Chapter 21

CHAPTER21

As the powerful music of the orchestra and the opera singers manipulated the emotions of the auditorium like marionettes on strings, George watched Agnes closely, ignoring everything that took place upon the stage. Hers was the only performance he cared about, her expressive face and delicate gestures proving to be far more captivating than the painted grotesques who flounced around below.

As Donna Elvira entered to sing of her pity for the wretched Don Giovanni, pleading with him to change his ways, stirring the audience with a wrenching rendition of “the Final Proof of My Love,” George’s own heart twinged at the sight of a tear rolling down Agnes’ cheek. Her fingertips swayed through the air in perfect time with the music, reminding him of their celebrated dance together… and he had to wonder if she had truly been jesting when she suggested that this opera was his story.

I am not so despicable, he told himself, for Don Giovanni was an irredeemable, detestable villain who deserved everything that awaited him. A viper who deserved to be dragged to Hell by demons. Yet, they did have seduction in common, and as George watched another tear chase the first down Agnes’ cheek, he would have done anything to change her mind about him. Just as he did not want her to think of him as a Don Giovanni, he did not want her to be like a Donna Elvira, withdrawing from society for the rest of her life because of the actions of a corrupt man.

She must have sensed his intense gaze upon her, for as Donna Elvira abandoned Don Giovanni and left the stage, Agnes turned her graceful neck slightly and met George’s eyes. His fingertips longed to brush away the tears that she had not yet dismissed from her cheeks—better yet, to kiss them from her skin, replacing her sadness with something sweeter.

“Is something amiss with your sight?” she whispered.

George shook his head. “Nothing at all.”

“But you are not watching the performance.”

“It does not captivate me,” he replied, relishing the darkness of the opera house, for it meant he could lean closer to her than he might have dared if the lights were brighter. “I did not expect it to captivate you, either.”

She sniffed. “Because I can count the operas that I have seen on precisely two fingers?”

His teeth grazed his lower lip, certain of the pleasure he could conjure within her with precisely two fingers. Evidently, the passion of the Italian music had seeped into his soul, overwhelming his more subtle English sensibilities, encouraging the desires that would surely see her ruined if he gave into them.

“Because I thought you had no heart,” he said, meaning none of it. “Not of the romantic kind, at least. Opera is romance and tragedy and all of those foolish little fancies that you seem to have no place for.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What would you know of my heart, Your Grace? It is not immune to romance and tragedy and those “foolish little fancies” that make life beautiful and bittersweet, but it knows well how to protect itself from unwanted attacks. The walls around it are built high, Your Grace, and it would take a very special sort of gentleman to climb such heights.”

“Would such a gentleman require a grappling hook or a battering ram?” He had angered her again.

Truly, he did not know why he kept feeling inclined to rile her when all he truly desired was the softness of her—the vulnerability he had witnessed when he had helped coax her mother from her bedchamber, the feminine elegance of her when they danced, the willing gasps that had escaped her throat when he had touched her by the oak tree. More than anything, he had liked how it felt to be able to protect her, yet he continued to make himself appear like the very person she needed protecting from.

I am too accustomed to the chase. I do not know how to behave around a woman like you. I do not know how to… win you, how to soften you, how to understand you. I do not know how to “see you” as you claim to see me. The realization stuck in his throat like a fishbone until he could have choked upon the frustration of feeling like a novice in an arena where he was ordinarily an expert.

“If you will excuse me, I should like to return to enjoying the performance before Lady Finch has us both ousted for whispering like schoolchildren.” Posture stiffening, Agnes turned around and fixed her attention upon the final act of the opera. Her tears had dried upon her cheeks, and he knew he had ruined the night for her.

Sitting back in his chair, he contemplated leaving so that she might experience the rest of the opera in peace, but stubbornness held him in his place. He would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him depart, for she had bested him one too many times already.

Instead, he cast a sideways glance at Seth, who also seemed disinterested in the performance. His tender gaze did not move from the back of Lady Rose’s neck, his hands clasped respectfully in his lap, his posture straight and honorable, his entire demeanor lacking anything resembling lust or hunger whatsoever.

Oh, to be where you are now, George lamented, mortified by the catalogue of his misdeeds as they flicked through his mind to the deafening clash of the orchestra. Don Giovanni was about to meet his hellish fate, punished for his terrible acts in life, and George could not swallow the feeling that he was meeting his. Agnes was his ultimate temptation and his greatest warning, yet he feared he had already taken too many wrong steps for her to be his redeemer.

* * *

“Agnes, might I steal you for a moment?” Lady Finch asked, stifling a yawn as the three ladies padded into the dense quiet of the Mayfair townhouse.

A shiver of concern prickled down Agnes’ back as she put on a smile and nodded. “Of course, Lady Finch.” She paused. “Shall I send for a tea tray?”

“I will not be awake that long. Truly, it will only take a moment, and then I shall retire with my head full of garbled Italian,” Lady Finch replied, heading into the front parlor.

In the hallway, tiled with squares of black and white that resembled a chess board, Rose cast her sister a worried glance. Agnes gave her a subtle nod as if to say, “Go on to bed; I shall tell you everything in due course.”

“Goodnight,” Rose said quietly.

“Goodnight,” Agnes replied, and from inside the front parlor, Lady Finch repeated the sentiment in a sleepy voice.

As Rose pressed on up the staircase to her bedchamber, Agnes paused outside the parlor door to draw in a nervous breath. She suspected she was about to receive a scolding for her bad behavior at the opera and had been expecting such a rebuke since they got in the carriage to return to the townhouse. Indeed, Lady Finch had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the entire journey.

In my defense, he distracted me first, Agnes grumbled inwardly, still rankled by George’s assumption that she had no place in her heart for romance. She read and enjoyed sultry novels and poems as much as the next young lady, and she had been as giddy as a foal during their dance, but not every young lady had to put aside such fanciful things in order to take care of their sister’s future.

“Are you coming?” Lady Finch called.

“Just buttoning my shoe!” Agnes called back.

Taking another nervy breath, she entered the small parlor. Lady Finch occupied one of the oxblood leather armchairs by the window and gestured for Agnes to seat herself in its twin.

She did so, perching awkwardly upon the old, creaking leather. “I can only apologize, Lady Finch,” she began, hoping to get ahead of the chiding. “I am so very grateful for your generosity in taking us to the opera tonight, and I do hope I did not ruin the—”

“What are you apologizing for, my dear girl?” Lady Finch interrupted with a tired chuckle. “In all my years, I do not think I have seen anyone relish the opera as much as you. Why, it is the first time in years that I have enjoyed it, merely by watching you take pleasure in it. You have such… grace, Agnes. Indeed, it is a great pity that… Never mind, I am throwing myself off course somewhat, and if I do not stay upon it, I shall be too tired to remember what I meant to say.”

Agnes sat back, infinitely more comfortable now that she knew she was not going to be told off. And she only felt a little bit stung by what she knew Lady Finch had been about to say: that it was a great pity that her grace was wasted on someone who would never use her charms to find a husband. Either that or that her grace was wasted on a lady who had no other charms at all.

“It is in regard to that baron,” Lady Finch continued, pursing her lips. “I did not favor him when he danced with Lady Rose at her ball, and I favor him even less after tonight’s… display.”

Agnes frowned. “Display, Lady Finch?”

As far as Agnes had seen—and she had been right beside them—Rose and Lord Morton had barely exchanged more than a few polite words. They had maintained a proper distance, they had not whispered in the dark as Agnes and George had, and there had been no secret, stolen touches or glances.

“To accept an invitation to His Grace’s box, no doubt knowing that Lady Rose would be there,” Lady Finch explained as if it should have been obvious. “It reeks of immodesty.”

“It does?” Agnes rubbed the back of her neck. “I do not mean to sound like a dolt, Lady Finch, but would it not have been more impolite for Lord Morton to refuse?”

Lady Finch huffed in frustration. “Not in that situation, no. Lord Morton must know that there are other gentlemen in society who have taken a keen interest in your sister, and I believe his presence in His Grace’s box was an attempt to thwart other suitors. Yet, there has been no note of intent from him. As such, his actions this evening were most unseemly.” She tutted under her breath. “I am aware of Lady Rose’s affection for the fellow, but I do not like him. We must find someone more suitable for your sister, someone who understands propriety. That might not please her, at present, but I know she will be happier for it in time.”

Agnes did not know if that was true, but she could not bring herself to quarrel with the woman who had made Rose a celebrated name in society. Without Lady Finch’s guidance and the great expense that she had poured into Rose’s debut, there would likely be no suitors for Rose at all nor any prospect of security.

It will break her heart, but that is better than a threadbare future, Agnes knew though it pained her too. She longed to give Rose the world, anything she could possibly ask for, but they could not forget where they hailed from or the bottom of the barrel that they would have to scrape if they chose to ignore Lady Finch’s wishes.

“You do not find him respectable whatsoever?” Agnes tried one last time for Rose’s sake.

Lady Finch pulled a face and did not dignify the question with a response.

“If I were to, perhaps, continue the investigation that I have already been undertaking,” Agnes continued at a clip, “and I came to you with details of his worthiness, might you consider him as a prospect?”

Lady Finch’s mouth stretched into a yawn that she did not attempt to cover with her hand. “You may do so if it pleases you, but I cannot promise I will be swayed by your findings,” she replied in a gentle tone. “I understand your intent, for who does not want to give their loved ones everything they desire? The trouble is what our loved ones want is not always what they need. When you reach my ripe old age, Agnes, you come to realize that love is not enough. Romance fades, passion ebbs, infatuation is fleeting, and you must hope that when the flesh of all of that is gone, that the bones are good—that the bones will last until death. Do you understand my meaning?”

Agnes tilted her head to one side, contemplating the sentiment. “I believe so.”

“I want Lady Rose to find a match that has solid bones, not weak flesh,” Lady Finch attempted to explain, her words descending into a weary chuckle. “I have never been very gifted with metaphor, but I trust I am not merely conjuring images in your mind of dusty skeletons.”

Agnes nodded slowly, but she was not thinking of Rose and Lord Morton. Her mind filled with tantalizing visions of George and the wildfire he sparked in her veins whenever he smiled at her or she felt his gaze upon the back of her neck. Her skin tingled at the memory of his daring touch, her face flushing, but she had to wonder if that was precisely what Lady Finch was warning against—weak flesh, fleeting infatuations, and brittle foundations that would crumble as soon as the passion had been satisfied.

“I understand you,” she said, at last.

Lady Finch smiled. “I can see that you do.” She paused, unfastening the ribbon that held her choker in place. “While I have you here alone, I feel inclined to ask why you have not asked me to help you find a match?”

“Me?” Agnes snorted at the notion, but seeing Lady Finch’s quite serious expression, she struggled, and failed, to pretend it was just a sudden cough.

“Yes, you. Why do you seem determined to be a spinster?”

Agnes blinked. “I am not determined to be anything other than the very best sister I can be.” She hesitated, immediately too warm in her abundant layers of petticoats and pantalettes and stockings and stays. When Lady Finch did not respond, Agnes hastened to fill the awkward silence, “Love does not… intrigue me the way it intrigues Rose. I have seen the damage it can cause and the madness it can inspire, and… I find I have no desire to experience any of that.”

“You are scared?”

“I would not say that” Agnes replied shyly. “I have had too many other things to occupy my thoughts, and now that I am three-and-twenty, I feel I am beyond the age where it is possible to find a love match and have the endurance to pursue such a thing. Moreover, I would struggle to have a gentleman telling me what to do and how to behave as I have been… the captain of my own ship for a decade now. I doubt I could adapt or would want to.”

Lady Finch made strange, humming noises in the back of her throat that were neither in agreement nor disapproval.

“I mean, you are the perfect example of a strong, independently minded lady who is succeeding, and has succeeded, so very, very well on her own,” Agnes added, gesturing rather dramatically at the older woman. The opera seemed to have had a lasting effect.

To Agnes’ surprise, Lady Finch expelled an almost bitter laugh from her crinkled lips. “I was not always alone, nor would I be half the woman that I am today if I had been,” she explained as a faraway look glazed her eyes. “I am not a spinster; I am a widow.”

“Oh, of course, I knew that, I just meant…” Agnes trailed off, leaning forward to take the older woman’s hand.

“Society has forgotten him, and his title is now held by my son, but I have not forgotten a single freckle upon his face. I have lived both alone and with a husband who was taken too soon with whom I was blissfully happy. I know of love, and though there has been a certain freedom in being a widow at liberty to do whatever I please, I would give every year that I spent without my beloved to have him at my side again, just for a day.”

Tears pricked at Agnes’ eyes, hearing the slight catch in Lady Finch’s throat as she spoke of the man she had lost—the man who had been forgotten by everyone but her.

“So, do not make the mistake of thinking that being alone is being content. It is not, and if I did not have my son and grandchildren, the loneliness would be bitter indeed, at times,” Lady Finch continued, gripping Agnes’ hand tightly. “Being a wife, being part of a pair, relying upon someone, making a life with another person is not a weakness, Agnes. Do not deny yourself the… happiness that can be found within a marriage, simply because you are afraid to lose control of your own ship. You might find that what you believe to be veering off course is, in truth, you being guided toward a far grander, far more joyful destination.”

“And if there is no wind at all in my sails?” Agnes meant it in jest, but the sorrowful look in Lady Finch’s eyes revealed a pity that sliced through Agnes’ heart like a knife.

“Breathe some into them,” the older woman replied in earnest, twisting that knife. “Breathe some into them before it is too late.”