It was an easy enough question to answer. The fear that she would not feel the same, that if he attempted to court her, she’d find the very notion laughable. And he’d have lost her friendship anyway. Because putting that out into the open air would mean never truly being comfortable with one another in that way again.
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 tomemorize 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 merelyinstinctive 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.”
