by Robyn DeHart
“Yes, Mother?” Agnes said as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“These just came for you.”
“Those are for me?” She glanced at the flowers, a frown weighing heavily on her brow.
Her mother’s smile widened. “Yes! It would seem you have a suitor. Finally!”
It was always astounding to Agnes how her mother could simultaneously sabotage any and all efforts from would-be suitors and be annoyed that none had ever pursued her with any seriousness. Though she had no proof, she felt certain that her mother had taken at least two of the men, who had initially showed interest in Agnes, into her bed.
“Come, let us go into the parlor and look at them in better lighting.” Her mother walked off, holding Agnes’s flowers, fully expecting her daughter to follow behind.
Who could have sent her flowers? Her heart stuttered at the thought that it could be Fletcher. Perhaps after the kiss they’d shared. Certainly, he had felt everything she had. Had he decided to pursue her in earnest?
Once in the parlor her mother rang for a maid to get a vase with some water. Agnes picked up the bouquet to inspect it closer. There was a variety of blooms, but something about them seemed familiar somehow.
“There wasn’t a card?” Agnes asked.
“No. Only a street urchin who’d been paid to deliver them to you. It would seem your admirer has decided to keep his identity secret for the time being.” She clapped her hands. “How very exciting.”
But the prickle of awareness at the base of Agnes’s neck spoke of anything but excitement. These flowers weren’t from Fletcher. He would send a note. No, these were from someone else entirely.
First the letter from Lady X, then the strange note she’d received the night before, and now these flowers. Had everything been sent from her? A warning of something?
Agnes glanced down at the blooms. She knew there were plenty of people who used particular flowers to bestow specific messages, but these seemed too haphazard for such a thing. The blooms all clumped together and secured with a bit of string.
“These are some of my favorite flowers,” her mother mooned. She leaned over and smelled the bouquet.
And that’s when Agnes realized her mother was right. These were her favorite flowers, the very same ones they had blooming in their gardens at that moment.
“Since you’re enjoying them so much, Mother, you should keep them in here. Set them on the piano so they soak up the sunshine from the windows,” Agnes said.
Her mother gifted her with a blinding smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
With that, Agnes turned and marched herself directly to the back gardens. The garden area that was completed closed off—surrounded by a rather tall stone wall—inaccessible except through their house. At least that was what she’d always thought. She made her way farther into the yard and found all the blooms in question and sure enough there were some freshly cut stems.
This mysterious suitor of hers had cut flowers from her own gardens. He—or she, if the flowers were from Lady X—had been inside her garden walls. With a blade sharp enough to neatly slice through the thick and woody stems of her mother’s prize roses.
Her mother might find the gesture grandly romantic. But, as always, Agnes and her mother with very different women.
Her blood chilled. It was time to call in reinforcements and meet with the Ladies of Virtue.
Agnes stood in the parlor with the rest of the crowd awaiting entrance into Lord Bartholomew’s library. She needed to speak to her friends and fellow members of the Ladies of Virtue about the flowers she’d received, but she couldn’t do so with this many people around to hear.
“I must speak with you about something important,” she whispered to her friends.
Justine’s brow furrowed and she nodded while Matilda merely took on that sly smile of hers. Matilda was always up for an adventure, as was Agnes herself when the adventure wasn’t quite so close to home.
“I’ll wait until we are given entrance into the main room so we’re not so near to the rest of the crowd.” As if by her mere mention of the notion, the double doors opened and they were escorted into the large open room, which she believed had once been a ballroom, but now had been converted into a massive library.
“Is Harriet planning to join us?” Matilda asked.
“No, I believe she had another engagement,” Agnes said.
“Something with Lord Davenport perhaps?” Justine asked with a knowing smile.
“It does seem to be only a matter of time for the two of them,” Matilda said. Then she grabbed onto Agnes’s elbow and pulled her farther into the room away from the crowd. Justine followed. “Now tell us.”
“I received flowers from an anonymous suitor.”
“I’ll bet your mother was over the moon,” Justine said drily.
“As you can imagine,” Agnes said.
Matilda’s eyes widened and her smile grew. “How positively delicious.”
Agnes fought the urge to roll her eyes. Out of all of her friends, Matilda was the one who believed in love the most, which was saying a lot, considering how enamored with it Harriet had always been. “Not in this case. It is not romantic in the least.”
Justine frowned, which seemed to be her most natural expression. “You know who they are from?”
“No, but I know for a fact that the flowers were cut from plants in my own garden,” Agnes said. “Initially, I thought it was merely a coincidence, but I went and walked in the gardens and found the precise plants where the flowers had been taken.”
“Isn’t your garden protected by a wall?” Matilda asked.
“It is.”
“Which means someone did it from within or climbed over the wall,” Justine said.
“Precisely,” Agnes agreed. “But it makes no sense that someone would have done it from within. We’ve had no visitors and none of our servants would do something so foolish.”
“That’s rather alarming,” Matilda said.
“Is this the first gift you’ve received?” Justine asked.
“Yes,” Agnes said, but then the memory of the note she’d found on her doorstep. “There was a letter left on my doorstep, but I hadn’t really thought anything of it.”
“What did it say?” Justine asked.
“It mostly commented on all of my features, my beauty.” She rolled her eyes. “Nothing of consequence.” She shrugged. “It might not even be the same person.”
Matilda snorted. “It is a wonder you don’t have a much longer line of suitors.”
“Christopher manages to keep most of them away,” Agnes said.
“Considering our regular duties with the Ladies of Virtue have been put on hold indefinitely,” Justine said, “it seems this is the perfect thing for us to put our efforts into.”
“Precisely what I was thinking,” Matilda said. “We need to make sure you’re protected, Agnes.”
“I am glad I spoke to you about this,” Agnes said, relief washing over her. She certainly had some skills to protect herself, but with her brother out of town, it was nice to have friends so keen on protecting her. “I had nearly convinced myself I was being paranoid.”
“Do you have any notion of who it could be?” Justine asked. “Anyone who has been paying closer attention to you as of late?”
Agnes thought for a moment before asking. “I danced with Lord Glenbrook, Lord Barrow’s son, and Lord Wakefield most recently.”
Matilda bristled at Sullivan’s name. “But you’ve danced with all of them before, and you and Glenbrook”—his name came out nearly as a curse on her lips—“are friends of sorts.”
Agnes knew her friend did not care for Sullivan, and she had always suspected the feeling was mutual on his end. But their paths rarely crossed, at least around her, so it had never been much of an issue. Still knowing their dislike for each other put Agnes in a precarious position, always wondering if one or the other would say something distasteful in front of her. She wouldn’t hesit
ate to defend either one of them, they were both friends, but mostly her curious nature just wanted to know why the animosity.
“Oh, I also danced with Lord Travers.” She made a face of disgust. “But I’ve danced with him before also. And he always professes his love and plans to marry me. So anonymous letters seem too subtle for him.”
“I agree. It seems this would be a new suitor, someone trying to gain your favor,” Justine said.
Agnes sighed heavily. “Yes, well sneaking into my family’s private gardens is not the way to go about it.”
Chapter Six
He spotted Agnes the moment he entered the room. Her blue dress molded to her torso, accenting her impressive décolletage. She was far too tempting. His hands itched with need to touch her. This was why he kept his distance. But knowing he was going to be near her, able to hear her voice and smell the delicate floral scent—that he guessed came from her hair—would be an exercise in restraint. Or torture.
But if she was in danger, then protecting her was all that mattered. He would willingly endure torture if it meant she was safe. Not only that, but he couldn’t lose his position with the Seven. It was the only thing he’d ever been good at and it gave meaning to his life in many ways. He was a patriot after all. With that thought, he maneuvered through the crowd and reached her side.
“Miss Watkins,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Lord Wakefield. I didn’t peg you for a fan of poetry.”
“I have many secret passions.”
A blush crept into her cheeks and her eyes glanced downward.
“May I sit with you?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Would you care for refreshments first?”
She frowned. “No, but thank you.” She glanced over to the girl on the other side of her and they whispered something back and forth, but he couldn’t make out any of their words.
Then they were instructed to take their seats and Fletcher found himself perched on a perfectly dainty chair that he was entirely too big for.
Agnes glanced over and laughed upon seeing him wedged in.
“I don’t suppose they anticipate many men attending these,” he said. He attempted to cross his legs, but ended up kicking the older woman next to him. “My apologies, madam.” Then he flashed her a smile. It seemed to soothe her irritation.
“You look rather uncomfortable,” Agnes said, her grin impish and genuine.
He shouldn’t flirt with Agnes, shouldn’t indulge himself in such a pleasure. But that smile that lit her entire face, he’d do nearly anything to earn another one. Even if it meant torturing himself with a temptation he could not have. He leaned over to whisper into her ear. “The perfect solution is for you to stand. I can then spread my abnormally large body over both chairs and you can sit upon my lap.”
She sucked in her breath. And the pupils in her eyes nearly swallowed the perfect shade of blue of her irises. Her lips parted.
She was aroused. His own lust roared to life and he shifted on the ridiculously small chair. Damnation! What the hell was wrong with him? He was supposed to be here to watch over her, keep her safe. He was not supposed to seduce her as he had seduced so many other women before her. Despite the obvious appeal of being intimate with Agnes, the idea of adding her to the list of women he’d bedded for no other reason than pleasure disconcerted him. He didn’t want her included among the women who had been nothing more than passing affairs. With all those other women he’d been pretending, playing a role. With Agnes, he only ever wanted to be himself. He wanted more for her than a typical seduction.
“You are the worst.” But her subtle grin belied her words.
The crowd fell quiet as the man at the front began to read. It was something about a long, meandering walk through a winter landscape and Fletcher suppressed a yawn.
Agnes jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Do you suppose anyone would mind if I leaned over and laid my head in your lap for a quick nap?”
She released a laugh, then tried to cover it up with a cough. But the damage had been done, the magical sound of her giggle had poured through him like the finest of liquors. Two older women sitting in front of them both turned around, offering matching scowls.
“My apologies,” Fletcher whispered.
Finally, that particular poem was finished and there was a polite round of applause. Then a matronly woman stepped up and began reading.
“Are you going to tell me what you are doing here?” Agnes asked.
“Same as you, I suspect. Enjoying the lyrical lines of—”
“You obviously hate poetry,” she interrupted with a shake of her head.
“Not entirely true. I am an avid reader of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”
Her eyes rounded, then she smiled. “I prefer his plays, but one would be a fool not to appreciate his poetry.”
The two cranky ladies in front of them shifted, and one of them held a finger up to her lips to shush them.
Fletcher rolled his eyes.
“What is your favorite? Of his sonnets?” Agnes asked.
“Number eighty-seven,” he said.
Her lips parted. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one. I should like to hear it.”
He leaned as near to her as he could to whisper into her ear. From this proximity he could smell her sweet floral scent. He closed his eyes and spoke the words.
“‘Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.
The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.’”
She inhaled sharply. Then from his close position, he saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. She turned slightly to face him, their lips scandalously close together. Her eyes searched his, then she directed her focus back to the woman at the front of the room.
Agnes’s gloved hands clenched the fabric at her knees while the woman finished her recitation. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of getting this close to her; she was too much of a temptation. Tonight, he was reminded why. Everything about her called to him. Her startling blue eyes, her full rosy lips, and her throaty laugh—when she allowed herself to indulge in such a thing. Her body—he shifted in the tiny chair at the mere thought of those luscious curves of hers—was made for sin.
The memory of those sinful curves pressed against him when they’d kissed the other day…damnation, he was getting hard at a stupid poetry reading.
Three additional readers stood and recited poems before the evening came to an end. Fletcher didn’t speak much to Agnes and her friends, but she allowed him to walk them to their carriage. He’d follow behind to ensure she made it home safely.
He couldn’t have her, he reminded himself. He’d lose his position with the Seven, and where would that leave him? It certainly wouldn’t aid in him deserving her. No one in his life had ever stayed. They’d all deserted him because he wasn’t worth loving.
…
It had been two nights since Agnes had seen Fletcher at the poetry reading. Two nights of longing and confusion. Ever since the passionate kiss they’d shared, Agnes had struggled to think of anything else save Fletcher’s mouth. Then he’d whispered that poem into her ears as if he’d intended the words for her. This was all distressing for a number of reasons. Least of all, it was affecting her wea
ponry design. Mostly, though, she was worried what it meant about her character. Was she destined to become a slave to her desires just like her mother?
Agnes took a measured breath to try and dispel the troubling thoughts. Currently, she stood with her fellow Ladies of Virtue members, Justine and Matilda, at the Paulson ball. Agnes could think of at least three other places she’d rather be—namely at home fixing the disaster that was her latest weaponized fan—but her mother had insisted on attending.
True to form, Lady Darby had deposited her daughter with her friends, then disappeared into the crowd. Attending balls with her mother had become easier since Agnes had made friends, because she no longer had to serve as a placeholder for her mother’s leftover gentlemen friends, as she preferred to call them.
“He’s certainly paying more attention to you as of late,” Justine said, nudging Agnes with her elbow.
“Who?” Agnes asked. She tried to think back to see if she’d missed some part of a conversation while she’d been woolgathering.
“Lord Wakefield,” Justine said.
“Yes, I noticed it as well,” Matilda said.
Agnes frowned, glanced across the room to where Fletcher stood watching her. Her foolish heart pounded. Good heavens, but she was becoming as silly as a schoolgirl. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve known each other for years.” They were exaggerating his attentions. “He works with Christopher. If he were interested in courting me, he’d have started a long time ago.” Like he’d said he would do on the night they met. Instead, he gave her one dance a year. And had never even attempted to get her alone again. No, she was the one who’d shown up at his house and begged for a kiss.
Justine and Matilda exchanged glances.
“He came to the poetry reading the other evening,” Justine said.
He had and she’d never seen him attend anything of the sort before. Was he interested in courting her? The mere thought had her heart tripping over itself. No, certainly not. He’d had so much time to express interest in her and never had. Had he not specifically told her that he didn’t touch virgins? So why, after all these years, was he paying closer attention to her?