Chapter 11

CHAPTER11

Reaching her mother’s guest bedchamber a few minutes later, Agnes rapped upon the door as though she was a fugitive from the law, begging for sanctuary at the nearest farmhouse. She hammered upon the varnished wood with a fury that shocked the servants, who hurried hither and thither, completing the final preparations for their mistress’ departure. One maid even shrieked, jolting at the violent sound.

“Mother, open this door,” Agnes demanded, not caring who was watching.

A groan rattled from inside, followed by the soft thump of footfalls coming closer.

“Mother, this is an embarrassment!” Agnes continued, letting her ire flow. “You are being ridiculous, and I will not stand for it any longer!”

After all, her mother had not emerged from her chambers once, despite her promises to do better. Every meal had passed without her presence while trays were surreptitiously carried upstairs. And though Lady Finch was too generous and polite to say so, Agnes knew that the Dowager was becoming vexed by the rude behavior.

“I am too weary to travel, Agnes.” Her mother’s muffled voice drifted through the wood that separated them, despite Agnes’ best attempts to batter it down. “I think I shall remain here for a while and then journey north when I am improved.”

Agnes clenched her jaw. “You will do no such thing! That is despicable, Mother! You swore that you would attend Rose’s ball. You swore that you would take pains to be our mother again! If you do this, if you do not come to London, then that is the end for you. I vow this upon every excuse I have made for you these past ten years that I shall never speak to you again if you make this choice! You will be a ghost to me. A stranger I do not know.”

“Do not be unkind, Agnes,” her mother replied. “I am trying so very hard.”

“No, Mother, you are not trying at all!” Agnes raged. “Everyone is waiting for you, and at present, you are threatening the success of this entire endeavor. If you cannot find it in your heart to support your daughter, then come out of that room, and I shall march you to your carriage and send you back to the North myself. I shall even pack your belongings for you! But you will not embarrass us further by lingering in guest chambers in a house that is not yours!”

She heard her mother yawn, incensing her to new levels of fury. “Just allow me an hour, and I shall make a decision.”

“We do not have an hour!” Agnes barked. “You have had all morning to prepare yourself. My goodness, if you do not open this door, I really will break it down and drag you out of there with my bare hands!”

A shadow fell across Agnes as she rested her forehead against the varnished wood, panting so hard she feared her lungs might burst before she could bring in the siege weapons. Hot tears simmered in her eyes, humiliation stinging across her skin, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces that, this time, would not be put back together again.

“May I?” a soft voice asked.

Startled, Agnes whirled around to find George standing there in the hallway, not two paces from her. She backed up against the door, her spine jabbed by the handle, panic stealing the last breath of air from her chest. Of all the moments for him to show his face again, why did it have to be then? Why did he have to be the one to bear witness to her mortification?

But there was no conceited smirk upon his lips nor any semblance of satisfaction in his demeanor. His brow was creased in concern, his eyes squinting as if he were out in bright sunlight or in pain, and his hands were curled into tight fists, like he did not trust what they might touch if he unfurled them.

“Please, allow me,” he urged in that same, soft voice.

It shook her to hear him speak to her that way, inciting a tremble that rippled throughout her entire being until she was not sure she would be able to stand if she moved away from the support of the door.

At last, she nodded, still frozen on the spot.

George did not seem to mind that she was in his way as he closed the gap, standing over as he knocked upon the door. His chest bumped against her shoulder while his powerful thigh was just a hair’s breadth from her hand, held rigid at her side. It must have been a scandalous sight to the maids and footmen who still milled about, but Agnes closed her eyes and blocked out everything but the gentle nudge of his broad, hard chest. It anchored her, allowing her a moment to breathe.

“Lady Snowley?” he said, in a gruff voice that could not have been more opposite to his previous softness, and as he growled, his chest rose, pressing more intently against her shoulder.

If he were to slip his arm around me, I would not be so afraid, her mind daydreamed, certain that the sheer strength of him would be enough to deflect the startled stares of the staff and protect her from the shame of her mother’s behavior.

“Who is there?” Agnes’ mother replied, sounding uneasy.

“It is the Duke of Crampton. I apologize for the intrusion, but as a gentleman who has long considered himself to be an adopted son of Lady Finch, I cannot permit this disrespect,” he insisted, his tone calm but firm. “You are behaving like a child, and if you do not emerge at once and allow the servants to load your luggage onto the carriages, I do have the spare key to these chambers. I will not hesitate to use it if you cannot see sense and come of your own accord.”

A gasp whispered through the door, shivering down Agnes’ spine. Although, that tremor might have had more to do with fleeting graze of his thigh against hers as he adjusted his stance.

“If you cannot journey to London, so be it,” George continued. “Arrangements will be made for your return to Snowley House. However, your indecision does not entitle you to delay the travels of everyone else in this residence, so I shall give you one minute to choose.”

He leaned closer to the door, pressing his chest firmly against Agnes’ shoulder, the top of her forearm flush to his stomach, her hand turning in toward herself to prevent her from touching the definition of his thigh. Indeed, overwhelmed with the heat that swept in from all around and within her—embarrassment, surprise, an ember of desire, the pleasure of his proximity—she wedged her arms behind her back to avoid stoking the fires any further.

Slowly, he began to count backwards from sixty, and the world stood still, holding its breath to see if Katherine Weston would obey.

“Fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty—” A key turned in the lock, and the door opened a crack.

Framed by the narrow gap, Agnes’ mother stared at George. “I will be downstairs in ten minutes. Have a lady’s maid sent for.”

“Pardon?” George growled.

“I mean, please may you have a lady’s maid come to my chambers, Your Grace,” Agnes’ mother hastened to correct, her face drained of color.

George sniffed. “Of course, Lady Snowley.” He pushed the door wider, exposing the older woman’s state of undress—a nightgown covered by a housecoat—and bent around the door to retrieve the key. “This room will remain unlocked.”

Agnes’ mother nodded feebly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“And if you are longer than ten minutes, I shall return,” George added.

Agnes dipped her chin to her chest, unable to look at the Duke. “I will not delay anyone any longer.”

“Glad to hear it.” With that, George closed the door and began to walk away.

Without thinking, Agnes leaped forward and took hold of his wrist, pulling him back. He turned, blinking in confusion, his eyes glancing down at her hand upon his.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Agnes whispered.

He smiled and slowly peeled her fingers from his wrist. “Do not thank me, Lady Agnes.” He let go of her hand and continued his departure, tossing a final remark over his shoulder as he went, “I did not do it for you.”

She stared after him, feeling the burn of the servants’ gazes upon her. Just like that, George had changed again, dousing the embers of desire that had left a pink flush upon her skin. From the ashes, she realized she had greater things to worry about—namely, what might appear in the scandal sheets if even one of those servants decided to gossip.