by Heather Boyd
But the thought of never touching him again trickled into the back of her mind. She’d never experience a moment like his again. She didn’t want anyone else. Agatha buried her head to his shoulder to hide her sadness from him.
“You don’t want this, do you?” Oscar asked as he dropped his head to her chest, his breath a fast pant across her damp skin.
“Don’t leave me like this, Oscar. I’ll run mad.”
His lips pressed against her skin. “Then I’d run mad with you.”
Oscar shifted out of her grip. He hovered above, but then slowly fitted himself at her entrance. Agatha wriggled to make room for him and then he was sliding inside. The slow joining took her breath away.
When he was settled deep, she met his gaze. Grey eyes had brightened to an intense silver, holding her fascinated as he moved within her. Agatha captured his rear with one hand, his nipple with her other fingers, and squeezed. His slow coupling faltered, but soon resumed the steady possession.
She hitched her legs high around his waist, opening her body to him fully, tilting her hips at a better angle. A sweet flush of pleasure swept over her skin.
“That’s it. Bring me deeper into you.”
Agatha met his gaze as her hand slipped from his bottom to his thigh, tucking him tighter against her, allowing him little movement. His eyes widened with alarm, but his careful passion broke. He thrust harder, pounding against her body so hard she shuddered. The careful lover replaced by the wild one.
The less gentle man.
The one she loved.
Agatha left off her explorations of Oscar’s body, clutched his shoulder with one hand, then slid her fingers down her own body to touch herself. Although she’d pushed Oscar’s passions higher, she wanted to come with him, to feel her body peak as he did.
She inched her hand between them, slicking her fingers as Oscar’s wet length entered and left her body. He groaned then bent his head to capture her lips. Joined with him in every way possible, Agatha let pleasure take her to the edge and beyond. She sobbed into his mouth as her pleasure spiked, shuddering around the rigid length embedded inside her body. Oscar pressed deep, holding still as she found her release. But then he jerked free and the hot moisture’s sting of his release bathed her thigh. He’d never withdrawn before.
Humiliated, Agatha blinked back tears. The futile wish of a forever after with Oscar had been truly denied her. When he ceased groaning, she pulled him hard against her chest and held him until she regained control of her emotions.
Oscar turned his head and kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you, so badly.”
Instead of answering, Agatha pushed him away. “That is neither here nor there. We cannot and should not be alone again. Let that be the end of it.”
He sat up with a groan. “I know. I don’t trust myself either. Are you all right?”
Agatha swung her feet to the floor and stood shakily. “Of course.” But her gown stuck to her leg and she hurried to the washbasin to cleanse herself.
Behind her, Oscar dressed swiftly. “I was mad to ever let things go so far with you. I’m truly sorry that we cannot remain as we were.”
Agatha shrugged, saddened he thought their friendship a mistake too. Once, when she’d thought his betrothal a terrible injustice, she’d hoped he’d throw propriety aside and whisk her to Gretna Green for an anvil wedding. It wouldn’t be exactly what she’d dreamed. She’d hoped to marry in St. George’s Church. But at least they would have wed.
Oscar approached and, instead of pulling her into his embrace, he merely kissed her shoulder. “Promise me you will take more care on the streets. You almost died today.”
Agatha turned slowly. “Did you follow on my heels?”
He cupped her face. “I caught you before you were run down. Were you so angry that you didn’t hear me call out to you?”
Agatha looked away, discomforted that he’d been so close to her, that he’d touched her, and she’d not noticed. Even in a crowded ballroom, separated by half the ton, she’d been aware of his location. Agatha had always taken her awareness of him as one more reason they were meant to be. “You should go.”
He pressed a kiss to her hair and turned for the window. Yet he hesitated, hovering with one leg raised in preparation for the final step through.
Footsteps rushed up the hall and halted outside her door. “Miss Birkenstock,” her maid whispered. “Your grandfather wishes to see you. Now.”
“I’ll be there directly,” Agatha called.
When she turned to say goodbye to Oscar, he’d already disappeared.
Chapter Nine
THE CHILDISH SCREAMS of happy pleasure lifted Oscar’s head for the third time that morning. He was supposed to be sorting through the accounts before his next appointment, but the orphans’ shrieks kept pulling him toward the window.
Agatha was outside playing with the unruly bunch. The first time he had dared look, he found her swamped by children. Two on her knee, the others hovering about. Agatha sat inside the circle of children, but it was the look upon her face that kept him by the window for more minutes than he should.
The children had her complete attention. An older boy was showing her something cupped in the palm of his hand. Agatha had examined it carefully, smiled, and then the boy had run to a corner of the garden. The other children had followed, but Agatha had remained seated with the baby bouncing on her knee.
It was the sight of Agatha’s joy that demolished the little of his. Even through the dirty glass, he could see she loved the child she held. Her face was a mix of contentment and acute longing as the child patted her face and pressed, no doubt, wet kisses to her cheek.
From the start, Agatha’s loneliness had tugged at him. The orphans seemed to fill a void in her that life couldn’t fill. But as tempting as she was, he hadn’t considered marrying her. He had to look higher for his bride. Love hadn’t featured in his calculations. Yet he missed Agatha with a fierce ache.
He sighed. He couldn’t look outside again. Agatha had caught him last time and scowled so fiercely he dreaded speaking to her again. Today his chest pained him, and it was from remembrances of yesterday. He hadn’t wanted to leave. He had wanted to stay warm and cosseted in Agatha’s arms, but when the maid invaded their private world, he had made his escape without a word of goodbye.
So it was over. Finally.
He should marry Penelope as soon as it could be arranged. Yet his heart sat like a lead weight, dragging his spirits lower. With time and luck, the sensations would dim until he could think of Agatha with only fondness. But today the thought of her was a thousand knives piercing his heart.
So he sat at the desk, straining to hear the world outside while futilely trying to add the same column of sums.
“Darling, why so serious a face?” His mother hovered at the door, her arm twined about Mr. Birkenstock’s.
He threw his pen down with relief. “‘Tis nothing, Mother. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Can a mother not enquire about her son if she chances to come upon him?” She slipped into a chair with a delicate huff, but Oscar wasn’t fooled. Her eyes darted about the desk, no doubt trying to ascertain his progress.
“Of course.”
Oscar nodded to Birkenstock. The older man’s face had slacked of expression, but Oscar thought him quite weary. “Please, take a seat, sir. Shall I have your granddaughter called to you? She is out in the gardens, I believe.”
“No, no.” Birkenstock mopped his brow. “I shall search her out directly.”
Disappointment thundered through Oscar, but he forced a smile to his lips. “Very well.”
He shut the ledger, more certain than ever that he would never tally the page today. It wasn’t as if he were in a rush to confirm his greatest fears that the orphanage was struggling to pay its way. He looked expectantly at his visitors. As always, there was a definite companionship between his mother and Agatha’s grandfather. A subtle and unspoken ease which spoke of
a deeper acquaintance than they let on to others. They had always been on friendly terms, even when his late father had lived, but quite frankly, Oscar was tired of pretending he didn’t suspect they were closer than mere friends.
“Was there something you wished to say to me?”
His mother squirmed in her chair. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary. I just wanted to remind you that I’m bound for Chertsey soon.”
“Ah, yes, your annual pilgrimage to see your old school friend. I do, indeed, remember. Please convey my regards to Miss Hill.” He glanced between them. “Was that all?”
Mr. Birkenstock shuffled awkwardly upon his chair then let out a loud breath. “Lady Carrington was telling me her itinerary this morning, and since our travel plans coincided, I thought to take her up in my carriage for both journeys. I’m bound for Winchester tomorrow morning on business, but I’d happily delay my plans to deliver her safely to Chertsey, given the recent spate of attacks by brigands on the roads.”
Oscar raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I remember reading about those again this morning at breakfast. Until I was roped into sorting through this mess, I was toying with the idea of accompanying Mother to Chertsey myself. But considering I was absent from Town all of the last month, I am hesitant to abandon my future wife so soon. It is very good of you to oblige me and take my place.”
Oscar turned to his mother. Her eyes widened in shock at his easy acceptance of the lie. He gave her a weary smile. Far be it for him to quibble over her pursuit of happiness. If Birkenstock could make her happy, then he’d be the last man to stand in her way.
Birkenstock clambered to his feet. “Well then, my lady. We should be going. Lady Jamison will frown upon any delay. I’ll just pop out to speak to my granddaughter and return momentarily.”
When he was gone, Oscar’s mother sighed. “You know the truth, don’t you?”
Oscar nodded without meeting her gaze.
“Thank you for your understanding, Oscar. Although it is none of your affair who I see, Thomas has been worried how you might take the news of our association.”
Oscar smiled, but inside an appalling thought had presented itself. What if his mother and Mr. Birkenstock married? He could become related to Agatha and not in a way he cared to entertain—to see her with family about them each holiday. Could he bear it?
Oscar shook his head to toss away the idea. His mother would never consider marriage again. He could not believe it. She was too fond of the social whirl to buckle under a man’s rule again. He remembered the disagreements between his parents when he was a child. His father had been an extremely hard man to please. He’d been jealous of every petty compliment she received and had always claimed his mother encouraged flattery. No, Oscar couldn’t believe the affair would come to marriage. But everything else he could be deaf and blind to.
A movement at the door caught his eye. Mr. Manning waited to see him.
Oscar waved him in then flipped open his pocket watch. “Mr. Manning, you are right on time. Please, take a seat.”
Manning sank into the chair Thomas Birkenstock had just vacated and turned his gaze on Oscar’s mother. She squirmed and refused to look in his direction. “Essy.”
“Mr. Manning.” She stood and Oscar stood too. The rector climbed to his feet leisurely, and when she made a move to pass his chair, Manning snagged the edge of her gown, letting it slip through his fingers as she passed.
He watched her depart then turned a rueful smile on Oscar. “Your mother is still such a lovely woman. She is little changed from my boyhood. She was quite a catch, even then, and believe me, I tried.”
Oscar dropped to his chair in shock. Mother had two men chasing after her? And one of them the most moral vicar he’d ever met. Oscar coughed. “You knew my mother when she was a younger woman?”
“Since I was in short pants. Long before she married. We were … friends.”
Manning’s words hinted at a great deal more than friendship. The smile that crossed his lips—a bittersweet remembrance? Oscar started to feel distinctly uncomfortable about his mother’s love life. Just how many beaux did she dangle on her arm?
“Just friends, my lord. However, I do intend to change her mind and persuade her to a permanent change in her status.”
Oscar passed a hand over his mouth to hide a grimace. His mother was headed for a week-long sojourn in the countryside with her lover, Thomas Birkenstock, and the Rector of St. George was telling him he planned to court her for marriage. This could only descend into social disaster for the family—something he’d been raised to take great pains to avoid.
Perhaps he should attempt to subtly discourage Manning. “That might prove more complicated than you believe,” he murmured.
Manning merely smiled at his warning, a Cheshire smile that boded ill for his mother. But that smile triggered a memory he couldn’t seem to place. It reminded him of someone he knew, but the name escaped him.
“You wished to see me, Mr. Manning?” Agatha stood poised at the doorway, keeping her gaze firmly on the rector, ignoring Oscar’s existence completely.
Manning gestured for her to come closer. “Yes, child. I thought that since Lord Carrington has been little involved in the orphanage that he should be given a tour by the one person who knows the place so well. My lord, Miss Birkenstock has investigated every nook and cranny of the house and can give you a detailed history of the improvements made over the years.”
Agatha’s face flushed at the compliments. “Of course, I would be happy to.” However, she looked anything but pleased.
Manning chuckled. “Well, now that is settled I shall leave you to the grand tour. Carrington. Miss Birkenstock.”
Manning departed, leaving them alone. “Good morning, Miss Birkenstock. Please be assured that I had no idea Manning would do that to you. I assumed he was here to offer advice.”
Agatha scowled. “Good morning, my lord. If you would please follow me.”
Without waiting to see if he was ready now, Agatha disappeared beyond the door. Oscar rushed to follow and found her waiting upon the first landing above his head. She appeared, at first glance, impassive, yet her hostile gaze spoke volumes. Oscar interpreted her gaze to mean that he was to behave and to keep a distance.
He tucked his hands behind his back.
The tour was conducted with excruciatingly polite conversation. He saw the linen closets, the children’s dreary, cold bedchamber, the schoolroom, and the servants’ quarters in quick succession. He supposed he should have concentrated on every word Agatha uttered. However, the lingering scent of roses tickled his nose, reminding him that all but twelve hours had passed since he’d held her in his arms, their bodies fused together as passion took them to new heights.
Agatha turned. Sunlight pierced through the cloudy sky at that moment, falling through the window and striking her in brilliant light. She looked heavenly and without caution, Oscar approached until a bare inch separated them. Time stilled, and then Agatha stepped back and around him, pacing away to put a respectable distance between them again. “Did you wish to see the cellar, my lord?”
Oscar cursed under his breath at his foolishness. “Will there be rats?”
Agatha rolled her eyes then turned to begin her descent of the servant’s stairs. “There are always rats, Lord Carrington. But if you find yourself about to faint, do give me warning so I might step aside. I have no wish to be crushed by a falling lord.”
Oscar barked a laugh. “I was, in fact, worried about your delicate sensibilities, Miss Birkenstock. I would not like to have you confronted by the fearsome beasts in such close quarters. You might have sought comfort in my arms.”
Agatha turned and pierced him with a scornful look. “You might wish for it, my lord, but such a circumstance will never occur again.”
Oscar passed before her and took the lead down the stairs in case she fell. “I shall keep hope within my breast until eternity ends then. It’s either that or haunt Berkley Square, rem
aining watchful for your next misadventure.”
At the lower door, Oscar dug into his pocket. The comforting weight of gold chain slithered between his fingers. He caught up Agatha’s hand and pressed the bauble into her palm. “A replacement. Your neck looks bare without your cross.”
Agatha examined the jewelry in the weak light, her lips pressed together. Oscar had managed to find an almost identical replacement for her stolen necklace, but in all the excitement of yesterday, he’d forgotten to offer it up.
Watching her jiggle the chain between her hands unnerved him. Judging by her expression, she was debating whether to keep the piece or toss it back in his face. He hoped she kept possession of the chain. The gift wasn’t much; it wasn’t even truly expensive. But if Agatha kept it, he would know she had something to remember him by. She would remember that he cared for her.
With a sigh, Agatha tucked the chain into her pocket then pressed a handkerchief over it. “We should continue the tour.”
Relieved, Oscar reached for the knob. But the door wouldn’t open. It was jammed, stuck beyond his understanding.
Behind him, Agatha huffed. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to win a round with a hunk of wood and a bit of brass. The door is stuck.”
Agatha pressed a hand to his shoulder and shoved. “A nice trick, my lord. Here let me try.”
Amused, Oscar watched her shake the door handle repeatedly then take a pace backward to stare at it. A sliver of light seeped around the frame and the door, illuminating her squinting expression. Suddenly she stepped forward, placed her hands on the wood, and pushed upward.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to adjust the door. It has dropped in the frame, I believe. It is not quite plumb anymore.”
Oscar stood behind her so he could see what she was talking about. Less light filtered into the crack on the right than on the left. He moved behind Agatha, placed his hands higher up on the door, and dropped a kiss to her hair. “I’ll lift the door. You turn the knob and pull when I tell you to.”