by Robyn DeHart
“Yes, and what did he whisper in your ear?” Matilda asked.
“His favorite of Shakespeare’s sonnets, nothing more.” But even as she said the words, she knew them to be lies. Her cheeks heated with the memory of the deep timbre of his voice so close to her ear, the way his breath sent spirals of warmth curling through her body. The words themselves had felt personal, but she knew that couldn’t be right. Fletcher loved women, but he was all about the seduction. There was no part of him that spoke of adoration and romantic love. In that moment, she realized with alarming clarity that if she weren’t careful she’d fall prey to his charms. She was disgusted with herself that despite her acknowledging the truth of love’s fallacy, she could still succumb to its temptation.
“Honestly, Agnes, every man in this room would court you if you gave any indication you might be interested. Seems as if Lord Wakefield is taking advantage of the fact that Christopher is out of town.”
“Not to mention you flirt with him whereas with other men you are…” Matilda paused as if grappling for the right word. “Well, you can be cold at times.”
Agnes opened her mouth, then shut it. She stared at her friends. Cold. Yes, she could be cold. It was better than being awkward. And it had a tendency to keep most of the lechers away. Not all of them, but most. “You think Lord Wakefield has decided to toss his hat into the ring, so to speak?” Agnes refused to acknowledge the way her heart jumped at the thought. Even if he was interested in her, she did not want to marry. Fletcher was all wrong for her; he was incapable of being faithful. She refused to enter into a marriage like the one her parents had. So she shook her head. “No, he is nothing more than an incorrigible flirt.”
“One who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you entered the room,” Matilda said.
Agnes dared a glance in his direction and found his hazel eyes locked on her. A slow grin slid onto his face and he winked. Winked! Where anyone could have seen. Warmth flooded her body and heated her cheeks. He was truly scandalous. And she was slightly horrified that part of her loved it. Horrified that it might mean she was more like her mother than she wanted to admit.
“Perhaps you should use this time while your brother is out of town to secure a suitor. One that won’t turn tail and run at the sight of Christopher’s scowl,” Matilda said.
Agnes opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it again. There was no reason to remind her friends about her feeling on matrimony. They tended to not take her very seriously, always insisting that if the right man came along she’d change her mind.
At that moment, Sullivan came to retrieve her for their dance.
“Miss Watkins, Lady Justine,” he said as he bowed. Then he turned his body, his jaw clenched before he nodded slightly. “Lady Matilda.”
“My lord,” Justine said.
Matilda openly glared at him. “Sullivan,” she said.
Agnes knew that her friend did not care for Viscount Glenbrook, but she’d never bothered to inquire why. She suspected it had something to do with the fact that their siblings were married to each other and not so happily. However, because of the family connection, Society dictated they at least acknowledge each other’s company.
“I am assuming you shall be in attendance for Meredith and Charles’s party they’re hosting next month,” he said to Matilda.
“My mother has made it a requirement of me,” Matilda said.
“Splendid. Then I shall see you there,” Sullivan said.
Matilda smirked. “I wait with bated breath.”
He eyed Matilda for a few seconds, the muscles in his jaw clenched again and again before turning his gaze to Agnes. “Miss Watkins, are you ready for our dance?” he asked.
She eyed her friends for a moment, but Matilda showed no sign that she had issue with Agnes dancing with Sullivan. So, Agnes smiled at his friendly face. Though they both had brown hair and were both tall, Sullivan was not nearly as broad as Fletcher. Her friend was lean and his facial features spoke of his noble birth lines, whereas Fletcher’s features were more angular, sharp as if sculpted by a master’s hand. Sullivan also didn’t have an easy grin available as often as Fletcher’s. No crinkle at the corner of his eyes indicating he found much about life to be humorous and entertaining.
Good heavens, she was mentally cataloging the two men as if they were in competition for her affection, which she knew was categorically false. In a perfect world, she’d feel the same attraction toward Sullivan as she did Fletcher. But she felt nothing for him save friendship.
“You look lovely tonight, Miss Watkins,” Sullivan said.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her greeting sounded false to her own ears. When did she speak to him so formally? “The weather is rather delightful.” She rolled her eyes. Good heavens but she was resorting to trivial subjects. This was her friend, what was the matter with her? He’s not Fletcher.
“Indeed.”
Plagued by thoughts of Fletcher, her eyes automatically sought him in the room. To her surprise, he was indeed watching her. Fletcher’s eyes followed her as she moved in Sullivan’s arms. She could feel his heated hazel gaze over every inch of her person. Good heavens. Even across the room, while she danced with another man, Fletcher brought out the very worst in her. She’d spent her entire life demanding more of herself, proving that she had so much more to offer than her pretty face and feminine curves. She knew what men wanted. She’d seen it again and again with her own mother. Their brazen flirting, the rumors, her father’s nearly continual travel. She would not be that woman. Passion had no place in her life because she would not lose herself to become nothing more than an ornamental vessel.
“Have you been to the Crystal Palace yet?” she asked. She would not allow her recent fascination with Fletcher to ruin her friendship with Sullivan. He was a handsome man, there was no denying it. But meeting Sullivan’s brown gaze held none of the heat or thrill that occurred when she looked at Fletcher, which brought her mind back to her experiment with the kiss. Did she have an emotional attachment to Fletcher and not realize it? Is that why their kiss had been so pleasurable?
“I haven’t made the time for a visit. Is it worth it, in your opinion?”
“Yes, very much so. Every exhibit has something worth exploring. It’s quite thrilling. Do you enjoy antiquities? I don’t believe we’ve ever discussed that before.”
His eyes met hers and he gave her a slight smile. “I suppose they can be of interest. I must confess, though, I’ve never been much of a student or scholar. I prefer the athletics and politics.”
“Then it is fortunate you were born into the House of Lords.”
He chuckled. “Indeed, it is.”
Their dance ended, and he walked her back to where her friends stood. Fletcher was waiting for her.
“Glenbrook,” Fletcher said with a nod.
Sullivan returned the greeting, then turned back to Agnes. “Thank you, Miss Watkins, for the dance. Perhaps I could call on you to attend the Crystal Palace with me. I should think I’d benefit from you as a guide.”
She eyed him cautiously, then curtsied. He wasn’t normally quite so formal with her. Then again, she’d been stilted with him tonight and he’d obviously noticed. “That would be lovely.”
Fletcher pulled up her dance card so he could read it, then quickly wrote his name down.
“Our waltz, Miss Watkins,” he said. He swept her into his arms without another word to anyone else.
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, my lord?” she asked once they were on the dance floor. Then she cringed. Why would she suggest such a thing? That implied too many things she wasn’t equipped to deal with.
“Jealous? Of Glenbrook?” He chuckled. “Don’t be silly, Bluebell.”
“Then what other reason could you possibly have for asking me to dance? You only ever dance with me one night the entire Season and we have already shared that this year,” she said.
“You look particularly fetching in that gown.” His eyes slid down to
rest on her cleavage. The gold flecks warmed to a honey color.
Her skin heated under his gaze and she knew a blush was rapidly spreading across her chest and neck. She swallowed and focused her attention on his right ear. That seemed innocuous enough.
“Do I truly need a reason to want to dance with you?” he asked, his voice low and husky.
It was hot in here and the air had suddenly diminished. “I don’t suppose you do.” Still she was left with the feeling that there was more at hand than merely a dance. Were her friends correct, and he’d finally decided to pursue her as he once claimed he wanted to do? Her heart battered against her chest and she took a slow breath in an effort to calm her nerves.
“Are you giving anyone a guided tour of the Crystal Palace or just Glenbrook?”
She grinned up at him. “You are jealous.”
“Agnes, love, there is no comparison between the good viscount and myself. No competition.”
“So very arrogant.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That quality does not make you attractive.”
“What qualities do?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again with a glare. “I am not playing this game with you, Fletcher.”
She could bring up his lustful nature again, and how he needed to change his behavior. She still believed that. The problem was that now that he had faulted her logic, she wasn’t quite sure how to go about persuading him that he was still wrong.
He was quiet for a few beats of the music, his arms holding her tightly to him. Her body hummed with awareness, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back. His other hand held her own. The smell of him, sandalwood and cedar and maleness, swirled around her. She tried to deny herself, to not breathe him in, but she failed; instead, she inhaled deeply. Though she did manage to not lean forward and press her nose to his throat. Good heavens, but this man made her a complete goose.
“He’s watching you,” Fletcher said.
She blinked up at him in confusion. She had been so lost in her obsession with his smell, it took her a moment to understand his words. “Who is watching me?”
“Glenbrook.” He nodded his head slightly indicating the area of the room to their right.
She glanced that way and did indeed find Sullivan watching as Fletcher led her around. When she caught the man’s gaze, he smirked at her—as if he knew precisely how vulnerable she was to Fletcher’s charms. She quickly looked away.
Was she really so obvious?
If Sullivan could read her attraction to Fletcher from across the room, who else could tell what a ninny she was being? Did Fletcher himself know? She nearly groaned with the thought of it.
“Might I call upon you sometime this week, Agnes?”
Her heart seemed to stutter in her chest. She looked up at him and tried to gage the seriousness in his request. Was he teasing her? “Why?”
“’Tis a simple request.” For once, there was no mischievous gleam in his gaze. No glint of humor or amusement. Only earnest admiration…and the faintest hint of his own vulnerability. “Would you deny me?”
“No, of course not.”
What if Tilly and Justine were right, and Fletcher was going to court her now that Christopher was out of town? How could she possibly say no?
How could she deny that this was the secret dream her heart had clung to for all these long years? That this was the reason she had been so cold to all her other potential suitors? None of them had made her feel a fraction of what Fletcher made her feel.
Perhaps she was not heartless and frozen as some had suggested. Perhaps only Fletcher stirred her heart.
Chapter Seven
Chris hadn’t known what he was asking of Fletcher when he’d requested he keep a close watch on Agnes. Yes, he’d endured unpleasant assignments before, but not like this. Chris knew of the night Fletcher had first met Agnes, but her brother had no idea that for the last three years Fletcher had done everything he could to forget about wanting Agnes. Every woman he’d touched since that night had been a poor substitute for the one woman he wanted, but knew he couldn’t have. And now he had to protect her, which demanded he be near her.
Temptation had never been so torturous.
Last night he’d held her close to him on that ballroom floor. Of course, he saw what every other man saw—her flawless beauty and her sinful curves. But he knew there was more to his Bluebell. She was the smartest woman he’d ever met, able to converse about nearly any subject, and now her brother confided in him that she was part of this covert group of ladies who have been single-handedly apprehending thieves from the streets of London. Damned if that wasn’t sexy.
Yet he wasn’t supposed to find that attractive. Or any part of her. At least he wasn’t supposed to act on that attraction. The fact that she felt the pull between them as well made the whole thing all the more challenging. She wanted him. He’d seen the desire in her eyes. Felt her pulse race in that soft spot on her wrist.
Moreover, he knew that her responsiveness was for him and him alone. He had watched her interactions with other men from afar for many years. He had never seen her look at another man the way she looked at him. Her attraction to him was heady stuff indeed.
But he was trained for these situations. Granted, normally his assignments called for him to flirt or seduce because that kind of charming nonsense came naturally to him. It was far easier to pretend to be someone like that than show people who he truly was.
Yet, he knew instinctively that Agnes would not be won over by manipulation and charm alone. She was too smart for that. If three years of loving her from afar taught him anything it was that she was immune to his nonsense.
No, with her he would have to be himself. Or as close to his real self as he dared.
Even he had his limits. He didn’t want to risk her—of all people—seeing the truth, that he was nothing more than the scared little boy who’d once stopped talking because his own grandfather had relentlessly teased him about a stutter.
With her, he would have to tread a fine line. He would have to be honest enough with her while still keeping the deepest, most shameful parts of himself hidden. A man with less training and experience might not be up to the task. Hell, if he was honest with himself, even he was worried. But keeping Agnes safe from whatever this unknown threat was, was worth the risk.
He knocked on the black door and waited for the butler to answer and gain him entrance.
“Master Christopher is not home,” the butler said.
“Yes, I’m actually here to see Miss Watkins,” Fletcher said.
If that was surprising news to the butler, he made no show of it. Instead, he merely nodded, took Fletcher’s overcoat, and then left him standing in the corridor.
Moments later, Lady Darby slid up to him. “Lord Wakefield, I’m told you’re here to see my daughter.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. Agnes had inherited much from her mother, but where Lady Darby was an outrageous flirt, Agnes was more controlled and serious.
Agnes also had eyes far more striking and unusual than her mother’s. Agnes’s were nearly ethereal, boasting a pure, bright cobalt color. The very same as the bluebells that had dotted the fields near his childhood estate. It was why he called her that silly name, because when he looked into her eyes, he thought of home.
He hadn’t been back there in years. His father still resided there. But Fletcher suspected the man chose to hide out in the lowlands rather than be here in London to continue to accept the vitriol from the duke.
Fletcher’s grandfather was nothing short of a mean son of a bitch. He never had anything nice to say to or about anyone. And his favorite pastime was berating the male children in his family. Fletcher had long since learned to ignore the man. At least for the most part.
“Come,” Agnes’s mother purred. She looped her arm into the crook of his elbow and led him into a parlor. Her other hand slid up his until she’d gripped tightly to his bicep. She gave it a firm squeeze. Then she stepped away from h
im and let her eyes travel the length of his form.
“I must say I’m rather pleased that my daughter has managed to grab the attention of such a handsome man.” Her eyes made a deliberate and slow perusal of his entire body.
He’d, of course, heard the rumors of her habitual promiscuity, but he’d never before been privy to any of her advances. Fending off Lady Darby was a challenge he had not anticipated.
“Agnes is bewitching,” he said unable to think of anything else to say. Even if he was not already enamored with Agnes, he’d have no interest in her mother.
Her mother chuckled. “That is surprising to hear.”
“Surprising to hear your daughter could attract me?” He frowned. “Certainly, it hasn’t escaped your attention that she is the most beautiful woman in all of England.” Aim. Strike. Target.
Lady Darby’s features immediately shifted from seductive to angry. Her jaw clenched and she nodded tightly. “Of course not. She favors me, looking upon her is like looking into a mirror.”
“From twenty years ago,” he added.
“Agnes shall be down shortly. I’ll send a tray of refreshments in here for the two of you.” She turned to go, then paused. “I’ll make certain you are afforded some privacy.” Then with a saucy wink, she left him alone.
He got the most unsettling feeling that her mother wouldn’t mind one bit if Fletcher had come fully intending to take her daughter’s virtue. The woman must not know her daughter at all. Agnes would never seduce him to trap him into marriage.
No, he’d protect her, but he’d shove his desire down until he choked on it before he hurt her. Because he’d be damned if he allowed Agnes to come to the same fate as his grandmother or mother. The men in his family were poisonous to women.
…
“Agnes!” Her mother burst into her room. “Get up and let me look at you.”