An American for Agnes (The Friendship Series Book 10)

by Julia Donner

  While waiting for her maid, he sat on the end of the chaise, lifted her feet onto his lap, and removed her slippers. Large hands warmed her feet. “You’re like ice. Who was the visitor? I can’t place the voice.”

  She forced the name out. “Vernam.”

  “Will you tell me why he frightens you?” When she looked away, he said, “Did he say something hurtful or in any way insulting?”

  “Please,” was all she could manage.

  Footsteps sounded in the passageway. Max immediately lifted her feet from his lap and moved to the other side of the room. Smith came through and he asked for a tea set. They didn’t speak while they waited, a silence that wasn’t awkward, but filled the room with the significance of the unspoken.

  Max stayed on the other side of the room until Smith returned with a tray. He didn’t ask permission to send Smith away. Highhanded of him but the truth was that she’d rather be alone, and he’d somehow divined this. It struck her then that she wasn’t exactly alone with Max present, but his being there felt more like an extension of herself—an unsettling epiphany.

  But even more effecting than those thoughts were, she became sweetly bewildered as she watched him prepare her tea just as she liked it, a dollop of milk and a lump of sugar. He stirred it and came across the room, bending down to hand her the cup and saucer. And while she understood that they’d been in company before when refreshments were served, the point was that he remembered what she liked.

  She searched his calm gaze as he said, “I’ll send your mother to you.”

  He didn’t immediately leave. He spied a shawl draped over a chair and arranged it across her legs. After skimming the back of a crooked forefinger down her cheek, he went out, leaving behind an agonizingly empty room.

  The tea had cooled by the time she could swallow past the emotions that tightened her throat. She yearned to have him back. She needed him here. She wanted him for forever.

  Chapter 14

  Agnes sat sideways on the narrow windowsill to appreciate the sprightly audacity of midnight purple crocuses sprouting up from the flowerbeds. Overhead, emerging yellow-green leaves uncurled from branch tips. Plump buds formed on ornamental trees, preparing to burst free—so much beauty beginning to unfold and promising to appear in the coming weeks. The view should lift her spirits. Past mistakes and present alarms smothered hope’s feeble attempt to ascend.

  Nevertheless, a sad corner of her heart yearned to welcome a certain baron to settle there and take root, like the plants and trees in the world outside the window. Fear estranged her from latching onto that tiny glimmer of hope, whispering a reminder of a division—one quite like the glass she peered through—a clear barrier to the optimism of a new beginning.

  She stood when she heard her mother’s cheerful voice approaching, becoming louder and more distinct, until she and Max came through the drawing room’s open door.

  “Agnes dear, only look who has come early to surprise us. He confessed to hoping to waylay us before we went out.”

  Telling her heart rate to calm and slow, Agnes curtsied and looked up in time to see the waves on top of Max’s head, dark and shiny, as he lowered his chin in a bow. He never doused his hair with oils to hold a style, due to natural curl. She suspected he had an impatience for fussing and allowed his hair free will. She recalled its springy texture when she’d briefly touched it while adjusting his pose.

  The exact repositioning of his head was a bit of subterfuge. She no longer needed him to pose every day, having memorized his features, expression, and stance after the second sitting. Or standing, as it were. But she hadn’t been able to tell him not to come to her every day until its completion. That excuse ended today. His portrait was finished and dry. Time to take it away. He’d come to do the task himself instead of sending a servant.

  “Good morning, Miss Bradford. I am anxious to see the final touches you professed the portrait required before carrying it away to the Grange’s gallery. Although I cannot imagine what was missed or stood correction.”

  Before Agnes could respond, her mother fluttered to the door, all smiles and full of energy. “You must excuse me, my lord. There has been a great to-do in the kitchen. Some bother about the baskets we’ve readied to distribute to the unfortunate. I really should see to the problem. Agnes, do not feel that you should accompany me this morning. Keep his lordship company.”

  Agnes gaped at her mother’s obvious ploy for leaving her alone with Max. It couldn’t escape his notice that she was overtly giving permission for him to make an offer.

  When the door snapped shut, she felt his regard as keenly as a caress. A blush climbed up her throat and seared her cheeks. How was she to address this blatant breach of etiquette?

  Avoiding his gaze, she gestured to a chair. “Would you care for refreshment?”

  “No, my thanks.”

  She clutched a handful of skirts, unable to move or think clearly. Twisting the material didn’t help. An idea formed, a sudden reprieve, which she blurted, “Cameron is away, as you know, or I would ask him to join us.”

  “No. I hadn’t heard.”

  “He left yesterday to fetch Allison home. She’s a midwife. She doesn’t often practice but she cannot bring herself to refuse friends and relations. I’ve missed her terribly. I believe we would’ve counted ourselves sisters even if Cameron hadn’t married her. Oh, I might have mentioned that before.”

  When he offered no response to her babbling, she could no longer avoid his gaze. Compelled, she glanced up. Gentle pity glowed in his eyes. She dithered between melting and resisting the urge to receive the comfort he wanted to offer. His kind expression made his feelings apparent. Another part of her couldn’t ignore how his behavior altered when in her company. Others were put off by his indifference, but he never exhibited that side of his personality when with her. Neither were her mother or Cameron exposed to the rather chilling demeanor he typically presented. In anyone not in the peerage or upper classes, his attitude would be designated as arrogant or rude.

  He began to move toward her but stopped, halted by the opening door. Vincent swept through before he could be announced, pausing to take in the fact that she and Max were alone. The first thing out of his mouth was a lie.

  “I must beg pardon. I was of the impression Mrs. Bradford was receiving today.” He shut the door in the dismayed footman’s face and nodded a bow. “Good day. What splendid weather we are enjoying this morning, and how fortunate to find you at home, Miss Agnes. I have come expressly to make a request of you and know you will forgive the intrusion before receiving hours. I feared you wouldn’t be available should I wait until a more appropriate time.”

  A lack of reply left the room in a strident silence that didn’t hinder Vincent’s fake joviality. He stripped off gloves as he strolled across the room.

  “How do you do, Loverton? I would feign surprise to find you here but everyone knows you lurk the halls of Oakland. Running tame, it’s said, to get on your legs and learn the ways of tending to your position. I’m sure Cameron strives to offer his assistance regarding estate management, a servant to the Grange as his father before him. The ins and outs should make perfect sense before long.”

  “Sir Cameron is not my steward, and I am not incapable of simple mathematics. I hold myself indebted to him for his kind assistance to oversee the estate until the heir issue got settled.”

  “Quite right. It must be nothing less than daunting to acquire the rudiments of estate affairs in so little time. After all, we must remember that this is all so very new to you. Nothing like this in your country.”

  Although Max showed no response to the insult, Agnes rose to the sudden, keen urge to defend Max. Quelling the impulse to slap the smirking arrogance from Vincent’s face, she forced calm into her tone when she couldn’t stop herself from speaking up.

  “Lord Vernam, perhaps you are not aware that Loverton read law at Harvard, and according to my brother, he is conversant with the intricacies of estate mana
gment.”

  She immediately regretted her outburst. She’d rashly allowed her sentiments full rein, provoking Vincent to act on his temper. He had no patience when thwarted. Fury and evil intent glinted in Vincent’s eyes. When they’d first met, he’d complimented and cajoled to win her trust. Later, he left bruises when she resisted.

  Before she could apologize, Max said, “You’ll excuse us, Vernam. We were on our way out as you entered.”

  Vincent’s barely there smirk was eloquently suggestive. “Cameron and Mrs. Bradford are not at home?”

  The innuendo was that Agnes was entertaining a male visitor alone. Agnes wanted to shriek at the swine that if he knew that, why would he barge his way in when she had no chaperone?

  Max saved her from swirling emotions, new and old resentments that threatened to ignite. He advanced a single step, which placed him partially between Vincent and herself. Even though Max said nothing, Vernam blanched and stepped back, his face suffused with color and pinched-lip frustration. Max turned slightly to extend his hand to her. He took her arm when unspent outrage rendered her unable to unfix her slippers from the floor.

  Silent, yet his purpose clear in her mind, Max’s insistent tug got her moving. “As I said, Vernam, we were on our way out. Good day to you.”

  She didn’t look back as Max escorted her down the passageway to the staircase. She shook her head when he moved to take the flight up. Under her breath, she said, “Your portrait waits at the back entry. We thought you’d send for it.”

  “Very well. Show me the way.” As they went down the steps, he murmured, “You don’t welcome Vernam’s attentions.”

  “He’s married.”

  “Then one can do nothing else but consider his behavior ungentlemanly in the extreme.”

  “Please, do not concern yourself, sir. If it becomes necessary, Cameron will see to the issue.”

  “But he is away at the moment.”

  “I am appreciative of your concern, but Vernam is a matter for my brother to resolve.”

  Except that she would never tell Cameron. It would be easier to stay indoors and in her studio, out of sight and contact. Orders to have no interruptions would be honored by family and staff, but she would need a reason. Something would have to be devised to keep Cameron from learning that she’d been dishonored, and now Max was showing signs of owing a short fuse where she was concerned, but he was easier to divert.

  “My lord, you mentioned something about another work.”

  He didn’t immediately reply. He’d tried to conceal his displeasure when she refused to allow him to champion her, but she knew him too well. She allowed him time to work around discontent.

  Accepting her decision and ploy to avoid the subject of Vernam, he replied, “I thought perhaps something amusing. I brought my buckskins, not like those worn here for leisure and riding. These are fringed in the style of those native to America.”

  “You intrigue me. Will you also wear face paint?”

  “Left that in Philadelphia. But I suppose I could improvise. Or you could, I’m sure.”

  “What colors?”

  She struggled between a startled laugh and shock when he said, “How about diagonal stripes of black for vengeance?”

  “Max, no,” she whispered. “You must not be so stubborn about this. He’s not worth the risk.”

  He took her hand and held it to his mouth as they descended the last steps. “Of course he isn’t, Agnes. But you are.”

  Chapter 15

  Squire Marston requested a ruling regarding field boundaries encroaching on his land. Max invited the farmers involved to a discussion at the village inn. He asked for a private room there. He wanted no opportunity for Mrs. Marston to inveigle a way into a visit at the Grange. A devotee of selective hearing, the squire’s wife wasn’t a weed easily removed once she’d taken root.

  Having witnessed many energetic political debates, he understood the process of discussion and resolution between opposing sides. Compromise was rarely reached without a bit of greasing of the wheels. He told the innkeeper to keep those involved well provided with ale, wine and strong spirits. He could only hope that getting them drunk would help them form a cheerful bond. There was always the probability that it could deteriorate into a brawl. If that happened, he would be forced to make the decision, something he didn’t want to do as a recent addition to the neighborhood. He was going to be responsible for plenty of unpopular rulings in the future. By then, he could hope that he had earned respect.

  It took only an hour to get them raging drunk, laughing and entirely forgetting the reason for their disagreements. Max ordered victuals, paid for more ale and additional coins for accommodating barmaids and possible furniture breakage.

  As he stood in the foyer with the innkeeper counting out coins, he overheard a familiar voice use Agnes’s name. He turned to look through the entrance of the taproom entry.

  Vernam and a group of well-heeled men stood near the entrance where they could congregate in obvious segregation from the rest of the tavern occupants. A burst of laughter erupted after Vernam finished his tale about the delightful happenstance of discovering that a former lover resided nearby. The blood in his veins froze then fired hot when Vernam vowed to partake of the best sort of sweet after tomorrow’s race.

  His vision hazed-over with deadly intent, Max dropped the coin pouch in the innkeeper’s palm. When he stepped inside the taproom, conversation quieted. Everyone turned to look at him. It vaguely registered that he must be wearing the unpleasant expression Cameron had described.

  The nearby group he’d been listening to stood transfixed, curious yet arrogant as he approached. Without introduction or preamble, Max punched Vernam on the mouth. Before he fell, Vernam was caught by one of his friends and pushed upright. Mutters and shocked protestations came from his friends.

  Max held himself in check. Outrage and hurt that anyone could use such vile terms about angelic Agnes overwhelmed rational thought, and Vernam boasted those lies in public. Boiling fury called for more violence. Its demand shivered across his shoulders and down his arms. He clenched his fists, hoping Vernam would fight back, but he didn’t. His sort talked about it but never did.

  Vernam swiped a knuckle across his bloodied lower lip and glanced at the stark red smear on the white of his glove. He righted himself with a sneer. “An unprovoked attack. How typical of an uncouth Colonist.”

  “I say,” one of Vernam’s friends sputtered, “one must extend a proper challenge.”

  Vernam gave his jacket a tug into place. He lifted his chin, confidence bolstered by the defense of his companions, but he still made no move to retaliate, evoking Max’s sense of revulsion.

  The group held their ground, but did lean slightly back, when Max advanced another step toward Vernam, another blatant provocation.

  Vernam sputtered, “Take yourself off, sirrah! Your sort has no place here.”

  “Who allowed this common lout in here?” another in the group muttered, but glanced away when Max shot him with a warning glare.

  Max gave the violence of his feelings release, pleased with the grit in his voice. “I will accept it as a compliment that I have no association with men of your ilk. I was brought up that a gentleman never besmirches a lady’s name.”

  Vernam dredged up enough courage to respond. “Then issue a proper challenge. This is England, not the Colonies. The correct response to insult is a formal challenge.”

  While he allowed them a moment to bask in that opinion, it came to him that he had better weapons to use than his fists. They wanted to put him in his place? He’d put them in theirs.

  “I never bother to give respect or credence to bullies, liars and especially persons who seek to elevate themselves by denigrating the innocent.”

  They retreated as a group when Max took another step toward them. He grinned at the cowards. “I am Maxime Blayne, ninth baron of Loverton, godson of His Excellency President Washington. And were they in England, I would hav
e the names of Thomas Jefferson, Maquis de Lafayette to act as my seconds. Do not cast your feeble display of self-importance in lieu of character at me. I only deal with men.”

  The only reply to that came in the form of muttered protests but no challenges. Max raked the onlookers in the taproom with a warning glare. Many looked away. Others watched, intrigued. A few remained unmoved, disinterested. Since none of the watchers spoke up, Max turned his banked fury on the man who had publicly shamed and insulted Agnes.

  “Vernam, in the company of these witnesses, I vow that you’re damned lucky I didn’t demand a duel. I wouldn’t have settled for pinking a shoulder or winging an arm. I would have shot you dead through the eye and used the pistol butt to beat you into a jelly. Do not ever let my intended’s name come out of your mouth.”

  Confusion altered Vernam’s pompous expression. Full of false courage, he was foolish enough to blurt, “Your intended? You’re betrothed to Agnes?”

  Max hadn’t meant to use that as an excuse for his attack on Vernam, but now that he’d said it, it felt perfect, right. The declaration, true or not, fired his blood hotter.

  “Not another word about her, Vernam.” Then he warned the rest of the room, “There will be no talk of this conversation from anyone, from no man in this room. If I hear that any of you has said a word about this encounter or about her, I will hunt you down like the craven vermin you are.”

  He swung back to Vernam’s collection of followers. “And for your edification and education, duels are a common practice in America. I choose not to waste my valuable time on the inconsequential. Or cowards.”

  One of Vernam’s group withdrew a small pistol from his pocket. “Leave while you can, Loverton. If you will not abide by rules of gentlemanly conduct, I will remind you that there are six of us and one of you.”

  Max made his feelings clear with a snort of disgust. “So much for your sort of rules of conduct, and the insignificant bit of lead from that is no impediment. If it’s six at a time, so be it.”