same spot where he’d kissed her today. Where she’d melted for him.
It made him feel strangely proud, the fact that his wife desired him. Even if physical attraction was all it was. Marcus released a long sigh.
He pushed back from the desk, his gaze falling upon the stack of letters and documents that demanded his attention. With another steadying sigh, he sat back down and reached for them. He needed to address all his constituent correspondence before he and Evelyn left for Towle’s ridiculous party-thing in Birmingham. For there would be little time after that before he’d have to return to London for a fortnight or so; he needed to make sure all was well with the house and Fennel, as well as oversee his charitable business. He’d left Dr. Collier to dole out the money in his stead, and though he’d no doubt about the doctor’s ability and soundness of mind, the man was a bit softhearted; there was no telling whether or not dubious individuals might play upon his good nature. It would be best to check in.
Evelyn, no doubt, would remain behind. She’d all but said so, and Marcus had vowed to respect her wishes.
He felt a twinge of disappointment at that. Perhaps there was a chance she might opt to accompany him? The flicker of hope that accompanied the thought startled him so much that he quickly shoved the subject aside and got to work.
Hours later he’d sorted everything neatly in his mind. Dinner passed without event, with Evelyn regarding him aloofly as usual, and Mrs. Wolfenden present in body but not mind—also as usual. This allowed his mother to commandeer the conversation, and she regaled the other ladies with the epic tale of her quest for a portrait of Walter and the myriad obstacles she’d encountered along the way. Marcus offered little commentary of his own, for he quite enjoyed hearing about the vicious pickpocket who’d assaulted Walter’s portraitist and stolen the completed canvas just when it had been so nearly in hand.
He reveled in his imagined bathos of the thief as they unfurled the portrait, only to find Walter’s daffy visage, tongue lolling, dressed in ruffles and sky-blue satin. Utterly worthless. The only person willing to pay good money—or any money—for that was sitting here at his table.
After dinner he finished the last of his work, then, in high spirits and still assured that he’d everything sorted, he made his way to Evelyn’s chamber. At least this evening Walter had not absconded, and he’d had enough time to bathe and for Bray to help him into his nightclothes. His hair was still wet and slicked back, but he doubted Evelyn would mind. She’d all but admitted that she found him handsome.
Still smiling at that thought, he knocked and entered.
“Oh. You’re here,” Evelyn said from her spot before the vanity, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “I didn’t expect you so early.”
Her lady’s maid, an older woman, was still tending to her, hairbrush in hand. Marcus cast about for her name, relieved when he finally recalled it.
“Dutton,” he acknowledged, striding toward them, “we’re quite alright here—you can turn in.”
“But ma’am, your hair.” The maid looked to Evelyn, unsure.
A pretty blush settled upon Evelyn’s cheeks, and she found his eyes in the mirror again. “It shall only be a few more minutes—” she began.
“Not to worry,” he interrupted, holding out a hand to Dutton. “If I may?”
The maid studied him in disbelief, but finally handed over the brush, a fine, heavy-handled silver thing with horsehair bristles. Marcus nodded his thanks. A knowing smile teased at Dutton’s lips, which she barely concealed as she bobbed a curtsy and beat a hasty retreat.
When the door shut, he reached forward, gently taking a lock of hair in hand. It smelled clean, a floral scent hanging about it. He resisted the urge to bring it up to his face, and instead let it slide through his fingers before taking the brush to it, ever so gently. Its light brown color seemed so varied up close in the lamplight, highlighted with glints of silvery ash. He purposely avoided Evelyn’s gaze in the mirror, wanting to do this properly, with care.
As she deserved.
He paused. Now, why had he thought that? Marcus glanced at the mirror. She was watching him, her eyes wide. Quickly he looked back to the brush in his hand, and set to his task again.
Once, a bitter envy against people like her and her family had festered within him. Once, he’d never have believed he’d one day marry someone whose family was listed in Debrett’s. Oh, he’d checked, to be sure. But just as easily as he’d slapped the book shut upon finishing the Wolfenden entry, he pushed aside the question of what Evelyn deserved. And why.
The atmosphere of the room felt delicate, and Marcus allowed himself to become engrossed in his task, reveling in the sound of the brush pulling through her locks, the feel of the smooth strands slipping between his fingers.
“Have you made a habit of tending to ladies’ hair, then?” Evelyn finally broke the silence, her voice low.
He paused the brushing and looked up. In the reflection her eyes were closed, her lips gently pursed. His body warmed at the sight.
“Not really, no,” he responded, then started up again.
“Then am I to trust you? Or should I call Dutton back?”
“I can execute a decent enough plait,” he scoffed, gently gathering her locks into one hand, eager to prove his point. “I did grow up with a female cousin. We were close.”
Once, he added to himself.
“Oh,” she responded.
Silence fell upon them again as he continued. He’d slipped back into his calm, reverent state when he accidentally caught her gaze once more. The faint flush on her cheeks remained, and she wet her lips as he watched.
His wife desired him. Controlled, steady, aloof Evelyn, who’d never wanted for anything but a husband. His body heated. He was her husband. Why was the thought so intoxicating?
Without breaking eye contact, he held her half-done hair to one side, while with his other hand he slid her nightdress to the side, exposing her neck and shoulder. A delicious expanse of supple skin. With a smirk, Marcus lowered his head and began dragging light kisses along her.
“Oh,” she sighed, her eyes closing in pleasure.
Marcus chuckled against her. He kissed her harder, more insistently.
Evelyn gasped.
With one last nip, he pulled away and set the brush down as he started to plait. It was quite nice, this business of having a wife.