Nothing to Commend Her

by Jo Barrett

  "Thank you,” she whispered.

  "My pleasure,” he said, taking a place behind her. She could see the light seeping between the curtains and watched for movement.

  "You didn't have to hide too, you know,” she said.

  "Shh.” He placed a staying hand on her shoulder, sending a sweet spread of warmth down her spine. Or perhaps his nearness at her back did that. She couldn't be sure. It had been a very long time since a man had stood this close to her. No one had asked her to dance in years, and her father wasn't the sort of man who touched. An absent pat on the arm every now and then, but that was all.

  The voices drew closer.

  Magnus did not remove his hand from the lady's shoulder, although he should. Her warmth, her softness fed his soul. He'd not felt the like in a very long time. When they'd collided he was certain he appalled her. The look on her face and the way she squinted up at him had him stepping back.

  He knew his appearance was a bit hard on the ladies. Even before the fire, his looks were nothing to expound on. Harsh and grim, he'd heard himself described. But it was merely her lack of glasses that caused her to peer at him so, leaving him quite relieved when she'd asked for his help. And yet he hated having to give her back her spectacles. How would she look at him when she could see clearly?

  "Don't let it upset you, Tricia,” one girl said, pulling him from his ridiculous qualms. “Agatha Trumwell is nothing but a spinster with no prospects. She's only here because her cousin Hattie drags her along like a pet."

  The woman's entire body tensed at the comment, making him want to pull her back against his chest and ease her battered pride.

  "Yes, she does have that puppy dog look,” one girl replied, creating a faint trembling in Miss Trumwell's body.

  He gently squeezed her shoulder in silent support. Although her looks were not of the popular variety, he thought her rather attractive with her dark hair and even darker eyes. When she wasn't squinting, her eyes were quite lovely. Framed by long dark lashes, they swept up at the corner, creating a somewhat exotic affect. Quite enticing, in fact.

  The ladies stopped and giggled at their poor joke.

  "I cannot believe she had the nerve to listen in on our conversation,” another said.

  One lady giggled. “Well, we weren't exactly quiet on the subject."

  "True, but we'd not solicited her opinion on Lord Leighton. She burst into the conversation and had the audacity to lecture us on our behavior,” she hissed.

  Magnus’ stomach dropped as he released Miss Trumwell.

  "Well, you have to realize, Tricia dear, the woman has, as Shelly said, no prospects. Any man would be a catch for her."

  The one named Tricia laughed. “Perhaps we should do all we can to bring The Monster and The Dog together?"

  "Oh, what a match that would be!"

  They strolled from the gallery chatting about how horrendous the offspring would be if either of the creatures could stand the sight of one another long enough to get the job done.

  Magnus’ appearance, it seemed, was a good deal more difficult for the ladies to look upon than he'd realized. Of course his money, power, and physical size deterred any direct comments, but he'd no idea how detestable the ladies found him.

  A heartfelt growl echoed in their enclosure, pulling his attention away from his roiling stomach.

  "Dog, is it? Well, I'd like to sick a dog on that contemptible, shallow, horrid woman,” Miss Trumwell hissed, then threw open the draperies and stepped into the gallery. “But no dog in his right mind would even lift his leg to her skirts, much less take a bite of that despicable piece of refuse."

  Magnus nearly smiled at her vivid ranting, something he'd not done in a long time as the muscles in his cheek didn't work properly any longer, or more because he had little to smile about. Before or after the fire.

  He stood amazed that her trembling hadn't been from the onset of tears but anger, and partly on his behalf. A surprise, to say the least. Didn't she find him as horrible as the others?

  She spun to face him and pointed toward the direction the ladies had gone. “How can men be so blinded by their looks to not see the revolting beings they truly are? I will admit that I broke into their conversation, that I lectured them on their tasteless comments, but Lord Leighton has done nothing to them. How can they attack a man who tried to save the woman he loved?"

  He had no response to that. Yes, he'd tried to save his wife, but not out of love. There was none in his heart, she'd killed the faintest glimmer a long time ago.

  "Please, tell me that you see through their guile and charms. That a pretty face does not pardon them from their incomprehensible behavior,” she said, crossing her arms firmly beneath a rather nice bosom.

  Magnus blinked a moment, wondering how his thoughts could have moved to such a place.

  He cleared his throat and raised his gaze to her heated face, noting her full pouty lips, then quickly redirected his thoughts.

  "A pretty face is well and good, but that is not where true beauty lies.” His wife had taught him that lesson quite well.

  Those tempting lips pulled into a smile, wide and bright, filled with guileless warmth that touched him where even he dare not go.

  He took her hand, noting the sudden intake of her breath, and kissed the back. “And you, Miss Trumwell, are beautiful,” he said, and slipped her spectacles into her trembling palm then exited the gallery. A few more moments in her presence and he'd make a fool of himself. Nor did he wish to embarrass the lady once she realized he was The Monster.

  He wanted to remember her smile, her warmth, her true compassion, and the sweet scent that permeated the air around her. Rose water, perhaps? It lingered still, deep in his senses as he crossed the ballroom. He would take his leave of his old school chum, Crittenden, and make a hasty exit.

  "You haven't asked me to dance, Magnus,” a soft voice from his past, his wife's past, made him stop and turn. “I'm hurt,” Beatrice Hayden said, her words were meant to be teasing, but her eyes held an uncomfortable intensity.

  He'd not seen her since his wife's funeral. Her tears had been quite vocal, as his wife had been her best friend. But he found it odd that she would wish to dance with him. The woman loathed him, or so it seemed whenever he was about during one of her visits to Bridley Hall.

  He gave a faint nod of his head, determined to avoid any sort of scene. “I apologize for the oversight, Miss Hayden. I had no idea you were here."

  She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “You used to call me Beatrice."

  "Very well, Beatrice,” he said with a nod, then took her hand and led her to the floor, feeling every eye in the room upon them.

  Nonsense, he reasoned, the incident in the gallery had unnerved him, that was all. But his gaze caught on Miss Trumwell as she took her place beside her cousin, her glasses perched atop her pert little nose. As he took Beatrice's hand and placed his other at her waist, he found he wanted nothing more than to replace the false beauty in his arms with one spinsterish female.

  Shaking the notion from his thoughts, he stepped into the waltz, resorting to counting the steps in his head to keep from gazing at the unusual woman in the back of the room.

  "Why do I feel I haven't your full attention?” Beatrice asked, her gaze lingering on his scars before meeting his eyes.

  "My apologies. I have much on my mind this evening."

  "You work too hard, Magnus. You should find the time to relax and put things in their proper perspective,” she said, but he hardly heard her.

  A fair head leaned close to Miss Trumwell's, bringing a bright smile to her face, and once again, he nearly smiled himself.

  "There are many lovely ladies here this evening,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps it's time for you to choose a new wife."

  Miss Trumwell's gaze caught his as the word wife rang in his ears. Her head tipped to the side as she looked at him, her inspection from behind her spectacles was somewhat discomforting, and not because of his scars, bu
t because he feared she knew it had been he in the gallery. And yet he had to ask himself, what did it matter? They'd never been properly introduced, and would likely never meet again, for he had no intention of ever attending another public gathering for as long as he lived.

  The music stopped, and he escorted Beatrice back to the fringes of the dance floor.

  "I'm sorry that seeing me has upset you, Magnus,” Beatrice said, her smile a bit too like a satisfied cat.

  "On the contrary. It was a pleasure, but I've business I must attend to. If you will excuse me,” he said with a bow, and disappeared amid the milling ton, desperate to leave. He had to get out before he crossed the room and took Miss Trumwell's hand and led her to the dance floor. That would surely start the harpies to chattering, not to mention the laughter at his and Miss Trumwell's expense on the part of the distasteful group of young misses they'd overheard in the gallery.

  With enough haste to cause a bit of a stir, he exited the ballroom, leaving a wake of gawkers behind him.

  "Good heavens,” Agatha whispered on a breath. It had been him, the entire time, it had been Lord Leighton. Oh, she wanted to disappear into the wall like the wallflower she was.

  "What is it? You're as pale as a ghost."

  "Oh, Hattie,” she groaned, covering her flaming face with her hands. “I am such a fool."

  She giggled. “Did you go tromping through Lord Crittenden's garden?"

  Agatha turned her back to the room, people were beginning to notice her state. “The man I told you about, the one in the gallery—” she whispered.

  Hattie leaned close. “What of him, other than it's obvious you like him?” She reached for Agatha's hands, now clamped tightly before her. “Oh Agatha, what did you do? What haven't you told me?"

  She shook her head, hating the pounding that answered her movement. “It was him. Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby."

  "Oh no.” Hattie squeezed her hands. “How do you know? Are you certain?"

  Agatha nodded, despising the tears of anger and embarrassment climbing her throat. “He was dancing with a woman, and yet he was—he was staring at me."

  Hattie chuckled half-heartedly. “That isn't proof. And how can you be sure he was staring at you. The room is filled to overflowing."

  She glanced at her cousin. “I'm not completely blind without my spectacles. Even I could not mistake his height, the color of his clothes or the shading of his hair. He's the tallest, the darkest, and the best dressed among them. It also explains why he practically fled from the gallery after returning my glasses without introducing himself. And he was staring. Men do not stare at me."

  "Well,” Hattie replied with a heavy breath. “There's nothing to do about it, then. He has left, so you've no need to worry about crossing paths. He is likely just as embarrassed as you,” she said with a squeeze of her hand.

  "Yes. Yes, you're right, but—"

  "But you like him and now you feel the man you've chosen will never be able to face you again."

  Setting her jaw, Agatha turned back to the room. “Don't be ridiculous. He was a gentleman, one that didn't deserve such humiliation. That is all."

  Hattie laughed. “You are such a poor liar, cousin."

  Agatha swallowed her sorrow, hating how right she was. She liked the man in the gallery quite a bit. His kindness, his understanding—his attention. She hated admitting that to have a man play her champion, although in silence, had been a wonderful feeling. His strong hand on her shoulder, the subtle squeeze as the women spouted their horrid words, the simple warmth at her back. She'd wanted to lean against him, be held and touched in ways she'd never experienced. But to discover it had been Lord Leighton himself, what humiliation! It wasn't any wonder he left as he did.

  Her gaze drifted to the doorway where he'd disappeared from view—from her life.

  "I've completely lost my senses,” she muttered to herself. She didn't know the man, they'd never been introduced. She only knew of him and the tragedy of his past. Still, she thought, he would remain forever in her mind.

  "You're not leaving,” Lord Crittenden said, snagging Magnus by the arm as he hurried toward the door.

  He took a solid breath and looked to his friend. “I am. I'd intended to say good night, but was detoured."

  Crittenden, a man who'd known him since he was in short pants, saw through his lie, he knew it by the look on his face. But his friend didn't mention it. He chose a more direct means of keeping him at the ball...guilt.

  "You cannot leave me alone! Mother will serve me up on a platter before the night is through,” Crittenden said. “And after all the churlish, distasteful curses you put on my head while I helped you through your first weeks of recovery."

  Magnus held back his grin at the overdone drama before him, but he did have a point. He'd been an unpleasant fellow for months, and Crittenden was the only one he'd allowed near him, other than his butler and valet. Any and all social calls, the nosy gossips, had been turned away at the door.

  "Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Crittenden? She's not going to announce an engagement tonight,” Magnus said.

  His friend's eyes danced from side to side, as if he was being watched, and he was, truth to tell.

  "She'll do anything to get me married off,” he whispered harshly. “I'd leave with you, if I thought I stood a chance of getting past the footmen. That dragon has them on a tight leash this eve."

  A low rumbling chuckle, small but evident, sounded in Magnus throat. He'd missed his school chum these last few years. Crittenden always knew how to lighten the mood no matter the situation, which was why he'd allowed his presence during his initial recuperation.

  Clasping his friend's shoulder, he said, “Your mother is an exceptionally good woman. She's one of the finest of her station."

  "Egad, don't tell me you've defected."

  With a small grin he shook his head. “No, never that. Perhaps since you cannot escape the grounds, we could find a more private spot. That will at least give you a respite from your status as the prime catch of the season."

  "Excellent suggestion! My study, and we need to be quick about it before she finds me."

  As they made their escape, Lady Crittenden appeared from the far side of the hall. Ignoring her obvious attempts to capture Crittenden's attention, for a lady would never shout in polite company, they hurried from the hall and locked themselves in his study.

  A wide smile and boisterous chuckle burst from Crittenden's mouth, and Magnus felt the warmth of friendship ease the evening's torment. But what exactly bothered him? Was it those horrid women and their tasteless jokes, was it Beatrice and her irritating mean, or was it the spinsterish woman he couldn't seem to get out of his mind?

  "That was enjoyable. Almost like when we were lads, eh? Running from a nanny or other for having done some dreadful thing,” Crittenden said, and poured them both a brandy. “But we can't go back, I suppose.” He took a seat with a heavy sigh by the fire.

  "No. We cannot.” Magnus joined him, though his thoughts kept straying back to her. “What do you know of Agatha Trumwell?"

  "Where the devil did that come from?” He waved it off before Magnus could begin a reply. “I believe her mother is dead, and that she currently resides with her father. She's considered quite the bluestocking, I'm told.” He sipped his drink. “Why do you ask?"

  He sat back with false composure. “Some ladies said something about her and it made me curious."

  "I see. And have you met the lady in question?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "She's not the type, old boy.” With that, Crittenden relaxed in his chair and took a long draft of his brandy. “She's too virginal to be interested in a quick tumble."

  He shook his head. “Not what I had in mind, I assure you."

  "This grows more curious by the moment,” his friend muttered, leaning forward to rest his arms on his legs.

  Magnus shook his head. “Nonsense."

  A low chuckled escaped his f
riend's lips. “By God, you're looking for a new wife."

  He clenched his teeth at the remark and remained silent. Although Crittenden hadn't meant it to be a snipe it felt like one.

  "Deuced odd choice, if you ask me,” his friend said.

  "Why odd?” He should have stopped himself before posing the question. It would only draw more interest to the topic, a topic he wasn't sure he wished to pursue at present.

  "Well, old boy, she's not exactly fresh pickin's, is she? No, I suppose if I had to choose, and mind you, I've no desire or intention of doing anything of the sort, I'd choose one of the younger ones. They're rather affable, if you can get past their silly need to discuss fashion and such."

  "You'd choose a woman with nothing on her mind but the latest on dit?” His throat rumbled with a chuckle. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate an intelligent female as your lifelong companion."

  "If I wanted a life long companion, I suppose that would be something to consider, but they're never pretty enough."

  "Lord, you're a shallow fellow,” Magnus replied with a crooked smile.

  "Well, can I help it if I want to enjoy looking at my wife?"

  "Did someone say wife?” a female voice asked.

  Crittenden sank in his chair and clasped his forehead. “I'm sure you're mistaken, Mother."

  Magnus set his glass aside and rose as Lady Crittenden drew up beside her son. Obviously there were no doors in this house that she could not open.

  "I have excellent hearing, George. So tell me,” she said, clasping her hands before her with a bright smile. “Who's the lucky girl?"

  "There is no girl.” He looked to Magnus, his gaze pleading. “Tell her."

  "I am afraid he's telling the truth. We were speculating on what we might like in a wife, but haven't discussed anyone in particular,” he lied.

  "Oh, come now. You must have some idea which lady is to be your wife?” She moved to stand before her son, her gaze quite pointed and direct. Crittenden was done for, if he didn't think fast.

  "One woman was named, but she's not for me, she's for Magnus,” he said.

  "Oh?” Lady Crittenden looked to Magnus, and he felt the need to hide. “Are you thinking of marrying again, dear? I do hope so. I hate thinking of you at Bridley Hall all alone."