by Robyn DeHart
“Every illicit word.” Though he knew that was too much to hope for. Agnes was an innocent and he never touched them. In fact, she was the only one he’d ever been tempted to touch. And entertaining this conversation might provide more temptation than he could resist. He was treading on thin ice as it was, considering his cock was already resting heavy against his thigh.
She nodded. “I am not naive enough to think that people do not carry on and have affairs, but I must say that the sheer number of your”—she paused as if searching for the right term—“conquests is appalling. If the rumors are to be believed.”
“You are listening to rumors about me?” He smiled down at her. “Bluebell, I’m touched.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your behavior is unbecoming of a gentleman of your rank.”
“You know as well as I do that my title is nothing more than a courtesy at this point.”
“Yes, but it won’t always be that way. And you have your brother to consider. You are being a wretched example for a gentleman of his young age.”
He snorted. “Jefferson has spent his life watching me and our grandfather, while our worthless father hides himself in the country. He is neither a cruel bastard, like our grandfather, nor a legendary lover, like me.” The words “legendary lover” sent disgust spiraling through him. While other men were known for building empires or defending their country, known for their cunning and their bravery, he was known merely for his skill in the bedroom.
Which seemed a small enough thing to him.
How hard was it to pay attention to the pleasure of a woman? Not difficult at all. And vastly pleasurable. Except hardly the sort of thing a man wanted to be his legacy.
“On the contrary, my brother is so firmly on the straight and narrow he doesn’t even realize there are other roads to be taken. If anything, my behavior has encouraged Jefferson to be the uptight principled soul he is. So, you needn’t worry there.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Her frown deepened.
He waited to see if she’d considered anything else. This entire subject matter surprised him. Not merely because she was a genteel lady and such a topic was scandalous, but because she’d clearly spent enough time on formulating an argument meant just for him. She’d thought about him and his behavior, even if she didn’t approve of it. He was a bastard for finding some measure of pleasure in that notion.
“Then certainly you must consider the women.”
His smile tipped up. “That is all I consider, my dear Agnes.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, her eyes widening as she realized the meaning behind his words. Her features set in a frown. “You are leaving a trail of broken hearts behind you.”
“Didn’t you tell me once that you don’t believe in love?”
“And I maintain my belief, but I am more pragmatic than most women.”
“Pragmatism won’t keep you warm at night or bring your body pleasure.”
“I require neither.” She nodded as if to reassure herself of that fact. “Let us get back to you as we’re not talking about me. You must recognize that some of these women will never be the same. You can’t be so cruel that you do not care about harm you cause.”
“Cruelty has nothing to do with it,” he said, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “These women don’t come to me with their hearts in their hands. They want seduction, passion. And I provide that and only that. It is a mutual agreement. There are no broken hearts, no hurt feelings. Just two satisfied partners.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Physical affection was meant to be rooted in emotional affection. There is no way possible that you don’t care about the women and likewise that they don’t care about you.”
“It’s the truth.” She was the only woman he’d ever cared about, but he couldn’t tell her that.
“Then the pleasure must not be that great.”
“You have no notion of how much I want to drag you into a darkened room and show you precisely how much passion and pleasure I could bring you.”
Thankfully, he only interacted with Agnes on a limited basis, so he felt comfortable about the words he was about to whisper into her ear. He’d shock her delicate sensibilities and then she’d scurry off and leave him be. He’d find some willing widow and then lose himself in the pleasures that he knew so well.
“Did you know there is a specific part of a woman’s body that has the sole purpose of pleasure? That is all it does. It’s a sweet bundle of nerves that does nothing but produce earth-shattering orgasms. That is proof enough that our Creator designed our bodies as vessels of pleasure. I’m rather partial to sucking that little nub into my mouth. As long as a man is inclined to bring his lovers pleasure, there is no need for emotional affection.”
She sucked in a breath and said nothing.
“Do you want me to tell you where it is, Agnes? I can show you how you can bring yourself pleasure.”
“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “This is precisely what I’m talking about, Fletcher,” she continued. “You are too brazen, far too lustful. Do you not fear for your soul?”
He chuckled. “I’m afraid my soul is already damned.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a laughing matter.”
“What should I do, then, Agnes, swear off love and affection as you have?”
She frowned, her eyes narrowing at him. “I never said I had sworn off affection. I merely said that romantic love seems to be an illusion and one that I do not prescribe to. It doesn’t mean I’m heartless and uncaring.”
They danced the remainder of the waltz in silence and he argued with himself about speaking to her so brazenly. Better she heard it from him and cease talking of such nonsense. He wanted to ask why she’d thought to confront him about such a bold topic. Was she afraid for his soul, as she’d suggested? Perhaps that meant she cared more than she let on.
“Does Christopher only allow you to dance with me this one night?” she asked as he led her back to where she’d been standing before their dance.
“Something like that,” he said. In truth, he only allowed himself this one dance. She was far too tempting to be this close to very often. He flipped her hand over and placed his lips on the bare skin of her wrist directly above her glove. His lips opened against her skin, his tongue making the barest of contacts against her warm flesh.
…
She turned away from him, refusing to watch his tall frame walk back into the crowd. Her heart pounded so furiously in her chest, she glanced down to see if her gown showed the movement. Tingles danced along her skin and she couldn’t determine if she was hot or chilled.
That discussion had not gone as planned. Or rather she hadn’t planned enough perhaps. She hadn’t counted on him arguing with her, defending his behavior. She’d foolishly assumed he’d see the error of his ways once she’d brought it to his attention. Instead, he’d turned the tables on her and set her body on fire.
He was nothing but a flirt and a scoundrel. Christopher had told her, those many years ago when she and Fletcher had first met, that Fletcher was not the right man for her. He was far too worldly. And he’d never settle down and stay faithful to any woman. Over the years, she’d seen the truth of that. He was a shameless flirt, much like her own mother. And like her mother, there were rumors of Fletcher and his seductive prowess. A veritable Don Juan of London’s elite.
Christopher had always been protective of her. He became even more so when she’d explained to him that she had no wish to find a husband. He’d listened intently to her reasoning and agreed to keep the men at bay until such a time that she changed her mind. He was excellent at doing so as he had an uncanny way of popping up around her no matter where she was, glaring at any prospective suitors and frightening them away.
She wasn’t blind to her own appearance, nor was she vain. She was beautiful, in the classical sense. She’d been told that her entire life. Then her body had developed and she’d been gifted
a figure men lusted after. Most of them weren’t shy about admitting such a thing. Whether it was the fact that they expected her to become as loose with her affections as her mother was, she was unsure. She knew, though, that she hated the attention. Every minute of it.
There was so much more to her than her pretty face and feminine curves. She was intelligent and creative, and resourceful and kind, and even funny…sometimes. No one had ever bothered to discover those characteristics in her. No one, save Fletcher. But he was a lothario and a wastrel, everything Christopher had described him to be. So, despite the fact that her body betrayed her and never failed to react to his nearness, her mind knew he was not the man for her.
She had decided long ago that love wasn’t for her. For a short while, she’d hoped marriage might be in her future, even if love was not.
Romantic love was, at best, a fleeting illusion—something women used to explain their lustful nature. At worst, a recipe for pain and heartache. As far as she’d ever been able to tell from watching the couples around her, love did not endure even if a union lasted decades. Fletcher was certainly a fitting example of that. Surely, his affairs had a left a string of broken hearts and dashed hopes. At least, that’s what she had always assumed.
But what if she was wrong?
What if, as he maintained, his affairs were all of the flesh and not of the heart at all? What if lust had nothing to do with affection or emotion? She supposed it was reasonable that she wasn’t the only enlightened woman in London, and perhaps others had discovered that love was not an emotion of endurance.
Why did the combined thought of Fletcher and lust make her feel so uncomfortably hot and flustered?
Chapter Four
Fletcher had barely stepped away from her before saying something idiotic and foolish, like begging her to run away with him. Before he pulled her into the shadows and ravished her the way they both knew she wanted him to do. The way he’d always longed to do.
Fletcher recognized the telltale signs of her desire for him—the flush that had colored her throat and cheeks and the way her pupils had nearly swallowed her lovely irises—Agnes wanted him as much as he wanted her. Which meant he needed to get the hell out of here, at least until he cooled himself down.
He made his way to one of the downstairs parlors where he knew he’d find other men—mostly husbands hiding from their wives—drinking and smoking. He said nothing as he entered the room, merely making his way to the sideboard and pouring himself two fingers of brandy. He downed it in one swallow, then poured himself another.
There was something between him and Agnes, or there could be. He’d spent the last three years denying this fact, doing his damnedest to pretend he didn’t want her, because the simple truth that he couldn’t have her was too hard to swallow.
Fletcher knew her brother wholeheartedly disapproved. Christopher hated him and would kill him if he put a finger on Agnes. Hell, the man would kill him if he knew about the mostly chaste kiss they’d shared the night they met.
He’d say he could work around Chris as Fletcher didn’t exactly require the man’s approval to court his sister. Except for the fact that Chris was still in charge of doling out assignments in the Seven. If Fletcher ever wanted to do anything save the menial assignments and the occasional seduction for intel, he needed to get on Chris’s good side, which felt rather impossible since the man seemed to set him up for failure.
Fletcher knew Agnes required courtship and a proper marriage, though she claimed she wanted neither. If he believed himself a better man, he might try to convince her otherwise, but he knew without a doubt that he’d be a wretched husband. None of the men in his family had ever been good mates. His grandfather was a mean bastard whose vitriol had sent Fletcher’s grandmother to an early grave. Then there was his father who had buried Fletcher’s mother after they’d lost her and the baby girl she’d been carrying.
His father had tried again with other women, having one short-lived affair after another. The women always left, angry and broken. Fletcher refused to do that to Agnes. She deserved so much more than him.
Maybe there had been a time when they could have made a go of it, but he’d been a coward and hadn’t fought for her. He felt almost certain that he would have been able to convince her then that marriage was worth the risk. He missed his chance. Back when they’d first met and he’d recognized she was different, something inside of her had called to something inside of him. He’d been a fool.
Instead, he’d attempted to forget her and what they could have been by plowing his way through the widows of London. He’d perfected his lovemaking skills, but still his bed was empty at night. He’d never actually slept with a woman before, only brought her pleasure and then they’d part ways.
He made his way back to the ballroom, feeling slightly more in control of his faculties.
Damned if her confrontation hadn’t surprised the hell out of him. She was wrong about him leaving a string of broken hearts, though. Those women he’d bedded knew nothing of him, of the man. They didn’t love him. They’d only wanted the pleasure he could bring them. In the end, the only heart he’d ever broken was his own.
He glanced back at the ballroom and caught sight of Agnes. He’d been telling her the truth. Once he caught sight of her, it was hard for him to look anywhere else.
At the moment, she danced in the arms of the Viscount Glenbrook. He was a decent fellow, but he certainly didn’t deserve Agnes. She smiled up at her dance partner’s face and something he said made her laugh. Fletcher forced himself to look away.
…
The following afternoon Agnes sat in her favorite chair in the library, sketching a design for a new fan. There was a scratch at the door, then a footman entered with a tray.
“A post for you, Miss Watkins,” he said.
She set her work aside, then reached for the envelope. The letter was clearly addressed to her, but there were no distinguishing marks as to who it was from. The blue wax seal featured some scroll work, but the letter X sat prominently in the center. Agnes’s heart pounded.
She slipped her letter opener beneath the seal and popped it open, then unfolded the note within.
Dear Agnes:
You are in far more danger than you could possibly realize. You think you are doing good with your reckless behavior and work for the Ladies of Virtue. They claim to have trained you to protect yourselves, but all it will do is lead you into danger. Instead all you do is patch up a hemorrhaging wound with a napkin and in the process ruin lives. You have trusted all the wrong people and it will end in disaster. Know that I’m watching. Someone is always watching.
Most Sincerely,
Lady X
She read over the letter again and then set it down on the occasional table. Lady X was the same woman who had been the anonymous source behind the newspaper article on the Ladies of Virtue. The mysterious woman obviously had some sort of vendetta against their group and had every intention of destroying them. And a personal letter from her meant that the woman not only knew about the inner workings of their group, but she also knew at least some of the members.
This needed to be brought to Lady Somersby’s attention immediately. Agnes stepped into the corridor and asked their butler to ready a rig for her, then she raced up the stairs to gather her cloak. She paused, then without another thought, she set her foot up on the edge of her bed and strapped on the garter she’d made that allowed for a dagger to be sheathed against her thigh. At this point, she couldn’t be too careful.
Several hours later she stood in the sparkling candlelit ballroom with her closest friends. She’d fully intended to tell them about the letter from Lady X as she’d done to Lady Somersby. But upon hearing about the letter, Lady Somersby had instructed her to keep it between them for the time being. Agnes hated not being forthcoming with her friends, but she understood their leader’s concerns.
So it was that she found herself standing at the refreshment table at the Anderson ball wi
th Harriet, Justine, and Matilda, keeping a secret from them. It was on her tongue to ask the latter two about which men they’d selected for their seven deadly sins assignment, but a group of other women appeared at the table behind them. Their conversation caught her attention.
“Lord Wakefield,” one of the women nearly moaned his name.
“Yes, that is him,” another woman said.
“He cuts a fine figure in those trousers.”
“Eileen!” a third woman exclaimed. “You are too scandalous.” Though her words were chiding in nature, her tone was anything but.
Agnes had heard women talk about Fletcher in passing before, but she’d never paid too much attention. She’d never really wanted to know much about his romantic rendezvous. But now, since accepting the task to reform his wicked ways, she supposed such gossip was her business.
“Will you sleep with him again?” the second woman asked.
“I certainly would. He’s a lover unlike any I’ve ever had.” The one called Eileen chuckled. “I swear I felt the vibrations of pleasure run through my body for three days afterward.”
Harriet’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but Justine silenced her with a look.
“I do wish my husband would hurry up and die already,” the third woman said. “I swear that old goat will likely outlive me and then I’ll never get the opportunity to experience the greatest lover in London.”
“’Tis a shame he only shares his bed with widows.”
The three women walked away leaving Agnes and her friends to wonder what else might be said about the wastrel that was Lord Wakefield.
“I thought you said you were calling him to task about his lustful ways,” Justine said, her pale-green eyes leveled on Agnes.
“I have spoken to him,” Agnes said. “Though he wasn’t exactly receptive to reforming.”
“I doubt many of them will be,” Matilda said.
“What is your plan?” Harriet asked.
“Well, I am not giving up. I shall show him the error of his ways. I merely need to approach it differently to convince him he’s wrong,” Agnes said. “There is a fundamental flaw in his logic and once I convince him of this fact, then the rest will fall into place.”