The Earl and the Reluctant Lady

by Robyn DeHart

  Harriet was quiet for a few moments while she eyed Agnes. “Why do you not simply find someone to legitimately court you?”

  Agnes blew out a breath. “You know how I feel about marriage, Harriet.”

  Harriet nodded and chewed her lip thoughtfully. “But what of Fletcher? He’s always flirting with you, and I’ve seen the way you look at him. Why not marry him?”

  “I don’t look at him in any certain way.”

  “Honestly.” Harriet rolled her eyes heavenward. “Agnes, everyone sees it. He’s quite taken with you, always has been. The man can’t keep his eyes off you if you’re in the same room together.”

  “Even if I did, which I maintain that I do not, Fletcher flirts with everyone.” She ignored the pang of disappointment that settled in her belly. “I’m certain that if Fletcher had any interest in legitimately courting me, he would have mentioned that during our conversation. ” She sighed. “Not only that, but he’s keenly aware of Christopher’s feelings about Fletcher and me, and evidently he has no desire to challenge that else he would have pursued me a long time ago. He must not want me too badly.” Those words seemed to grow a life of their own and cut into her. She realized with alarming clarity that having him “court” her would be incredibly difficult. She’d have to be careful to survive the ordeal with her heart intact. Well, at least she knew any pain she might endure wouldn’t be long-lasting. Once the blush of lust wore off she’d recognize that her feelings weren’t anything more than desire.

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree about that,” Harriet said.

  “As we do about Lord Davenport and his courtship of you?”

  Harriet waved her hand dismissively. “This is not the same thing. Lord Wakefield cares about you. I can see it plainly.”

  Agnes swallowed against the knot that had developed in her throat. “He’d never be faithful to me, Harriet, and you know how I feel about that.” Her voice sounded small, nearly weak to her ears and she hated that.

  “I do. Still, I don’t envision you being a spinster. You should find someone who can make you happy.”

  “Happiness isn’t everything.” In truth, she’d be a liar if she didn’t admit, at least to herself, that she was disappointed that Fletcher didn’t want to court her himself. He seemed incensed about the men she told him about. He’d been ready to find them and fight them on her behalf. But offering to protect her with his name? No, that was not his style. No matter how many times he jested otherwise, he wasn’t ready to be saddled with a wife. And she would not settle for a man who would not be faithful.

  Chapter Nine

  The Mapleton ball was known for its opulence. Each year, Agnes delighted in seeing what Lady Mapleton had devised to outdo the spectacle of the previous year’s ball. Despite that, Agnes’s nerves were on edge. Tonight, Fletcher would court her. At least outwardly. She knew it was a risk. Not only could it fail to deter those unwanted suitors’ attentions, but she could also end up desiring Fletcher more than she already did.

  The man was despicable. Charming and dashing and far too much of a scoundrel. He was everything she shouldn’t want. But damned if she didn’t. The way he made her feel was everything. With him, she could be herself, be the desirable woman that other men wanted. With Fletcher, she didn’t feel ashamed of her body. His heated glances only made her hot with desire, not embarrassed and ashamed.

  All of that should have made her nervous, should have made her worry that it wouldn’t take much coaxing, and Agnes could become every bit the wanton that her mother was.

  None of it made any sense, so for the most part, she shoved all of those thoughts and feelings down so that she didn’t think about any of them.

  Harriet smiled from beside her. Her friend was likely right, but Agnes maintained that happiness wasn’t everything. She feared the desire that Fletcher evoked in her would awaken some sleeping monster hidden within her, and one day she’d wake up and realize she’d become her mother. That could not happen. She was far safer with no one rather than risk being with someone who made her feel lustful and wanton.

  “The other benefit to this courtship,” Agnes whispered to Harriet, “is that I shall be close enough to him to continue helping him reform his lustful ways. He already agreed to not be with any other women while our charade is going on.”

  Harriet nodded. “That is an excellent point.”

  It seemed as if the moment Fletcher entered the room, she sensed his presence. It wasn’t a phenomenon she could explain, and in truth she didn’t want to give it much thought. Yet her eyes easily found him across the room. Her breath caught. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo within her chest. Fletcher was clothed, head to toe, in black. With the exception of the stark white cravat tied flawlessly at his throat. He looked dashing and sinful. She swallowed as she watched him. The ease with which he moved through the room never ceased to enthrall her.

  Outside of the Ladies of Virtue, she didn’t think she ever felt that at ease in any situation. Even in her own family.

  She idly watched Fletcher move his way from his side of the room to hers. He stopped frequently, chatting with men and women alike. The women, however, seem to always find reason to touch him—ahand on his arm, a brush of their shoulders, a tap with their fans. Agnes couldn’t blame them, she always had the urge to touch him, though she’d never given into that desire. From here the breadth of his shoulders begged for a touch. Her palms practically itched with the urge.

  She was a goose for thinking it. It seemed unnecessary for him to be that attractive. Finally at her side, he picked up the dance card dangling from her wrist. He gave her a wicked smile.

  “How many of these dances can I have, Miss Watkins?” he asked.

  Why did that question leave her feeling breathless? She looked up into Fletcher’s gaze and tried not to notice the golden flecks in the greenish-blue of his eyes. “No more than three, unless you want to start rumors. In which case, my brother will likely kill you.”

  He chuckled, and the rich sound seemed to pool in her belly like the warmest chocolate.

  “We can start with just one,” Agnes said.

  “Then let us begin.” He led her out onto the dance floor, his warm hand pressed against the small of her back.

  God, he smelled good. Like the finest of leather and sandalwood and something uniquely Fletcher. She longed to lean forward and breathe him in, commit the scent to memory. But that was ridiculous. What had gotten into her? All of these thoughts of courtship and marriage had addled her brain and caused permanent damage.

  “Are you sniffing me?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Good heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do such a thing?”

  He chuckled.

  Mortification pulsed through her and she wished, more than anything, to disappear. A nunnery was looking better and better by the moment. Why had her life dissolved into such a disaster? And she didn’t even have the distraction of her duties with the Ladies of Virtue. Instead, it was all marriage and courtship filling her brain and making her a ninny.

  He was quiet for the first few measures of the waltz, but his eyes took her in. His gaze was as intimate as a caress and she felt her body respond as he moved over her form. Heat radiated from her cheeks and chest, and her nipples tightened. Perhaps it was too warm in the ballroom. Or perhaps her gown was too tight in the bodice, and the friction of the fabric rubbing against her skin had caused the reaction.

  “Agnes, don’t you desire love and passion?”

  “Love does not exist,” she said. “Passion certainly does, but that is obviously fleeting; otherwise, people wouldn’t have affairs. Or at the very least the affairs would endure.”

  “A cynical belief for such a beautiful young woman.”

  “I’m prefer to see myself as a pragmatist.” She watched him for a moment, then asked, “Were your parents happily married?”

  His jaw tightened, and he swallowed. “I barely remember my mother. I was only a boy when she died. But I kn
ow my father loved her. Desperately. He hasn’t been a happy man since her death.”

  “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. “My parents are not in love. I’m not certain they ever were.”

  “There are plenty of marriages in this town built on something other than love. It doesn’t mean that love is a myth.”

  “If love were truly real as the poets speak of it, it would endure, it would last. Married couples would be happier and faithful. But that doesn’t ever happen.”

  He eyed her silently for a moment. “Does it make you uncomfortable when I look at you?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “You’re flushed. And your breathing is erratic.”

  “I believe I’m having a reaction to being this close to you,” she said, her voice sounding breathy.

  He chuckled. “I always have a reaction being close to you, Bluebell.”

  “It is not a feeling I care for.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t feel completely in control of my faculties and that is unacceptable.”

  “What exactly are you afraid of, Agnes?” Fletcher asked.

  “You,” she admitted. “The way I feel when I’m near you. As if I could lose control at any moment.”

  “Do I make you angry?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You make me want, want you, Fletcher. You make me hot and damp,” she whispered the last word. “Lately I am utterly distracted by desire. When I’m in your presence, I can scarcely think of anything save you touching me, kissing me. And it’s terrifying.”

  He swore, forked his fingers through his hair. “Agnes, you have no idea how I want those things. How much I want to touch you. Kiss you.”

  She leaned closer to him. This brazenness was intoxicating, and she knew she was playing with fire. Still, she couldn’t help herself from reaching out and placing her palm on his chest. She clenched the fabric of his shirt ever so slightly. “The desire I feel for you scares me, because it makes me think that I’m more like my mother than I want to believe. Perhaps those men are right about me. Perhaps they can see something in me that others cannot. Something I don’t even recognize myself.”

  He swallowed. “No, Agnes, you must not think such things. There is nothing wrong with desire. There is nothing wrong with passion. You shouldn’t fear it. And as much as I’d like to believe that I am the only man alive to elicit such feelings in you, certainly you know that I am not.”

  “I wish I believed you. I much preferred my theory that one required an emotional attachment to find passion,” she said. It was safer.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right and I’m wrong.”

  “We already tested that.”

  “True, but I do believe that scientists rarely stop at one experiment before making a concluding theory.”

  She was quiet for a few breaths while considering his words.

  “I see you heeded my advice,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “The blue dress.” Again, his eyes took her in, their warm golden color darkened. “You are stunning, Agnes. The other women in the room, and I’m only assuming there are others because I haven’t actually seen any, pale in comparison.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know you believe me to be nothing more than a shallow flirt, but you must know that I mean everything I say to you. Every word. I always have.”

  She nodded, unable to respond.

  “Please tell me if my compliments ever make you feel the way others have made you feel.”

  “Never,” she whispered.

  He nodded. Then a grim expression fell over his features. “Have any men made any untoward advances to you this evening?”

  She shook her head unable to answer.

  He nodded. “It would seem that Glenbrook has made his way over to your group of friends. I suspect he’s come to collect you for some purpose.”

  She hadn’t yet spoken to Sullivan that evening and didn’t have any dances set aside for him. He’d never truly been much of a dancer. He often preferred walking and chatting, which suited her fine. She felt very much ready to be out of Fletcher’s arms where she could think straight. She looked up into his gaze and found his eyes searching her face. The sincerity in his expression was nearly overwhelming. She swallowed. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “The courtship charade. It must be a sacrifice for you to avoid female companionship merely to protect me.”

  “Spending time with you is never a sacrifice.” He paused a moment. “You could simply make it known you were ready to marry. I have no doubt that suitors would clamor for your attentions. Being married would protect you indefinitely.”

  “I don’t wish to marry. Unless, of course, you’re offering yourself up?” She sucked in a breath as the words left her mouth. Why had she said that? She held her breath while she waited for Fletcher to respond. She considered tossing out another comment to let him know she’d only said that in jest, but instead she remained silent. She wanted to know what he’d say. Good or bad.

  “Oh, Bluebell, you know if I were to ever pick a wife, you’d be at the very top of my list. I’m not made for marriage. I would be a wretched husband, and you deserve so much more than I can offer.”

  “Don’t be so serious, Fletcher, I was merely jesting. I, of course, recognize that you would make a terrible husband. Nor do I wish to have a husband, terrible or otherwise.”

  His jaw clenched again, and she almost took it back, almost apologized. She’d said that only to cover up her own embarrassment, not to insult him.

  “Indeed,” he said. Then he escorted her off the dance floor and back over to her friends. He bowed, gave her a false smile, then spoke briefly to the others before walking away.

  She’d seen Fletcher charm women from afar. She’d seen him give that smile to countless of them. He’d never done anything but bestowed her with genuine smiles. Until tonight. Until she’d said something foolish and hurtful. But it seemed so unlikely that she had the power to wound him.

  Sullivan smiled warmly at her, then held his arm out. “Care for a walk in the gardens?”

  Relief washed over her. “That would be lovely.” The very best thing about Sullivan was the fact that she never felt unsettled or nervous in his presence.

  They walked in silence from the ballroom out onto the balconies that led to the gardens.

  “That dress does wonderful things for your eyes, Agnes,” he said.

  She smiled. Fletcher had been right, about the dress and about his attentions potentially deterring other men. She hadn’t yet been approached tonight. “Thank you.”

  But it was only the first night. She had to give this plan time to work. Provided her brother didn’t show up tomorrow and ruin everything. Perhaps she should have done what Fletcher suggested and told Chris as soon as the first man had propositioned her. But he had enough to worry about considering he managed most of the estate because of her father’s continued travel.

  Shortly before her debut, Chris had been poised to marry someone, and though Agnes didn’t know the details, she knew enough to know that after things hadn’t gone as planned, her brother had never been the same. Gone was the gregarious man he’d been and in his place was an intense, suspicious, and angry man.

  She and Sullivan walked in easy silence along the lantern-lit garden path. They passed a handful of people and nodded and smiled.

  They ended up on a stone bench beneath an archway of climbing roses. It was obviously intended to be romantic, but Sullivan had never said anything inappropriate to her, and she knew their relationship was purely platonic. Though she’d certainly seen his gaze wander over her form, resting at times on her bosom, he’d always been the very epitome of respect.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder about Fletcher’s theory of lust and passion. He’d said tonight that scientists test their theories more than once. Perhaps she had more affection for Fletche
r than she’d initially thought and that was why their kiss had been full of passion. If that was true, then the mutual affection she and Sullivan shared would mean that they, too, would find passion within each other’s arms. The notion made logical sense, yet she doubted that would be true in practice. Only one way to find out.

  She leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his. Sullivan made a noise of surprise, but after a few seconds, he warmed and slanted his mouth across hers. It was a perfectly pleasant kiss. But unlike the one she’d shared with Fletcher—where she’d felt the kiss ripple through every part of her body—with Sullivan, she felt it only on her lips.

  She pulled herself back. “I do hope you’ll forgive my brazenness. I don’t know what came over me,” she said.

  He smiled warmly. “I suspect I know.” His eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “Tell me, Agnes, how do my kisses compare to those of Lord Wakefield’s?”

  A strange gurgling noise came from her throat at the same time as she sucked in a breath, resulting in a coughing fit.

  Sullivan chuckled. “I did not mean to distress you.”

  Once her coughing had subsided, she eyed her friend. “But how did you know?”

  “I didn’t. It was merely a guess.” He came to his feet and held his hand out to her. “Shall we return to the ballroom?”

  She nodded and took his elbow, thankful that he wasn’t going to require her to answer his question. She didn’t want to tell him that his kiss wasn’t as compelling as Fletcher’s. Unintentionally wounding a man’s pride would not be a theme for the evening. She’d already done so to Fletcher.

  Sullivan smiled beside her but said nothing else. Always the gentleman. She should find that quality attractive, instead she found herself feeling mildly annoyed at his indifference to her. Furthermore, it seemed as if Fletcher’s theory about passion had been correct all along.

  Chapter Ten

  Fletcher watched the scene before him unfold as if everything else around him had ceased to exist. As if time had stopped and the only movement was Lord Brindell standing entirely too close to Agnes as he whispered something in her ear. Her entire body stiffened and her jaw set.