by Jo Barrett
Her kiss at luncheon had been one of thanks, nothing more. She was likely afraid he'd grab her like a barbarian again. And he wanted to, desperately, but if she were to turn away...no he refused to dwell on such things. He would keep a respectable distance, as he had in the past, regardless of the things she'd said in the study.
He moved a few other plants, widening the space where her new worktable would go, unable to take his leave of her.
"I suspect Barstoke shall locate a suitable table before the day is over,” he said, attempting to make casual conversation.
"I'm sure he will. Although the potting table height was ideal, it was a bit ragged.” She moved beside him, her hands filled with more plants. “The cupboard he located, however, is perfect for storage."
He took the plants and placed them alongside the others, making sure not to touch her.
Straightening, he brushed off his hands. “Are you going to continue working on the wheat and corn you've planted behind the shed, or do you intend to cultivate new specimens here?"
"I'd considered indoor cultivations before in London, but any results won't be very useful for crop production.” She bent to retrieve a few items from one of the crates containing some of her supplies. “So I dismissed the idea."
He crouched down beside her and lifted a pair of containers filled with a powdery substance. “Not necessarily. Although you will have provided an ideal climate, you could calculate the effects of your fertilizer more quickly."
She nodded, a small smile on her lips, as she placed the items in the cupboard. “True. And I would be able to set aside my failures more quickly as well."
He chuckled. “An experiment that doesn't bring about the results you expect isn't necessarily a failure. Simply one way in which not to combine the various ingredients.” He reached around her and placed the containers alongside the others.
She turned her head, her lips scant inches from his. Her sweet scent seeped beneath his skin, his hand stilled where it held the last jar.
"I never looked at it that way before,” she said, her voice soft and inviting.
"Well.” He stepped back and cleared his throat. His intention of maintaining his distance was not going to be an easy one. “I'm sure you would have eventually."
"Perhaps.” She retrieved another vessel of powder from the crate.
Curious he eased closer to attempt to read the labels. “What are these substances you're working with?"
"I've calcium, nitrophosphate, and potassium. A proper combination of these to meet each plant's requirements will undoubtedly create the desired results. It's a matter of balance."
She placed the last jar on the shelf, brushing his coat with her arm. He jumped back out of the way.
"You really ought to put on an apron of some sort, you're liable to get quite dirty in here,” she said with a soft laugh.
"You mean you'd wish I'd go away and leave you to your work.” He'd voiced the truth before thinking and wished to take it back.
She spun from the cupboard to face him. “Oh no. I rather like your company.” Her lashes lowered for a moment as her face warmed. “Although I'd accused you of just the opposite but a few hours ago."
"And rightly so.” Perhaps distance on all fronts was not what she wanted after all.
"I was no better,” she said.
"I beg to differ,” he said.
She looked to her apron and brushed at a smudge of dirt. “I-I want to apologize for my manners at luncheon. I shouldn't have—well I should've behaved better. I hope I didn't cause you too much embarrassment."
His heart fell. She regretted her actions, kissing him, to be exact, but he would endure the slice of pain. “You don't need to apologize. I understand. You were—surprised."
Her lips turned up ever so slightly in the corners. “Yes, I was.” She lifted her head and gazed up at him, her deep brown eyes filled with hope. “And you don't mind my being a scientist?"
"I find your work fascinating.” Almost as fascinating as you. He swallowed hard against the desire to pull her into his arms and taste her sweetness.
Her face lit up. “Truly?"
"Yes.” Reaching out, he brushed the back of his fingers across her warm cheeks, then jerked them away. He had to try harder, much harder.
"Well then,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “If you're certain I wouldn't be a nuisance, perhaps I could open the other crate or assist you in another way. Move more plants, for instance."
She dropped her chin to her chest, averting her gaze. He wondered if it was his face she couldn't bear to look at or if something else was bothering her.
She removed her gloves and set them aside. “No, I have it under control, but I—I was wondering—that is—"
"What is it you wish me to do? You need only to ask."
She clenched her hands together and stepped closer, the tips of her slippers touching his boots. “Would you kiss me?"
He stood frozen, stunned by her request.
She focused on his weskit, her cheeks flaming. “Of course, I'll understand, and I shan't ask again if it's uncomfortable for you."
She wasn't repulsed by his touch—or his kiss? Hope roared to life in his chest.
"Or if you'd just rather not,” she murmured.
He reached for her with false ease and pulled her against him. “I'd rather,” he murmured, then pressed his lips to hers.
A quivering sigh gave him entrance to her mouth, and he explored her, tasted her, indulged in absolute paradise. Her hands trembled where they lay against his chest, as did his, but the kiss went on and on. To hold her, to know she wanted his kiss was a staggering, exhilarating thought, but he would be gentle with her. He would not frighten her, he would not be The Monster.
Pressed against his chest, her heart pounded in rapid succession with his. He wanted to touch her, feel her soft smooth skin against his, but knew he could never risk losing her. And still, his hand rode up along her spine, across her back to her side. His thumb brushed the edge of her breast and she trembled, but did not pull away.
Perhaps with Agatha he could be a man once again. Perhaps with her, he could have the one thing that had eluded him his entire life.
A throat cleared, followed by a familiar chuckle. “I knew I'd come to call too soon,” Crittenden said.
With a low grumble, Magnus released her. “Your timing needs work, I'll grant you."
Agatha spun from his arms and fussed with her gloves. He watched her for a moment, concerned he'd gone too far, then grinned with the realization that she was mortified to be caught kissing. At least, that is what he told himself.
He rationalized it was only her second kiss. She was sheltered where sex was concerned, her father being widowed, and she had asked for his kiss. She'd softened in his arms and sighed with pleasure as he'd held her. He refused to allow his fears to tarnish the few moments they'd shared.
But at the back of his mind, he knew modesty would not be what turned her from him if he tried to make love to her.
"Would you like me to come back at another time?” Crittenden asked with a broad smile.
Magnus shook off the thought, and moved to stand beside her where she fussed over her pots and jars. “What do you think? Should we send him on his way?"
Her gaze shot to his. “Oh no! Of course not. I—oh, you're teasing me,” she said, her face a flame of color.
With a grin, he nodded.
Barstoke appeared. “My apologies, my lord, but you have guests arriving."
"Guests?"
"Yes, sir. Lady Crittenden, Lord and Lady Barrington, and their daughter. Lady Templeton, and her two daughters..."
The list rambled to approximately twenty or more people.
"Good Lord,” Crittenden sputtered. He looked at Magnus with the eyes of a cornered fox. “She found me."
"You mean, they found you,” he said with a heavy sigh. “It would seem your mother is no slouch in deciphering your intentions. I suspect they stopped he
re to collect you while on their way to Haverton House."
"Well, it's your bloody fault for telling her she was welcome here at any time,” Crittenden groused. “Oh, my apologies, Lady Leighton for my language."
"Th-that's quite all right, my lord.” Agatha turned to the butler. “See them to the large drawing room, Barstoke. We shall join them shortly."
Magnus watched her as the old gent went to inform their guests, not missing the telltale sign of her nervousness. Her fingers were turning white where they gripped her gloves.
Crittenden cupped his forehead, his eyes clamped closed as he sank to the edge of a planting wall. “I shall never have any peace. Now I've no choice but to survive a house party that I had no intention of having."
"That sounds rather disagreeable,” Agatha said, her face almost ashen. There was something more here than the shock of unexpected guests, Magnus wagered.
Crittenden snorted as he lifted his head. “You've no idea. My mother is quite adamant about finding me a wife. I had hoped I'd escaped her machinations this time, intending to remain here for a few days, thinking that her plans would die with my absence from Haverton House."
"She is determined,” Magnus said, his gaze still focused on his wife.
Crittenden sprung to his feet. “No. I will not allow this. I must put a stop to this, once and for all. She has no right to barge in here with her cackling crew regardless of your generous hospitality, Leighton.” He moved to the door, but Agatha rushed to stop him.
"No, please, my lord.” She looked to Magnus, her eyes pleading with him to aid her. Although he had told Lady Crittenden his home would always be open to her, he'd not meant an entire entourage, but casting them out would be discourteous.
"It's too late now, Crittenden,” he said. “And it would be unfathomably rude of me to toss them out, which is how it would appear in the end, regardless of which one of us did the deed."
Agatha returned to Magnus’ side, her hands clenched tightly before her. “We're—honored that your mother a-and her friends wish to pay us a call,” she stammered.
He couldn't resist the urge to take one of her trembling hands. Thankfully, she didn't flinch at his touch. In truth, she clenched his hand quite firmly in return.
Not a moment ago, he thought at first his scars caused her trembling, and then he surmised that she might want his touch and it was nothing more than nervous expectancy, but now he was no longer sure of any of his deductions.
Her words, earlier in his study, echoed in his thoughts. She wasn't afraid, would never be afraid of him. That fact buoyed his heart. But the poor woman was terrified, as she'd been on their wedding day. But of what? Could she simply be afraid of entertaining their guests?
He refused to allow one of these interlopers a solitary word against his wife. She may not be the ton's finest diamond, but she was strong, brave—and his choice. She was Lady Leighton and deserved the respect of her position. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was troubling her.
Crittenden sighed. “If you're quite sure."
She nodded. “Yes, absolutely."
"You realize, they'll try and stay a few nights at the very least."
"Oh, um, why that's fine,” she said, her voice barely showing signs of her trembling. “That's fine."
Magnus looked to Crittenden. “If you would greet your mother and the others while I speak with my wife?"
"Of course,” he said and slipped from the room.
Magnus gripped her upper arms and turned her to face him. “I will gladly toss the lot on the drive, if that is what you prefer."
"No, don't be silly.” Her voice quavered. “I'll not embarrass you, Magnus, by forcing them to leave.” She dropped her gaze to her hand, now fidgeting with a button on his coat. “I'll do my best not to make a ninny of myself, and concentrate solely on seeing to their comforts as a lady should."
He rested his unscarred hand over hers, stilling it. “You are Lady Leighton. You have every right to behave as you see fit in your own home."
"Thank you, but...” She looked up at him with warmth in her eyes, and something else. Something akin to guilt. “Um, there is something, or rather, someone—I'd forgotten all about him, really, but—well—with the arrival of Lady Crittenden—” she stammered on, and his stomach roiled.
He stepped back, releasing her, and forced himself to ask. “Him. I assume this is about your correspondence with a K. Reynolds."
"Yes. How did you know?"
"The post.” He clenched his jaw against the bile rising in his throat.
"Oh, of course. Well, the problem is, you see, he's coming to visit, rather soon, and I'm afraid—” She looked down and rang her hands. “I—I—oh botheration,” she growled and lifted her chin. “I lied to him. He thinks I'm a man."
She stomped to her crates and kicked one, albeit not very hard. “I needed the nitrophosphate, and since no one in the scientific field seems to think women have a brain, I lied and told him I was a man."
Stunned and yet elated, Magnus couldn't control the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. She had no lover.
He cleared the chuckle from his throat. “I see. And now this Reynolds is to pay a call."
"He's coming to England on business and intends a visit so he can see my work. He's likely here already, his letter implied he would be leaving immediately after sending it, and Papa was somewhat remiss in forwarding his letter on promptly.” She spun around, her brow creased. “I know you must think I'm a terrible person for lying about such a thing, but my work—"
"I think nothing of the sort."
"Then—then you're not cross with me?"
He shook his head. “No. Relieved, actually,” he said with an awkward chuckle.
She cocked her head at him, a puzzled expression on her face.
He may as well tell all, most of it, at any rate, the day seemed one for confessions. “I thought he might be—let us say, more than an acquaintance."
Her eyes widened. “You thought I had a—that he and I were—"
He nodded. “I'd considered it, yes."
She planted her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. “Of all the silly—he lives in America. How would I have—” She waggled her fingers in the air. “It's completely illogical,” she said with a firm shake of her head.
He chuckled low. “It would seem, my dear, that where you are concerned, logic and I don't appear to confer as often as we should,” he said dryly.
Her mouth fell agape, her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes glistened. “You mean, you were—you were jealous?” she asked, her voice breathy and unsure.
He crossed the small space and brushed her warm cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Most definitely."
He dropped his hand before he pulled her back into his arms and kissed those sweet cherry lips formed in a perfect ‘oh'. “Does your father know of this Reynolds and your fabrication?"
"What? Oh, yes.” She shook her head, the glazed look in her eyes fading. “He wasn't at all pleased about it,” she said with a weighty sigh.
"Then I suspect once the gentleman arrives in London, your father will likely direct him here. You'll not be able to keep up the pretense any longer."
"I know.” Her shoulders drooped. “It was silly of me to do it in the first place, but so many scientists and suppliers refused to deal with me, I didn't wish to take the chance. Nitrophosphate is so difficult to come by."
"Do you have an ample supply currently?"
"Yes,” she said with a nod.
"Then you shouldn't worry about the loss of your connection. If it becomes necessary, I will purchase whatever you need."
She smiled tremulously. “You would do that for me?"
His resolve was rapidly fading against the palatable desire to kiss her, to comfort her—to make love to her, but with a house full of people, all waiting for their appearance, they were pressed for time, and he suspected he would have a difficult time letting her go once she was in his arms
again.
He forced a smile. “Of course. After all, I shall be the one to reap the rewards of your success in my fields."
She shook her head with a faint giggle. “You continue to surprise me."
"I shall take that as a compliment. Now then, are you ready to face the foe?"
"Oh, no, I must change.” She looked down at her work dress. “I don't dare let them see me like this."
"You look lovely as always."
She blushed at his comment, then amazed him by tipping up on her toes and kissing him, just a brush of the lips, before she dashed out of the orangery.
Just as they were beginning to come to some sort of arrangement, just as he was learning that she could accept his touch, that she might actually have feelings for him, he had to be cursed with a house full of nattering matchmaking women, and a soon-to-be disgruntled American on the way toward his door.
He grumbled as he strode down the hall. “Of all the bloody timing."
Agatha pressed her hands together as if in prayer once she reached the haven of her room. A lone tear begged to slide down her cheek, but she refused to allow it. She had to look her best for Magnus and their unexpected guests. She would not fail him.
He'd been so understanding about her lie, about Lord Crittenden's mother and her friends—about her work, he was everything she'd ever dreamed of in a husband.
"And his kisses,” she sighed. Her cheeks flooded with warmth again and her heart raced. They were too exquisite to be believed. She'd never felt so alive, so exhilarated, so—wanted.
What would it be like to make love with the man?
She stumbled to a chair and sat down, her head still spinning.
"Stop thinking about it,” she groused. It was no use. He couldn't come to her bed, they couldn't do what other married couples did, so there was no use thinking about it.
But her thoughts did not obey as Tess helped her change into a more suitable gown. Her husband thought her work fascinating. He had been jealous, and claimed he wanted her. He'd actually kissed her with, dare she hope, passion?