Chapter 15

CHAPTER15

George could not fathom why all eyes were turned toward Lady Rose when Agnes was the true vision of beauty, dressed in a striking gown of peacock blue. He had known jeweled, bright colors would become her, and he had been right. Indeed, even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to draw his gaze away from her.

Exquisite… Her pale skin was like fresh cream, her unruly hair tamed into a halo of curls, her posture graceful, pushing out the ripe bosom that he longed to feel, pressed against him.

“If I were not already engaged to be married, I would assuredly ask that divine creature to dance,” William whispered at George’s side, nudging him in the arm. “Are you certain you do not favor her? She would make any gentleman a fine bride. A little shy, perhaps, but that is no terrible attribute.”

George continued to gaze at Agnes until she looked away, tilting up her chin as she fixed her attention upon her sister. “Shyness and prettiness have never much tempted me. You know that,” he replied, imagining his own fingertips tilting up her chin in order to crush a fierce kiss against her lips, wrapping his arm around her narrow waist until there was nothing separating them.

“She must have some other charms to her if Lady Finch has done all of this for the girl,” William mused, staring at Rose as though he was not a betrothed man. “What can you tell me of her?”

George sniffed. “I cannot tell you anything of her, but I can tell you something of yourself—you will soon have a wife, so cease your lechery. Remember, we are avoiding life’s temptations.”

“There is no harm in looking, Buxton,” William muttered though he did turn his gaze away. “I am betrothed; I am not a monk.”

A chuckle rumbled from George’s throat. “If your bride is as fearsome as you say she is, you might want to behave as if you are a monk, lest you should lose some part of yourself that you are particularly fond of.”

“This is why I must never be parted from you for long, Buxton,” William said, shuddering. “You will hold me to my promises, preventing me from being led astray. Goodness, I wish Fiona were here. She would relish this though she would undoubtedly roll her eyes here and there, too. It is exceedingly extravagant for a lady of such little means—they must be hoping to catch a very large, very wealthy fish with this glittering net.”

George nodded. “Undoubtedly. Now, speaking of fish, I plan to drink like one—let us retreat to the refreshments, for all of this pageantry has left my throat rather dry.”

He did not admit that it was the sight of Agnes in that blue gown that left his throat dry, thirsty for a drink of her, desperate to have his desire slaked by the feel of her in his arms and the taste of her lips upon his.

* * *

In the chaos of the evening, where punch flowed freely and the guests were not shy about indulging, George lost sight of Agnes. He had not explicitly tried to seek her out, but he had expected them to cross paths at least once or twice, particularly as she had been shunned from the celebrated trio of ladies— Lady Finch, Lady Snowley, and Lady Rose: the luminaries of the hour.

Dancing had begun on the carefully laid out square, and the orchestra were ceaseless in their jaunty music, playing whatever was called out to them by the leading partners without hesitation. Many ladies had made flirtatious eyes at George, likely hoping to put his name upon their dance cards, but he was not in any temper to whirl and hop and clap with the others.

“She dances well,” William sighed, sipping what must have been his fifth glass of punch. His brown eyes were glazed, squinting over at the dance floor where Rose continued to hold everyone’s attention. Almost everyone’s.

George pulled a face and downed what was left in his own glass before pouring in a fresh measure. “I swear upon my silver stallion that if you do not stop cooing over Lady Rose, I shall find a quiet spot in these gardens and hide from you for the rest of the evening. It is becoming quite tiresome.”

“It is the punch doing the cooing, not me,” William protested, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief.

It was a rather warm evening, made even hotter by the crush of bodies that milled around the carefully arranged arboretum. The guests could have walked wherever they pleased, for there was nothing stopping them from treading upon the grass, but lifelong courtesy had made it impossible for them to leave the designated gravel paths that cut this way and that. As such, the selected portion of Kew Gardens which had been reserved for the ball had become a seething throng to rival Regent Street on a Saturday afternoon.

“You!” William cried suddenly, jabbing a finger. “You know Lady Rose! I saw you at the Dowager House with her!”

George whirled around in time to see Agnes sneaking up to the refreshment table, gleaming with a tantalizing sheen of perspiration. Gentlemen used “radiant” to describe a woman far too often, but in that moment, Agnes was the epitome of that word.

“I should say that I do, sir,” Agnes replied, stealing a glass of punch. “It would be rather peculiar if sisters did not know one another.”

William nodded as if Agnes had imparted some rare fragment of wisdom. “That is quite true. Sisters, yes. I had forgotten that.” He rubbed his chin. “My apologies, I cannot remember your name.”

“Lady Agnes Weston,” George interjected, moving to Agnes’ side. He caught hold of her wrist and led her closer to William, almost upending the drink she held in her hand. “I should like you to meet my dearest friend, the Earl of Mullens.”

William took Agnes’ other hand and pressed a drunken kiss to it. “William Reid to those who know me,” he slurred. “I am still growing accustomed to the “Earl” business.”

“You only recently inherited?” Agnes asked, her anxious gaze flitting between her two ensnared hands, for William had yet to let go.

William chuckled, finally releasing her. “Heavens, no. My father died some eight years ago now, but it shall always be peculiar to me. What did you say your title was? Are you married? Is your sister married? No, I expect not, or she would not be debuting.”

“Should I send for the priest so that I might confess my sins, for that rather sounded like an interrogation. The constables, perhaps? Might someone run to Bow Street, or are they the ones who do the running?” Agnes teased, tugging lightly in an attempt to free herself from George’s grasp, but he held on.

William exploded with laughter. “Oh, how deliciously wicked!” he crowed. “I like this one. She reminds me of my darling Fiona.”

“Is that a sobriquet you have for His Grace?” Agnes replied, as sharp as a tack in her wit. “I daresay, he does not look much like a Fiona, but the banter of gentlemen has always baffled me. Once, my cousin invited his acquaintance from Harrow to our residence and would not call him anything but “Eggs” during his entire stay. To this day, I do not know why, for he did not in the least bit resemble an egg—he was not even bald.”

William knocked into the refreshment table, clutching his stomach as tears of hilarity streamed down his reddened cheeks. “I know… of Eggs! But I could… not possibly tell you… the tale of how he got his name!” he choked, wheezing with laughter. “It is too… improper! Oh, Buxton, you never told me… that the other sister was… such a wit!”

“I believe His Grace prefers the term “buffoon,” MyL. Or the thorn in his side, the stone in his shoe, something of that ilk.” Agnes flashed George a smirk. “We have not seen eye-to-eye since meeting, have we, Your Grace?”

George cleared his throat. “We have had our differences, but I would not say we were hostile.”

“You would not?” Agnes raised a curious eyebrow. “Goodness, then I should hate to see how you behave when you are hostile toward someone. I was quite convinced that you despised me—at the very least, that you found me intolerable.”

Her words pricked inside his chest, like tiny bees had made a hive of his ribcage. Of course, he could not say that he had been wholly convivial toward her, but had they not shared a number of pleasant moments with one another? Could she be so foolish as to believe that he would kiss her hand and come to her rescue if he did not think she had some merits?

“But you are so alike!” William declared, swaying. “Perhaps, that is why you have rutted like stags.”

George grabbed his friend and hissed, close to his ear, “Be careful of your tongue, Reid. Your choice of words might be misconstrued.”

While the rutting of stags was a violent fight between males of the species to win mating rights, the term had been twisted somewhat in the secret vernacular of impolite society. To rut was to indulge in carnal pleasure, and while George might have dreamed of such a thing with Agnes, he did not want anyone gossiping that it had already happened in reality.

“Are you fearful that your proud antlers might drop off?” Agnes challenged, perhaps unaware of the alternative meaning, for she did not seem embarrassed or horrified.

George held her gaze. “No, I am fearful that you might find yourself in the very scandal sheets that you both devour and despise.” He swept a hand toward the never-ending tide of guests. “After all, you are conversing alone with two gentlemen, and there is no chaperone in sight. Tell me, while you were raising your sister, did you forget to teach yourself a lesson or two regarding proper etiquette?”

The look of abject fury upon Agnes’ face made George wish he had bitten back his harsh rebuke, but could she not understand that he was just trying to protect her? There were plenty of jealous ladies among the congregation who would have done anything to damage the reputation of the Weston women, and if they could not find flaw in Rose, they would aim for the jugular of the outsider sister.

“You know nothing of how I have cared for my sister,” Agnes growled, wielding her punch as if she intended to throw the cloudy yellow drink at him. “Nor do you know anything of how I have raised myself.”

William hid a gurgling laugh behind his hand. “I see now, dear Buxton, that I was blind. It was never the younger sister that you favored, it was—”

“That is quite enough, Reid,” George scolded, feeling like he had been given the responsibility of looking after an infant. “Both of you are behaving in a manner that is beneath you, and I am doing my best to keep you out of trouble.”

Agnes sniffed. “You are trying to keep me out of trouble? Why, I am surprised they have not yet done the obvious thing and changed the name of the scandal sheets to the “Duke of Crampton Chronicles.” There is no more prolific protagonist than you, Your Grace.”

If there had been a strong breeze at that moment, it would have knocked him over. He had never been spoken to so bluntly, so outrageously, and yet… the most infuriating part was, he could not argue with her remark. He had made far too many appearances in the scandal sheets, and there had been a time when he had taken pride in seeing his name in all sorts of sordid stories, but then she had come along and made him feel shame and guilt and a thousand other emotions that he had thought himself immune to.

Who are you to do this to me? he raged inwardly, struggling to calm himself. Who are you to disrupt my existence and make me feel bad about who I am? You are not my father.

“How dare you,” he seethed, unable to keep his anger inside. “Just as you say I know nothing about you, you know nothing about me.”

Agnes snorted. “I know plenty, Your Grace. I know that when you partake in unseemly things with ladies in Soho, you are gracious enough to drop a few coins into the hat of nearby beggars. Tell me, does that absolve you? Does your charity counterbalance your misdeeds? Truly, I am curious to know just how many lives you have ruined in the pursuit of pleasure?”

George blinked in disbelief, his stomach churning with searing embers of shame that he could not douse. But from within those embers, a different kind of spark burst forth—a spark of maddening desire that very nearly prompted him to sweep Agnes into his arms, then and there, to show her what the pursuit of pleasure really meant. After all, she was proving to be the greatest chase of his life: an impossible, infuriating creature who did not want to be caught, not even a little bit.

Your life would not feel ruined if you let me take you to my chambers, Agnes. If you spent but one evening with me, you would realize what living truly is. Or would he only prove what she already suspected—that he was a rogue who could not be changed? A rake who knew nothing of love or commitment, only fleeting infatuations.

“I merely ensured that those ladies returned to their residences safely,” he replied lamely, cursing every wretched informant of those blasted sheets who stalked him for a juicy tale… and cursing himself for giving them something to write about.

Folding her arms across her bosom, Agnes cast him a withering look. “I am no dolt, Your Grace. Perhaps those excuses work in your favor when you employ them with other young ladies to convince them that you are not what they have read, but your excuses shall never work with me.”

“How arrogant you are,” he retorted without thinking, “to believe that I would want them to work with you. Have I ever given you any inclination that I am pursuing—”

Something hard and vicious smacked him in the leg, severing his sentence with a gasp of pain from his lips. His watering eyes flitted down to his thigh and jumped to the formidable figure in blood red, who stood with her eyebrow raised and her cane in hand, bracing to smack him again if he spoke out of turn.

And not a moment too soon, for what he had been about to say might have doomed his chance of ever getting close to Agnes again.