The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  Oh, but no. She was the incomparable Lady Agony, a conversational vortex, a swirling whirlpool of dampening sentiment that drained all thought from those around her. All she had to do to free herself from heartbreak was apply the power to herself and empty her mind of the viscount.

  It would be easy.

  Although Agatha recognized this misguided optimism for the lie it was, she also knew it was for the best. What was a lasting union but a marriage, and marriage was the death knell for female ambition. One could not become a successful lady painter or a successful lady anything with a husband nearby to demand attention, respect and conformity. Even if Addleson did not require compliance to certain conventions, even if he never insisted that she halt her work to get ready for a dinner party with Mr. Annoying or Lady Inconvenient, she would feel the obligation on his behalf. It was one thing to pursue your passion at any cost and quite another to make someone else pay the bill.

  The scene of companionable bliss that her naïve schoolgirl brain had concocted was fantasy in more ways than one, for partners with different pursuits frequently went their separate ways. Her mother knew this, which is why she had adopted her husband’s hobby as her own, as she had explained to Agatha on multiple occasions. The interests she’d had before marriage—and Agatha refused to believe they were as inconsequential as her mother insisted—had long been sacrificed on the altar of marital accord. Now, despite caring little for orchids, she could list the growth rates of two dozen species.

  Whatever choices she made, Agatha knew in the end her marriage to Addleson would be little more than a mound of resentments heaped on top of one another—she resenting him for sacrifices she had made out of love for him and he resenting her for resenting him for sacrifices she had made for which he had never asked and she resenting him for resenting her for resenting him for sacrifices for which he never asked but had silently hoped for and expected.

  In truth, she was fortunate their association was at an end, for marriage to the man she loved would be a misery for both of them.

  Knowing herself to be lucky, however, did little to ease her broken heart, and as the carriage turned off the street with the Rusty Plinth, she felt a misery so intense, she could barely breathe. To her horror, she felt tears form in the back of her throat and just when she feared she would weep uncontrollably in front of the Harlow Hoyden and her sister and the toplofty Duke of Trent, Vinnie suddenly leaned forward and held out her elbow for inspection by the entire company.

  “Now, I will readily concede that my elbow might be a bit pointy,” she said, displaying the joint in various poses and angles, “but I must protest Mr. Holyroodhouse’s unfair presentation of it as a spike that could impale a small child. Do say you were exaggerating, Agatha, or Emma and I will be forced to wear padded sleeves as a public safety precaution.”

  Inexplicably, unaccountably, Agatha laughed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Addleson expected the delivery of Mr. Luther Townshend to the Sea Emerald to be quick, efficient and unemotional. Armed with the name of the chief officer, he fully intended to present Mr. Topher with his new cargo and stroll down the gangway of the ship without a backward glance. The problem, as he told Huntly, who had accompanied him to the dock, was he had not anticipated an intense desire to ram his fist into Townshend’s jaw again. Having already dealt the villain several punishing blows at the Rusty Plinth, he had assumed the savage need to strike his smug face had been appeased.

  Apparently not, for, as he looked at the former deputy director of Kew now, he realized the need to thrash him would never entirely go away. How could it, when the vile excuse for a human being had held a gun to Agatha’s head?

  The image was so clear to him, Addleson might as well have been standing once again in the middle of the room at the Rusty Plinth.

  Only he had not been in the middle of the room. No, he had been trapped behind a drape—a heavy velvet green swath that obscured his view of events and nearly smothered him to death as he waited for the moment to strike. He knew it had been no more than a minute between the moment Agatha had uttered the word gun and Vinnie had charged into the room. In practical terms, only the tiniest fraction of time had passed while he frantically ran through his options, which were alarmingly few, but it had felt like an entire lifetime. In that infinitesimal speck, it felt to him as if he and Agatha could have married, raised children and retired together to a blessed plot of earth.

  Oh, how he wanted that blessed plot of earth!

  Imprisoned behind the curtain, he could do nothing to get it. Indeed, he could do worse than nothing, for moving the slightest in any direction risked revealing his position and surrendering the element of surprise. All he could do was wait for the signal from Agatha—clever, coolheaded Agatha, issuing orders like a fearless general on a battlefield—and worry that Townshend would discover the truth or act impulsively or panic when he realized the depravity of his actions. A man who would threaten a life at gunpoint was a man who was already feeling cornered, and such a man could not be relied upon to behave sensibly. He would shoot first and consider the wisdom of it later.

  And still Addleson had to wait, his entire body tense and ready as Agatha narrated her movements, slowly building to the moment when she would give the order for the attack. I am lifting my coat and raising my arm to pull the letters out from my pocket. Now I am pulling them from my pocket.

  But the order never came, just a moment of silence, pregnant with terror, and then suddenly, inexplicably, the sound of Miss Harlow storming into the room. Her entrance could not have been more perfectly timed—Addleson would give thanks for it for the rest of his life—but the serendipity of her arrival made him lightheaded. Relying on a random young lady to unintentionally interrupt an armed standoff was not an acceptable rescue plan. Addleson considered himself to be clever, but nowhere in his calculations for the meeting did he factor in a pistol. It simply never occurred to him that Townshend’s response to a fair and even exchange of evidence would be to demand the return of his own at gunpoint.

  That failure had almost cost Agatha her life.

  He could not bear to think about it and yet he could not stop himself from thinking about it and imagining worse—her lifeless body on the tavern floor—and as he stared into Townshend’s face, already bruised from the earlier beating, he thought the only thing that would drive the image from his mind was another trouncing.

  “I understand the impulse,” Huntly said, laying a hand on Addleson’s arm, “because my own fingers are twitching to form a fist, but we must restrain ourselves. It is unsporting to kick a man when he is down, however deserving of the treatment he is. But do not worry that he is getting off easily. I know for a fact our friend is prone to prodigious seasickness, and the voyage to New South Wales is unlikely to be smooth. He will suffer terribly,” he added with a cheerful smile.

  “You are right, of course,” Addleson said, conceding the point. But as he would not be there to witness the months of queasiness and heaving, he found the prospect extremely unsatisfying and promptly pounded his fist into the bound man’s nose. Immediately, Townshend cried out in pain and blood poured from his swelling appendage, which may or may not have been broken.

  Feeling much better, Addleson sighed deeply and flexed his fingers to confirm he had suffered no damage from the incident. “It’s entirely unsporting,” he agreed laconically, “and I resolve from this moment to make a concerted effort to reform my character.”

  Huntly laughed as the viscount thanked Mr. Topher for his help in removing Townshend from the isle of England. Then he wished the chief officer safe passage and departed the ship. He had planned to return immediately to his carriage, but as he stood at its threshold, he could not bring himself to climb in. Rather, he stared thoughtfully at the Sea Emerald.

  Huntly, noting the direction of his gaze, strongly advised against getting a tankard at the King’s Head, a rundown establishment along the dock. “I assure you, it is so derelict and disre
putable as to make the Rusty Plinth look like Claridge’s. I would call it ramshackle but that would be an insult to ramshackle buildings everywhere.”

  “I appreciate the advice, but I was thinking I should like to remain here until the ship sails. I’m reasonably confident that Townshend is in no shape to escape and I don’t think Mr. Topher or the captain, who have been well compensated, would allow him to, but I would still feel better keeping an eye on the situation. You, of course, should feel free to leave. I know I’m being overly cautious.”

  If the marquess privately agreed with this assessment, his answer gave no indication, for he wrapped his arm around Addleson’s shoulder and directed him to the King’s Head, which offered an unimpeded view of the Sea Emerald. “Let’s get a tankard while we wait.”

  Addleson smiled faintly. “What about all that dereliction and disrepute?”

  Huntly shrugged. “As a seasoned explorer, I have held my own in establishments many times worse and having seen how well you applied your fists this afternoon, I’m confident you can, too. I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as we stick to the beer. The Blue Ruin will likely dissolve our teeth.”

  They drew attention immediately upon entering the tavern, for they bore no resemblance to the King’s Head’s usual patron, and several regulars glared at them suspiciously. One stood up and took a threatening step in their direction, but the barkeep, a giant of a man with a neck as thick as a pillar, leaned forward and said, “Ye will ’ave no trouble ’ere.”

  Huntly nodded appreciatively and gestured to a table by the window, which, as promised, provided a clear view of the ship. They ordered Truman porter and settled in to wait for high tide. The interval itself was not unpleasant, as the marquess made for excellent company, telling tales of his own vast travels with deprecating good humor. The stories were entertaining, but even they could not make the dockside vigil feel any less interminable. All Addleson wanted to do was see Agatha. He didn’t know what he was going to do or say—he imagined supine begging for forgiveness for underestimating Townshend would not be entirely out of order—but he wanted to be near her and next to her and as close as possible without scandalizing her sensibilities.

  No, that wasn’t true. He positively ached to scandalize her sensibilities.

  His impatience must have been palpable, for at one point, Huntly interrupted his own narrative about discovering a new species of auk to suggest he keep lookout alone. “I am more than capable of making sure one conniving gardener does not escape in the unlikely event he jumps overboard. I’m pretty sure the fellow cannot swim.”

  With wry amusement, for he had thought he was a cooler customer than that, the viscount thanked Huntly for his generous offer and assured him he was more than happy to stay. Then he ordered a second round of beer.

  It was dark by the time the Sea Emerald set sail, and although Huntly insisted he could hire a hack for travel, Addleson refused to entertain the notion and delivered Huntly to the Duke of Trent’s residence.

  “I won’t invite you in,” the marquess said with a knowing grin as he climbed out of the carriage. “Do give my regards to Lady Agatha.”

  Arriving at the Bolingbroke town house a short while later, Addleson knew he was supposed to present himself at the front door like a proper suitor, but his good sense, most likely corrupted by impatience and most definitely by three tankards of Truman, led him to the window outside Agatha’s studio. The hour was late and any other young lady would be dressing for the evening’s social event—ball, rout, theater, musicale, Almack’s—but not Agatha. His Agatha was exactly where she was supposed to be, standing before a canvas with an intense and absorbed look on her face.

  At once, his heartbeat seemed to slow down and speed up, and the pervasive sense that all was right with the world existed side-by-side with an irrepressible compulsion to put the world to right.

  If he had doubted his feelings, if the terror he had felt upon hearing Townshend hold a gun to her head had not convinced him he loved her wildly, the baffling incompatibility of these emotions would have persuaded him. Only love could create the impossible mystery of peace and chaos in a single heart.

  For a moment, he simply stared through the window, allowing himself the pleasure of the sight of her. She had changed out of her footman’s clothes into a plain walking dress. The fabric was an appalling color, something in the yellow family that undermined her complexion, and splattered with paint. Her hair was pulled back in a loose coil at the nape of her neck, the random tendrils that had escaped ruthlessly held down by pins. He had never seen a more unruly hairstyle and if called upon to give it a name would have to settle for the Muddle.

  And yet she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  The viscount was so enthralled by the sight of her, it took him a full minute to realize the subject of the painting was he.

  He was the subject of the painting.

  It was still early in the evolution of the work. It was only a jumble of brushstrokes, a series of rough ideas that implied a well-thought-out concept, but it was impossible not to see his face in the high brow and broad cheekbones. If nothing else, he recognized the look in his eyes, that faintly amused way he examined the world.

  Addleson wasn’t a vain man and he certainly wasn’t given to self-delusion. He had seen the images Agatha had drawn of Townshend in Newgate—terrifying, haunting, precise—and knew her depictions were not love letters to her subjects. But he couldn’t look at the face she had painted, with its jawbone far more chiseled than anything nature had given him, and not feel it was influenced by sentiment. It was impossible for him to look at it and not think she loved him.

  His heart beating wildly, he tapped on the pane and saw the surprise, delight and confusion that swept over her face as she crossed the small space to the window.

  “My lord,” she said, drawing the window up, “I was awaiting a note informing me that all had gone well, not a personal delivery of the information.” She stepped back to let him climb over the sash. “All did go well, did it not? You’re not here to tell me Townshend evaded exile and is meeting with Mrs. Biddle right now to publish a drawing exposing me as the author of so many caricatures?”

  Up close, Addleson could see the paint splatters were not limited to her dress, for she had a brown streak across her cheek and a hint of red along her forehead. Without thinking, without answering, he leaned forward—he was already so close—and pressed his lips against the brown smudge because he could not resist. He had never seen anything more charming than Lady Agatha Bolingbroke with paint on her face and the light of curiosity in her eyes. He had only meant to kiss her lightly, a mere brush before drawing back and declaring himself, but once he felt the warmth of her skin, drawing back became impossible. The tug of desire was inexorable, and as he moved his lips to the red smear above her brow, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently toward him. Delighting in the feel of her body against his, he moved his lips down to capture her own.

  The kiss was a gentle thing, dewy and sweet, and he felt her body tense briefly with surprise before softening against his. At first, she was uncertain. Her lips were timid and cautious but after a moment, after he moved his hands from her shoulders to her back, after his arms tightened around her, the hesitance gave way to boldness and she pressed herself firmly against him, her own arms sliding up his chest. He heard her sigh, then moan, as he increased the pressure and, feeling her yield, he explored the heat of her mouth with his tongue, reveling in her daring as she responded in kind.

  His need rose to an unbearable degree but despite the three tankards of Truman, he held himself in check, luxuriating in the kiss but taking it no further. The feel of her mouth, her lips, her passion was dizzying and somehow enough, and he thought he might stay exactly where he was forever, not moving, not pulling away, even when her maid came to announce bedtime.

  Then he felt the stroke of her hand against his skin, her fingers making insistent patterns under his shirt,
and all sense of control fled so swiftly, so completely, so irrevocably, it might never have existed at all. His lips followed her lead, tracing a path of searing kisses along her jaw and her neck and her collarbone until they reached the barrier of her dress, which he removed by gently pushing it aside. Her breasts—oh, her milky white breasts—were lush and full and pert and perfect and he stared at her reverentially for a moment before taking the rosy bud of her nipple into his mouth. The hitch of her breath, the dig of her nails into his back, the tilt of her head backward further fed his frenzy and he slid his hand downward, eager to discover more and confident of what he would find.

  It was only when he skimmed his fingers over the mound of her womanhood, when he felt her tremble, when he imagined her lying entirely naked on the table with her sketchbooks and pencils, that reason returned. It was a mere sliver, just the thinnest shard of good sense, but it was enough for him to breathe the words marry me.

  When she didn’t respond, when she dragged his head up for another urgent kiss, he said it again, “Marry me.”

  On a whisper of air, more breath than word, she said, “No.”

  As if doused with cold water, Addleson released her and stepped back. He wasn’t a vain man, no, but neither was he unaware of his appeal and he had too much experience not to have understood her passion correctly. “No?” he asked, his tone more confused than offended.

  “No,” she repeated firmly, the haze of passion slowly replaced by a burst of mortification. Her face lost all color as she tugged at her dress, pulling it up until it covered not only her breasts but half of her neck as well. Then she took another step back. “Though I do perceive the compliment you’ve paid me and am grateful for the offer.”

  With his ability to think degraded by desire and drink, it took Addleson a moment to realize he had completely bungled the proposal. Curse it! It wasn’t supposed to be like this—a frenzied offer in a shabby basement room. He had planned the scene for the Bolingbrokes’ drawing room: heartfelt declaration, respectable proposal, restrained passion. Given how poorly he had handled the matter yesterday, kissing her sweetly, then bidding her good-bye coldly, he could easily imagine the confusion and suspicion his savagely ardent behavior had created. He could not blame her for distrusting his motives or his sincerity.