Chapter 13

CHAPTER13

The first week in London passed by in a blissful blur for the Weston sisters, who had never experienced the thrills and delights of a vast city before. All they had ever known was the countryside estate in Cheshire with a few sparse visits to Bath and Manchester and York, and not one of those compared to the magnitude of the Capital.

Every morning, they awoke with the promise of adventure in their hearts, given free rein to enjoy leisurely pursuits in Lady Finch’s knowledgeable company. They reveled in the artistic beauty of galleries, they whiled away several hours at the botanical gardens, they did indeed walk along the Serpentine, they were forever pausing in tea rooms to refresh themselves or browsing through dressmakers’ shops, and they spent their evenings at the theater and the opera, mingling with the bright and beautiful creatures of high society.

Agnes suspected that the “leisurely pursuits” were, in fact, carefully orchestrated by Lady Finch so that Rose would be seen in respected company and seen as often as possible. Indeed, every time the three ladies ventured out on another excursion, they were inundated by introductions, everyone curious to discover the identity of Lady Finch’s latest prodigy.

“Is it possible to be utterly exhausted and yet not tired at all?” Rose asked on the sixth morning of their residency in London.

The sisters were sitting in the drawing room of Lady Finch’s Mayfair townhouse, enjoying a spot of tea. For the first time since their arrival, they were on their own, for Lady Finch had journeyed to Kew to oversee the last touches to the coming night’s ball. Meanwhile, Agnes kept waiting for the panic and anxiety that was imminently due from her sister, considering what was at stake.

“If the aches in my legs are any evidence, then yes,” Agnes replied. “My heart could walk from one side of the city to the other, not stopping for anything, but these blasted limbs—they are traitors. I have bathed every evening in the hottest of baths to ease their throbbing, but they do not seem to have received the message that they are to behave.”

Rose chuckled. “Then, you will not be inclined to take a walk with me in the private gardens? I had hoped to steal an hour of quiet in there until chaos undoubtedly comes knocking for me.”

“If that is your desire, I shall drag myself there on my belly if I must.” Agnes sipped her lukewarm tea, wetting her dry throat. Perhaps, she was the only one anxious for the ball that night, for Rose seemed… unnervingly calm.

A short while later, the sisters slipped out of the elegant townhouse, the white exterior gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. They had invited their mother out of politeness, but of course, she had refused, just as she had refused to come out of her bedchamber every day for a week. It was anyone’s guess whether or not she would rally her sensibilities in time for Rose’s ball, but Agnes was not holding her breath.

“Do you think she will forgive you?” Rose asked as the two women crossed the street and headed down a wide alleyway between a pair of equally refined townhouses. Little Juliet balconies jutted from beneath the upper windows though Agnes could not imagine herself calling to a lover below. For that, she would have to have a lover.

Agnes did not slow her stride as daydreams of George threatened to barrel through the fortifications of her mind. “Who, dear sister?”

“Mama.”

“Why should I need to be forgiven?” Agnes replied curtly, swallowing the flare of anger as soon as it appeared. It was not Rose’s fault that her sister and mother were not speaking to one another. None of this was.

Rose fiddled with the high-necked lace collar of her new day dress. “I just think it would be nice if the two of you were… friendly again. If Mama believes you do not want her at my ball, she will not attend, and I should very much like her to be there.”

It was rare for Agnes to lose her temper with Rose, but in that moment, it nearly slipped from her grasp. She halted sharply and turned to face her sister, grasping Rose by the shoulders to ensure she was listening and did not miss a word of what was about to be said.

“Do you blame me?” Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Do you honestly believe that if Mother does not attend tonight, it will be my fault? Please, do tell the brutal truth, for I should be very interested to hear your opinion.”

She nearly added, “after all I have done for you,” but she was not their mother. No matter how furious she was, Agnes never wanted Rose to think that she regretted the past decade of raising her sister or that Rose owed anything for it.

“I… Well, I just…” Rose faltered, casting her gaze down toward the cobblestones. She scuffed her toe against the bumps, chewing her lip as she had done since she was a child.

“You just—?” Agnes prompted, fighting back tears.

Rose peered up through her thick, dark lashes. “No, of course I do not. I lashed out at you because… because I am scared, and I am so very sorry.” Her voice shook. “I want this evening to be perfect, and I thought… maybe you would be able to convince Mama to be there if I put the responsibility on you. That was wrong of me. Please, forgive me.”

“I will do my best, but I cannot make any promises,” Agnes said, softening her tone and her grip upon Rose’s shoulders. “But do not do that again. Leave the manipulation to bitter rivals who have no charm and must use underhand schemes to gain what they want.”

Rose nodded. “You do not think there will be any of those at the ball, do you?”

“Let us hope not.” Taking Rose by the arm, Agnes guided her the rest of the way to the oval-shaped private gardens that stood in the center of a circus of townhouses.

It was a beautiful oasis where one could almost forget they were in the midst of a metropolis, and every time Agnes had passed by it, she had longed to gain entry through one of the wrought-iron gates. Tall hedges and dense bushes blocked most of the garden from outside spectators, but there were a few gaps in the tightly tangled twigs of the bushes where the lush greenery could be seen. And those glimpses made the gardens all the more tempting as if they were looking upon something they should not.

“Did you bring the key?” Rose asked, for Lady Finch was in possession of one and had informed the women that they could use the gardens whenever they pleased.

Agnes produced the item and slotted it into the lock of one of the high, whimsical gates, the iron twisting into ornamental vines and flowers in a feat of remarkable craftsmanship. Holding her breath, giddy with excitement, she slotted the key into place and turned it as though she were the gatekeeper of a secret paradise.

Stepping out from an archway carved into the hedge, Agnes truly felt as if she was entering a different world. The gardens were pristine and peaceful with an old yew tree standing sentinel in the middle, its gnarled bows spreading out to offer shade in the warmth of the spring sunlight.

That was when she saw him, seated upon a bench beneath the yew tree. He lounged across it as if it belonged to him, one leg crossed over the other, reading a book that he had propped upon his knee.

What cruel jest might this be? Agnes glared up at the sky, cursing the heavens for their continued japes. She had just begun to forget George, and in a city of thousands upon thousands of people, she had hoped she would never run into him again. Of course, what she had not considered was the fact that high society, and Mayfair in particular, was more like a village.

“Goodness, my dearest Rosie, I forgot that we are supposed to remain in the townhouse for the seamstress,” Agnes said in a hushed whisper, fearful that her voice might carry and draw George’s attention.

Rose’s face crumpled with disappointment. “But why? How many alterations can be made now when the gown is already perfect?”

“Come now, we would not want Lady Finch to think that all of the Weston women are rude, would we?” Agnes grasped her sister’s hand and tugged her back to the gate, leading her through without listening to any more complaints.

I cannot contend with him today. I must think only of the ball and of Rose. I cannot think of him. Agnes’ heart thundered in her chest as she marched back to the townhouse with Rose in reluctant tow.

Almost at the door of the residence, fresh tears pricked at Agnes’ eyes, for she had spent the entire week trying to convince herself that she did not care what George thought of her, assuring herself that she really would not mind if she never encountered him again. But it was just a wall of lies, built upon a foundation of self-preservation.

She did care, and it terrified her. She cared that he had come to her aid when she had needed someone the most. She cared that he had kissed her bare hand and made her heart pound and her blood rush with a fever of desire. She cared that he had pressed himself against her, as if to protect her with his own body, and that she had withdrawn from it. She cared that he had said, “I did not do it for you,” when all she had wanted to hear was that he had done it for her.

Do not dare to dream, Agnes, she scolded herself, pushing inside the townhouse. It will only hurt more when it crumbles, and you are left even lonelier than when you began.

* * *

George had seen Agnes. For days, he had come to the same gardens with the same book, hoping that he might. Ironically, he had not read a single page, too distracted with watching the four gates that led into the private gardens to concentrate on the History of Byzantium.

She was standing right there, or did I imagine her? He blinked to ensure that his eyes were working as they were supposed to. Nothing around him had changed: the grass remained a jeweled green, the leaves still fluttered overhead, the two children playing by the small fishpond on the far side of the gardens were still crouched over the water, and his book was still on the same page. The only thing missing was her.

He knew she had seen him. There was no way she could have not, considering his prime position. Yet, she had fled, and his legs itched to pursue her. His very being yearned to be in her company again, for the past week had been exceedingly dull.

What is happening to me? He swallowed thickly, squinting at the gate she had departed through in a hurry.

It was not even his usual exploits that he missed. Indeed, he found he did not miss the empty flirtations and shallow pleasures at all—he missed her. He missed the witty sting of her repartee and the intoxicating scent of her perfume. He craved the closeness of her, longing to feel the accidental brush of her fingertips against his thigh once again or the panting rise and fall of her bosom against his chest. He desired to watch her walk, if nothing else, to revel in the sensual movements of her figure—again, quite accidental.

“Enough,” he told himself, snapping his book shut. “This has gone on long enough.”

He had preparations to make.

That night, he would not have to wait around in the hopes of seeing her, for he knew exactly where she would be. At Rose’s ball, Agnes would have to speak to him if he approached her, for she would not risk offending an honored guest. And after seeing her run from him, he planned to do everything within his power to pull her close once more, satisfying his hunger before it ruined his appetites forever.

Once I have had a morsel of you, I will be sated, he told himself. Then, I can return to how I was, forgetting you ever brought my world to a standstill. For he could not, and would not, believe that his life had changed irrevocably because of one wild, rude, discourteous, haughty, beautiful, enticing, maddening woman.