Chapter 18

CHAPTER18

It had been four days since the ball at Kew Gardens, yet the ton spoke of it as if it had never ended. Wherever George went, gossip followed among ladies and gentlemen alike. Even at the gentlemen’s clubs where he had prayed, at last, to find sanctuary, he could not escape mentions of those “exquisite sisters.”

“Not keeping them to yourself, are you?” one viscount had asked, almost fraying George’s last nerve.

“I have never seen any lady in polite society dance the way that older one danced with you, Your Grace,” another lord had remarked. “Tell me you snuck her home in your carriage!” That comment had nearly gained the fellow a black eye and might have done if William had not been there to restrain George.

“That lady in blue—my goodness, what a woman!” some desperate merchant who hoped to buy a title had said to a companion, sighing in a way that made George’s blood boil. “As she is somewhat past her prime, I imagine she would be grateful for any offer of marriage. I am considering it.”

In the end, George had decided to retreat to his townhouse, avoiding any company that might still have Agnes upon their tongues. He had, of course, expected there to be plenty of discussions surrounding Rose, but the fact that Agnes had captured so much attention was not something he was prepared for. Nor could he rid himself of the somewhat childish notion that he had seen and spoken with her first, and that claim was being ignored.

I should have kissed her, he knew as he hopelessly attempted to read the History of Byzantium in his drawing room. Each touch of the silky pages just reminded him of her skin, distracting him until he had quite forgotten which sentence he had been reading. I should have made her mine when I had the opportunity.

Despite the warnings that he had given to himself, and the promises he had made to protect her from himself, he could not help being drawn to her, like a moth to candlelight. At the ball, she had singed him, and that burn still pulsed with want, tormenting him day and night, filling every room with the hushed gasps of her breath and filling his mind with the memory of how her body had responded to his touch.

There would be no relief until he had been engulfed by her flame, until his lips, his tongue, his touch had grazed every inch of her soft, creamy skin, inviting her into a secret society of endless pleasure that she had no knowledge of. He would burn with her and rise again from the ash, free of his torture at last.

After that, he did not know what would happen, nor did he need to consider it just yet; he was not even close to the finishing line, and there were countless obstacles ahead where he might yet stumble. After all, she kept running from him.

Just then, a yawning face appeared at the drawing room door. “A good morning to you, Buxton,” William murmured, stretching out his arms.

“It is afternoon,” George replied, for while he had been avoiding society, William continued to savor his evenings, relishing every possible moment until his wedding.

William squinted at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. “So it is.” He frowned at George. “You seem particularly ill-tempered today. Might I ask what ails you, or is it still Agnes Weston?”

“I might ask you why you continue to indulge yourself when you are betrothed to be married and have a future bride who might prevent you from ever indulging in anything again if she were to discover your exploits,” George shot back, regretting his curt tone. It was not William’s fault he was in such a sour mood.

William flopped down onto the nearby settee. “I have done nothing she would not approve of,” he insisted. “Even without you as the guardian of my morals, I have kept my promise to be faithful.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” William yawned wider. “I have imbibed, and I have gambled, nothing more. You may ask anyone.”

George glanced over at his friend, offering a look of apology. “I believe you, and I am so very sorry for the awful disposition you have found me in these past few days. You know this is not me. Perhaps, I am unwell.”

“If love is the sickness, then most certainly,” William teased, kicking his legs up onto the arm of the settee. “Lady Agnes has corrupted you, and I am afraid there is no cure. Well, there might be, but not one you would readily take.”

Groaning, George braced himself. “And what cure might that be?”

“Marry the girl! Claim her! Make her your Duchess, and be blissfully happy for the rest of your days!”

George wished he had not asked. “I have told you, I feel nothing for Agnes. She intrigues me and infuriates me, that is all.”

“And that tells me everything I need to know of the truth, my good man. You adore her, you desire her, and you are helpless to deny it. The trouble is, you must convince her of your sincerity which, being you, you will not do, and so you are doomed. It is quite the romantic tragedy.” William sat up suddenly. “Fortunately, I have a temporary remedy to get you out of this gloomy mood.”

George snorted. “I have had quite enough of your advice for one day, and you have barely been in my presence for five minutes.”

He mulled over his dearest friend’s appraisal of his predicament, hating that he could not defend himself against the accusations. He did adore Agnes, he did desire her, and after the ball, he could not deny it any longer. Indeed, at the ball, he had not danced with any other lady despite encouragements, and he had experienced such a mighty sense of relief upon discovering that Agnes had not carried out her threat, either.

“It is not advice,” William said, swinging his legs around. “I have two invitations to tonight’s opera—a gift from my future bride. You see, she wants me to enjoy myself so that I have endless tales to tell her when we next meet, and I do not intend to disappoint her.”

Horrified, George slammed down his book and stared at his friend in disbelief. “The opera? That is supposed to raise me from my melancholy?” He rolled his eyes. “Why, that is likely to submerge me deeper in this ocean of unhappiness. Take someone else, for I prefer my woes to be uttered in quiet, English whispers, not screeched in Italian.”

“You are coming whether you like it or not,” William replied. “Do not make me send for Lady Finch and her trusty cane.”

“You would not.”

William grinned. “I would, and worse still, I would tell her why you are in this dim disposition. Tell me, do you think she will be delighted or appalled when she discovers that you are quite in love with her latest protégée?”

“I am not in love,” George barked back, “and Agnes is not the protégée. She is… her sister’s guardian.”

“And not doing very well in her duties, or so I have heard.”

Pivoting in his armchair, George narrowed his eyes at William. “What have you heard? Has her name appeared in the scandal sheets because of me? Have there been remarks about the way she danced? I have heard every vile sentiment spewed by the supposed “gentlemen” of this city these past few days, and it has confirmed what I already suspected—not one of them would understand grace and beauty if it were to punch them in the face! Agnes did not dance in an unseemly fashion; she danced as if the music was in her very soul, and that cannot be a sin! If anyone says otherwise, I shall—”

“I was referring to Lady Rose,” William interrupted, jabbing an excited finger in his friend’s direction. “I knew you were besotted with Lady Agnes! I knew it!”

George’s jaw dropped, his body sagging as he realized that William had caught him red-handed. Recoiling into the stiff leather of the armchair, he crossed his arms over his chest and flashed his best scowl. “I suppose you are rather proud of yourself?”

“Very much so.” William puffed his chest.

“Once you have recovered from your hollow triumph, might you tell me what the news is regarding Lady Rose?”

Not one to let his success fade quickly, William sat straight-backed in his chair, gloating. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, counting the minutes of the motionless victory lap, each second making George squirm upon the cracked leather.

Of course, he had spoken without thinking, getting carried away by the memory of how beautifully Agnes had danced. All eyes had been upon her and not for sordid reasons but because she had captivated her audience with her elegance and poise. Yet, the story of her triumphant dances in his company had been twisted in the mouths of gossipmongers, who seemed intent on forging an image of her as an uncouth temptress who would steal the ton’s husbands out from under their noses. At least, that was the impression he had garnered from his ill-fated ventures into the center of London where high society loitered.

“She has the gentlemen of our beloved peerage in quite the flap,” William said, at last. “I overheard at Beckett’s that there have been no fewer than ten notes of intent sent to Lady Finch’s residence, and not one has been replied to. Indeed, there are whispers that Lady Rose is already engaged to be married.”

George blinked, dumbfounded at the stupidity of his peers. “I assure you, she is not. The truth is likely simpler—she does not wish to entertain the notion of courting a single one of those fellows.”

“That is what I said,” William nodded, “but she would do well to remember her manners. A response is expected, even if it is a rejection… and there was at least one earl among the brokenhearted.”

Perplexed, George picked up his afternoon snifter of brandy and took a sip of the harsh, sweet liquor. It warmed his throat, trickling down to heat the furnace of his belly, though nothing stoked a truer fire there than thoughts of Agnes. Indeed, whenever he had imbibed during the days since the ball, the brandy only served to exacerbate his compulsion to intoxicate himself with dreams of her.

Shaking off whatever visions threatened to drive him back into his pit of confused despair, he set down his brandy and straightened up. “I shall investigate this matter tonight, for no one likes to gossip more than at the opera. It must be the drama of the music, inspiring the audience to coax some excitement into their dreary lives. If they cannot have tragic stories of love and tawdry affairs, they will seed a lie and watch it grow into something vicious and untamable. Pitiful, really.”

“I hoped you might say that.” William propelled himself off the settee, bounding toward the drawing room door with boyish exuberance. “Dress in your finery, Buxton—we are going to Beckett’s first.”

He was gone before George could refuse, but a few drinks at Beckett’s might be just what George needed to endure the opera. Indeed, there was no courage quite like the liquid kind, and he would need all he could get if he were to face the ton and their bitter gossip while a large woman wailed in a language he had never bothered to learn.

“Gentlemen, you should have seen her!” He heard the echo of a lewd baronet’s voice in his head, his hands clenching into fists at the recollection. “Breasts like two freshly baked buns, and the way they bounced around as she danced was something I shall remember for the rest of my life. It shall certainly help me to make love to my wife tonight.”

He doubted that the night to come would be any different, for when the gentlemen gathered together, the Weston sisters were sure to come up in conversation. And while Lady Finch was sure to protect Lady Rose’s reputation with every connection she possessed, Agnes had no one to defend hers.

With any luck, he would make it through the evening without starting a brawl though he could make no promises.