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 markedhim 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 ithadbothered 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 whetheror 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 mybrother’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,ubiquityof your family’s shoe polish.”
