Chapter 17

CHAPTER17

Breathless, heart pounding, and drenched in sweat, Agnes dove behind the silk curtains of the private gazebo, reserved for her family. She sank down upon the plump cushions and snapped up a half-empty glass of punch, gulping mouthfuls until there was nothing left, but even the dulling quality of the drink could do nothing to ease the stabs of fear and hope and regret that lodged in her chest.

“Why can we not be civil?” she hissed to herself, furious that she had allowed him to rile her into rudeness again.

It was childish to stamp on his foot like that, and it was not as if it he had fabricated a lie about her—raising Rose had changed the course of her life, forcing her to be responsible before her time, forcing her to be a mother before she had birthed a child, but, from him, she had not been able to bear the sound of the truth.

“Hmm?” Across the gazebo, a pile of blankets stirred, revealing the bleary-eyed face of her mother. “Did you say something?”

Agnes’ hand flew to her mouth in fright, her heart thudding against her ribs. “Mother, what are you doing? This is not the occasion to be sleeping! You scared me half to death!”

“I was tired,” her mother replied simply, sitting up with a yawn. “Are you… crying?”

Agnes hurried to brush any evidence of her turmoil from her cheeks. “Me? No. I am warm from the dancing, that is all.”

“You danced?” Her mother seemed surprised. “I did not know you could.”

Agnes bit back a retort, choosing silence. After all, it was her tongue that kept getting her into trouble. Tonight, more than ever.

And the dancing had started so well, too, she lamented. I was having the most wonderful time, and then I ruined it.

“With whom did you dance?” Her mother rubbed her eyes though it was not clear if she was actually interested or just waiting to fall asleep again.

Agnes shrugged. “The Duke of Crampton.”

“That fellow who spoke to me like I was muck upon his boot?” her mother grumbled, eyes creasing with disapproval.

Agnes stood up, her heart sore. “I do not want to quarrel with you, Mother. Lady Finch instructed me to dance with him, so I did.” She paused. “And he did not speak to you in a way you did not deserve, for we would not be here at all if he had not commanded you to leave your chambers. Now, if you will excuse me, I must find Rose.”

She pulled back the silk drapery, uncertain of where she might hide among the mystical realm of the ball and headed out into the dark. She had barely made it ten paces down the gravel path that led back into the main sphere of the gathering when a tall figure stepped out from behind an oak tree, blocking her way.

“A word if I may, Lady Agnes,” George said, looking rather flustered. “You do not just abandon a gentleman upon the dance floor before the set has come to a proper close and the required etiquette has been fulfilled. You made a fool of yourself, which is your prerogative, but you will not make a fool of—”

Agnes put up her hands in weary surrender. “Stop, Your Grace. I beg of you to cease your reprimand there.” She sighed, glancing around him to ensure no one was watching. “I apologize if I did not behave as I was supposed to. This is, in truth, my first real experience of a ball… and I was angry with you, so I forgot myself.”

“Angry with me?” His eyebrows raised up, but she could tell he understood why. He was not stupid; he had tried to aggravate her as much as she had tried to aggravate him. After all, that seemed to be the nature of their encounters.

Brazenly, Agnes took his hand and led him back behind the oak tree where she could be certain no one would witness their private conversation. She had gotten carried away during the dancing, adding pirouettes and twirls and getting too close to her partner, likely causing tongues to wag, but she would not make that mistake again tonight if she could help it.

“You insulted me, George,” she said, boldly testing his name again. It felt full and rich in her mouth, like biting into a sun-warmed plum. “You know that you did, and while other ladies might have ignored it or brushed it aside, I cannot. I am proud of what I have done for Rose. I am proud, and I am hopeful that she will never suffer as I have.”

George stepped closer, driving Agnes back against the oak tree, her backside bumping into the runnels of the gnarled trunk. The knock pushed the air out of her lungs in a gasp though she could not deny that it might have been his proximity that left her struggling for breath.

He towered over her, his corded neck bending as if he meant to kiss her while his hand braced against the tree, trapping her there in a manner that did not feel like a snare at all but rather like an invitation. And as his other hand came up to tame the wild tendril of hair that had sprung free of the pins and lacquer, she almost accepted, knowing that if she just stood upon her tiptoes, her mouth could reach his in a moment.

His fingertips brushed against her skin as he tucked the wayward strands of hair behind her ear, but he did not immediately draw his hand away again. Instead, he let his touch trace a shivering line down the side of her neck until he reached the delicate necklace of sapphire and costume glass that encircled her throat. Her teeth grazed her lower lip as he adjusted the necklace, restoring the weight of the central jewel to the hollow at the base of her throat.

And for a fleeting, feverish moment, his fingertips trailed lower, sliding toward the valley of her bosom. Her heart broke into a frantic gallop, her stomach tightening, her back arching against the tree, responding to the graze of his skin on hers.

“I cannot stand to see jewelry askew,” he murmured in a throaty voice, finally withdrawing his touch before he graced that intimate dip between her breasts.

Panting, Agnes peered up at him. “You should not have touched me without permission,” she gasped. “Have we not learned this lesson already, or have I been a neglectful tutor?”

“I could not help myself,” he replied thickly.

Her head swam, the contents of the punch and the heat of the night catching up to her. “Is this another of your… supposedly infallible tricks? If the shock of that awful book does not work, and your witty conversation does not work, and your amusing charm does nothing, is this what you do next?” She clasped a hand to her chest, pushing against her ribs to urge her lungs to breathe normally again. “I suppose you have made a quest of me to entertain yourself this season?”

“Why would you think that?” He smiled, his eyes shining in the darkness, his breath warm and sweet upon her skin. He moved another half-step until they were far closer than they had ever been before. His powerful thighs were almost flush to hers though his hips and stomach were curved backward with the bend of his posture as he leaned over her, daring her to give into the impulse of kissing him.

Not that she would know how even if she wanted to. He had graced countless scandal sheets for his exploits, but she had never so much as pressed her lips to the cheek of a gentleman, much less his lips. And as that panic swelled inside her, the fear of making a fool of herself brought her hands up, shoving them against his chest.

He stumbled back, wearing an expression of surprise.

“You will not trick me, George,” she rasped, fighting for breath as her head and her heart launched a battle within her. “I will not be another of your conquests, left scrambling for the remains of her dignity. I am not sport nor a game you can win. So, with all due respect, please leave me be.”

On shaky legs, she hurried around the tree, refusing to look back as she shambled toward the safety of the crowds. As she made her way through the crush, heart pounding, head dizzy, she clasped the necklace at her throat, swallowing at the memory of his tantalizing touch. Why had she let him do that? Why had she not shoved him away sooner?

Because you wanted his affection, her mind whispered. Because you liked the way it felt, and because you want to know what it is like to have something, someone, for yourself.

Fighting back strange tears, Agnes weaved through the guests until she found herself at the edge of the dance floor once again. It soothed her to be near to the music and cheer and to watch couples enjoying one another’s company. Yet, she did not like the feeling of being so close to other guests, every nudge and bump and apology putting her right back against the tree where, deep down, she still longed to be.

So, skirting around the sides of the dance floor, she crept back to the spot where she had stood to watch Rose being introduced. There, next to the orchestra stand, she sat down upon the grass and hugged her knees to her chest, hoping to go unnoticed.

This is more like my own debut, she thought wryly, looking out at the happy couples who bounded and jigged in a merry country dance.

Among them, Agnes spotted Rose, who wore the widest smile of all. Despite previously lacking any partner other than her sister, Rose had always been a fair dancer, but Agnes could not recall seeing Rose leap and hop and twirl with such glorious abandon.

“Who has inspired this in you?” Agnes whispered, her view of Rose’s partner obscured by the couples in front.

Agnes had to wait until the dance came to an end before she caught a glimpse of the fellow for the first time. He bowed low to Rose before standing to his full height with a delighted grin upon his face… and Agnes immediately understood why her sister wore such a giddy expression.

The gentleman was the singular most handsome person she had ever beheld, with one exception, though to call this man handsome seemed wrong: he was beautiful. He stood at well over six feet, dwarfing the gentlemen around him with a long mane of impossibly blond hair that, while presently unfashionable, would certainly have the rest of male society growing out their locks. His face held no flaws, every feature chiseled into porcelain skin: his jaw strong, his cheekbones sharp, his lips full and smiling, his nose high and Grecian.

Indeed, the only “imperfection” that Agnes could find was the lightness of his eyebrows, matching the blonde of his hair so well that it almost looked like he had no eyebrows at all. Yet, even that only served to benefit him, for it drew more attention to the most captivating eyes: icy blue and lupine… and fixated solely upon Rose.

Rose’s gaze, however, fell suddenly upon her sister. “Agnes!” she cried, hurrying over in a daze of happiness, almost tripping on her skirts as she ran. “Did you see me, Agnes? Did you see me?”

“I certainly did,” Agnes replied, splitting her attention between her sister and the gentleman she had been dancing with. He had moved to the edge of the dance floor, watching the sisters shyly as if awaiting some kind of judgment.

“Oh, Agnes, I know I do not dance as well as you, but I thought I was floating on air!” Rose swayed to music that had not yet begun again, her cheeks pink, her eyes gleaming. “I have found him, sister, just as Mama said I would. I never thought I could be so fortunate, but I have found him!”

Agnes drew her sister to her and put a finger to her lips. “Quieten yourself, dearest Rosie. You must never show a gentleman how eager you are for his attentions,” she instructed, realizing the irony in her words as her mind darted back to the darkness beside the oak tree and George’s fingertips upon her neck, his breath tickling her skin. “Now, tell me everything: Who is this gentleman? How many dances have you danced with him? And is he wearing a wig?”

Rose smacked her sister on the arm. “Of course, he is not wearing a wig!”

“A jest, sweet sister.” Agnes chuckled, anchoring herself in Rose’s joy, letting it chase away all thoughts of George. “Who is he that has so bewitched you?”

Rose bounded around, prompting Agnes to hold her tighter, for it was akin to restraining a drunkard. Yet, the intoxicant was not to be found in any punch bowl or bottle of potent liquor: it came from the shy, striking glances of that beautiful gentleman, still standing in wait though countless other ladies kept wandering in front of him, trying to snare his attention.

“The Lord Morton,” Rose whispered as if it were a secret.

Agnes squinted. “A baron?”

“Oh, do not be troubled by that!” Rose replied, her tone pleading. “As the youngest daughter to a former Earl, a baron is a fine prospect. If we had brothers who had inherited, perhaps it would not be… good enough, but I cannot afford to be inflexible.”

Agnes glanced down at her sister. “I did not say he was not a fine prospect.” She smiled, knowing she would allow Rose anything. “You would certainly have the most handsome husband in all of England, and there is merit in that. Indeed, I daresay you would be the envy of the ton. That being said, let us not dance a quadrille before we can master walking, yes?”

“You wish me to be sensible.” Rose puffed out a frustrated breath.

“Not sensible, necessarily, but shrewd.” Agnes pressed a kiss to Rose’s hair. “And if you cannot, then I shall be on your behalf.”

Rose squinted up at her sister. “What do you mean?”

“If you have not danced with him twice already, then what in heaven’s name are you doing, gossiping with me? Dance with him again and have the most glorious evening that any lady has ever had at their own debut ball,” Agnes replied, grinning through the ache in her chest that longed to dance with George again. “In the meantime, I shall begin an investigation, to ensure that your dashing prince does not turn out to be a dashing disaster.”

With a squeal of happiness, Rose squeezed her sister’s hands and darted off again, slowing to a more sedate walk as she ventured closer to where the Baron stood. Of course, Rose could not ask him to dance, but she could linger nearby until he took the initiative.

It was a matter of minutes before Rose and the Baron were back in their positions, just as the orchestra struck up a merry tune again. And as Agnes watched, she prayed that the Baron was everything Rose dreamed he would be, for if any gentleman dared to break Rose’s heart, they would be made to wish they had never so much as looked upon her.

But beneath that vow, a different dread simmered: Agnes was not Rose’s mother, and the final say in Rose’s future happiness was not in her hands, but in those of their true mother. And Katherine was not going to like the prospect of a mere baron, not one bit. Perhaps, even less than she liked the prospect of a particular duke.

But at least we do not have to worry about that, Agnes told herself, standing alone, once more on the outskirts of society.