Chapter Seventeen
Evelyn had cried off dinner, and then breakfast as well. She had relayed messages to him through her maid, assuring him that she’d be well enough for Towle’s ball that evening.
It nettled him, though Marcus refused to admit it aloud.
Because she had been correct.
He had ignored Knockton. He’d been too preoccupied with his paltry attempts to move mountains, angling after greater societal shifts, which had led to him neglecting his own borough. The board schools, with their leaking roofs, had not had an advocate to defend them against Mr. Reed and the town council. Even the dratted goat willow deserved to be recognized, he supposed. He stopped in front of the window of a very fine department store, frowning at his reflection. Did he even know where the tree was? Hell and tarnation, he’d better figure it out. Ideally before the celebration in its honor.
He shook his head and shoved his hands back into his pockets, then continued ambling on through Birmingham. It was a booming city, filled with energy and optimism. He enjoyed it, for it recalled the urban bustle of London, where he’d spent much of his life, learning the ways of the world by his father’s knee. It was hard to be away from the city. But Lancashire was not without its benefits.
His wife preferred it, for one.
Marcus sighed. Evelyn had been at the forefront of his mind more often than not lately, and he knew all too well where that path would lead. And while he refused to abandon all caution, he likewise would not detach his emotions entirely. Surely it was not inappropriate to be taken with one’s wife, especially when weighed against its alternative.
He allowed himself a smile as he walked, as his thoughts converged on her. How innocently unsentimental she’d been while informing him of his pedantry in the carriage the day before. How she’d shyly gawped about the doctor’s examination room.
And how she’d done her best to maintain that practiced insouciance as they quarreled about London, even as his temper had wounded her. She’d tried, but failed.
Marcus knew he’d spoken out of turn. Evelyn was far from the spoiled aristos he’d gone to school with. She was ignorant, to be sure, but it was not her fault. It had been his. He should have informed her straightaway of his intention to visit London. He should have bloody well asked her, rather than simply assuming that she’d be so taken with his cock and his physical attentions that she’d follow him to the city with doe eyes like some silly young thing.
He looked up at the street numbers on the buildings as he walked by each one. When he found the one he was looking for, he climbed the stairs and lifted the knocker.
Hopefully this would serve as a decent enough apology.
A housekeeper answered the door.
“Yes?”
“Ah, I’m here about the puppies.” Marcus removed his hat and smiled. “As advertised in the paper. I hope they’ve not all been spoken for?”
“Not yet,” the housekeeper nodded. “Right this way, sir.”
Marcus returned to the hotel an hour or so later with a sable-coated collie wriggling in his arms and nipping at his sleeve. Thankfully he’d never been a fashionable dresser; one staid coat was easily switched out for another.
Bray met him upon his return to the rooms. His dour countenance brightened slightly at the sight of the yippy thing.
“You’ve actually done it, sir,” he said, taking the puppy from Marcus’s arms. “I confess I did not expect it to come to pass when you spoke of it at breakfast.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Marcus joked, reaching out to ruffle the creature’s soft, downy ears.
“But why not something smaller, sir? An exotic breed, something more… ornamental?”
“Of course not,” Marcus said, striding across the room where a long mirror stood. He tugged his necktie apart in haste, as the hour was growing late.
Behind him, Bray set the puppy down. It bounded forward heedlessly before turning about to bound back to the valet. It paused to sneeze in excitement, then took off running, doing laps about the room.
“Mrs. Hartley is deserving of a familiar as intelligent and spirited as herself,” Marcus muttered, half to his reflection, half to Bray.
As if on cue, the puppy crashed into the bed with a thud. It fell back, then shook itself off before taking off at a gallop once more.
Bray stared at the dog.
“Er, no matter.” Marcus raised an eyebrow, then returned to unbuttoning his shirt in the mirror. “It’ll grow out of it,” he said, with more assurance than he felt.
Before long the animal wore itself out, then splayed itself across the previously tidy bed. Now the coverlet and sheets were a tangle, bunched up around the puppy much like a nest. Before Marcus departed for Towle’s, Bray assured him he’d keep an eye on the animal, and take it out on a lead frequently throughout the night.
Marcus went downstairs, content to wait for Evelyn in the gilded lobby while reading the evening edition in a red velvet wingback alongside a marble pillar. He prayed the puppy hadn’t been too loud that afternoon, as he hoped for his present to remain a surprise until they departed for home tomorrow.
He was frowning at a tirade against Gladstone penned by a Nonconformist when something in his brain, perhaps his sixth sense, told him to look up from the paper. He did, just in time to catch sight of his wife descending the grand staircase into the lobby.
His breath caught in his chest.
She wore a light lavender gown, one he’d never seen before, that appeared cut specifically to her frame, with a cascade of ruffles emphasizing her softness. Her hair was curled and shining, piled atop her head in a fashionable style he’d never seen her wear. She looked every inch a poised and privileged lady.
Marcus swallowed. And she had sworn her vows to him.
He stood and gathered himself before approaching her, doing his best to keep his damn hands from his pockets and that grating smirk from his face.
When he drew close, he reached for her hand.
“Mr. Hartley,” she said, dipping her head slowly.
Nothing about her slow and measured demeanor betrayed a lingering hurt, but still, somehow, Marcus could feel it. She wielded her manners as coolly as a weathered knight did a longsword.
The urge to tease her, to make some sort of jest, came upon him in a rush, but he beat it back. His eyes dropped to the gloved hand he held in his.
“You look exquisite,” he said, his voice slightly rough. And he meant it.
She received the compliment with a gracious nod.
And then they were off.
Leadon Hall, located ten miles outside the city, was the stronghold of the Towles, a family that had grown wealthy from decades of metal manufacture, which was on display in the form of the ornate gate surrounding the property, iron curling and climbing upward as if it were a vine. And now, Towle was no longer just a mere MP, but Sir Philip. Marcus felt a stab of envy, creeping up along his spine just like the metalwork of the gate.
He rapped his knuckles mindlessly against the carriage door where his hand rested. What would his father say, were he to see Marcus’s current circumstances?
He did not know. He’d never breathed a word to anyone of the jealousy and anger he harbored toward his aristocratic classmates—those who would tumble into class soused, pay some poor underclassman to write their papers, and spend their evenings terrorizing the townies. And what would they receive in return? Better marks and outsized influence, the likes of which Marcus could never hope to achieve.
He would rather have died than have his father know of his shameful bitterness. But that would prove unnecessary, for it was his father who would perish instead, slipping away following a brief illness one day while Marcus was away at school.
Suddenly a gloved hand upon his knee returned him to the present.
“Are you quite alright?”
Evelyn was looking at him, her face solemn. When his eyes fell back to her hand upon him, she retreated, curling her fingers into a gentle fist.
Was she concerned for him? He felt a wave of emotion, but he shook his head, and forced his lips into a vague smile.
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?”
She glanced out the window, taking in the dancing lights adorning the house. The carriage line still stretched out before them, though they’d already been waiting for some time.
“Are your colleagues aware that you’ve… married?”
“They will be soon enough,” he chuckled.
She looked back to him, her lashes fluttering with uncertainty.
“Truly? Evelyn, you are the least of my worries at the moment.”
She flinched ever so slightly at that.
He sighed. “Have no fear, I promise not to humiliate you with affection, Mrs. Hartley,” Marcus said, reaching for her hand.
She allowed him to take it, allowed him to squeeze it, then carefully withdrew, curling her hand into a fist once more. She then slowly unfurled it against her chest and looked down, as if searching for any speck of dirt he might’ve left upon the pristine white of her gloves. But her lips pursed, and Marcus wondered if he’d misinterpreted her meaning.
Before he could ask, she spoke, her voice full of resolve.
“Please, allow me to press you once more: What ought my opinions be to support you? To further your proposals, your causes. I feel poorly prepared for such company.”
They rolled forward a few more carriage lengths, then jerked to a stop. Marcus frowned.
“I would not have you wheedling and inveigling yourself on my behalf,” he said sharply. It was bad enough that he must play these games himself.
“But if pressed—” she began, her voice rising.
“Then respond however your convictions instruct you,” he said, cutting off her plea. He paused before continuing in a gentler tone. “I beg you, do not compromise your nature to please me.”
“I had no such plans,” she sniffed, looking away. “I only wish to do what I might to bolster your prospects. Is that not why you wed me? And as you have certainly upheld your side of the agreement, I intend to uphold mine as well.”
“In Knockton. Uphold it in Knockton, where my name will be on the ballot. Do your charity and your tree parties.”
“It is a monumental tree, Mr. Hartley. And it is its quadricentennial commemoration. Not just some little party.”
“Well, at any rate, that’s all I ask for,” he said, sitting back.
He hadn’t meant to be glib, not with their disagreement from yesterday still lingering. But the thought of compelling his proud, honorable Evelyn to lie through her teeth to please a crowd of strangers… it was beyond the pale. He wouldn’t have it.
“But it’s not all that you need,” she said, making a show of tugging one long glove. “How much money have you given away to women who come begging at your door?”
Anger licked at his chest. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Is it not?” she said as she tilted her head, those wide, bright eyes staring innocently at him. “Are you not my husband? Ought I not be concerned for your reputation?”
“Ah, I see you’ve been speaking with my mother,” he growled.
“Oh yes, she’s quite talkative,” Evelyn said, her voice slightly more animated.
“Hmm,” he muttered, and looked away.
The carriage lurched forward again. In minutes they would be entering the ball.
Marcus dared another glance at his wife. She sat elegantly still, studying the fan she held in one hand. It was quite a contrast to the woman who had turned up on his doorstep months ago, her clothes travel-worn and her expression scornful. Back then he would never have considered that she could be much of an asset. But once he’d settled on her and forever intertwined their futures, he’d come to realize just what a gem she was. Lustrous and strong. A quiet wit. With a charming na?veté that forced him to look at the world through her curious eyes. Not to mention an eager bed partner.
And a willing ally, if he’d allow it.
The carriage halted again, and the massive edifice of Leadon Hall loomed over them. An army of footmen, attired in their finest livery, lined up to receive them.
So why wouldn’t Marcus allow it? Why did he shy away from Evelyn’s assistance, when he had become so taken with her?
He knew the reason, the humiliating explanation for his ambivalence toward his aristocratic wife. It was the same reason he worked himself to the bone, desperate to legislate justice and earn his spurs.
For Marcus had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but no honorific to adorn his name.
The carriage door opened. His throat tightened, and he watched his wife step down and lead the way into the night.