Chapter 22

CHAPTER22

“Iwould ask why on Earth you have hauled me from my bed at such an ungodly hour of the morning if I did not already suspect the answer,” William complained, sweeping fragrant oil through his hair as his horse plodded along the cobblestones toward Hyde Park.

George shot his friend a look. “Must you primp and preen in public? You could have done that before we departed.” He lowered his voice. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare.” William grinned, no doubt enjoying the attention. “I look forward to showing my beloved that the only scandal I have been involved in is the absolute obscenity of smoothing my wayward hair in the streets of London.”

George had to laugh. “So, you did not meet with a lady when you abandoned me at the opera?”

“Heavens, no!” William appeared truly outraged by the accusation as he slipped his bottle of oil into a small leather pouch, hanging from the saddle. “I abandoned you, that is true, but only because opera bores me senseless. I thought I could do it, I really did, but then Lord Baxter and his brother called me over, and they happened to be on their way to a private card game. I apologize for leaving you, but I could not resist leaving those smirking cretins in debt. Why, this very afternoon, I intend to buy my darling Fiona a brooch with my winnings.”

“You ought to hand them over to me as recompense,” George said, only half-teasing.

William cast his friend a knowing look. “Did you not enjoy the opera, then? I had hoped there would be a certain delight awaiting you in your box—the same sweet treat that I assume we are going to find at Hyde Park at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning.”

“No, I did not enjoy the opera.” George sniffed. “When have I ever enjoyed the opera?”

He refused to admit that he had not ceased thinking about Don Giovanni since the curtains came down and Agnes left without offering him so much as a parting word. Two nights had passed since then, and he had barely slept, his dreams invaded by that infuriating woman and her enchanting tears.

Nor would he admit that he had spent all of the previous day riding aimlessly around London, hoping to “accidentally” encounter Agnes. He had heard from Lady Finch’s butler that there were plans for all three of the Weston ladies to seek out new gowns and adornments for the endless carousel of balls that were coming up, but he had ridden past every store, several times, to no avail.

“I cannot fathom it,” William said with a sigh as the high fences and wrought iron gates of Hyde Park came into view. Sprawling emerald lawns stretched as far as the eye could see, guarded by towering elms and beech trees, the shaded avenues already crowded with visitors to the summer fair.

George arched an eyebrow. “Cannot fathom what?”

“Why you do not simply go to Lady Finch and tell her of your unquenchable need for Lady Agnes,” William replied, smirking. “It would surely be the easiest match to ever be made in the history of society romances.”

George began to wish he had come to the summer fair alone. “I do not desire a match.”

“Then, I must refer you to my previous remark—why are we at Hyde Park at eleven o’clock in the morning if we are not here to encounter a particular individual?” William slouched in the saddle, rolling his shoulders to the sway of his mount’s. “I have known you too long for you to be able to deceive me, Buxton. You like her, and you have not the foggiest notion of how to contend with it, for even I can see she is nothing like any woman you have ever met before.”

“That does not mean I wish to marry the girl!” George retorted, a note too loud.

William just shrugged. “Well, for what it is worth, I can think of no better pairing for you. You would never grow tired of one another, that is for certain. You might kill one another, but that is the price you must pay for a wife who would be your equal in almost every way.” He lifted his face to the sunlight, closing his eyes despite the other horses, carriages, and pedestrians upon the road. “I watched you together, albeit briefly. Can you not imagine how glorious your ceasefires would be, once you paused your quarreling? Such passion, Buxton! Passion unlike anything you have ever known, I should think.”

“You are quite ridiculous,” George muttered. “Just because you are besotted with your future bride does not mean you need to become London’s matchmaker. Be happy with your own happiness, and leave me to mine.”

William wagged a finger, looking at his friend. “If it were left to you, you would not be happy, and that is why you need someone like me.” He chuckled. “At the very least, I can prevent you from donning a dark cloak and peeping in at Lady Agnes’ windows because you will do anything except tell her that you favor her.”

“I do not favor her!” George heard the childish tone of his voice and cursed under his breath. Now, not only was Lady Agnes making him confused, but she was also making him juvenile. Although, he supposed he could not blame her. After all, she was not directly enticing him to keep encountering her; he was the one who could not quell the impulse to pursue her, despite her continual rebuffing.

William laughed and pointed an accusatory finger. “Someone is protesting too much.”

“Are we boys at Eton again? Will you etch something lewd into my desk while I am not looking?” George managed to smile, for even he could see how silly it was to quarrel.

William grinned. “I might, and then I shall invite Lady Agnes to dine at your residence so that she can find it.”

“When do you return to Scotland again?”

The two gentlemen rode the rest of the way in companionable teasing, cutting through the wide gates and into the park. Seated upon their splendid mounts, they drew many a curious gaze from the young ladies who sauntered along, pausing to admire the stalls that lined the avenues. Some glowers too, but George had come to expect that, considering his history.

He had never seen the park more lively or more inviting, causing him to wonder why he had not attended the summer fairs before. Then again, during previous summers, he had been a creature of the night, reveling until dawn and sleeping until dusk. Just a year ago, the thought of attending a summer fair would have been much too quaint for his liking.

“Do you smell that?” William inhaled dramatically, rubbing his stomach. “I must find the origin of that delicious aroma!”

George breathed in, and his mouth immediately began to water at the scent of something sugary, sweet, and richly spiced. Casting his gaze along the rows of stalls, he spied the culprit without delay, urging his horse into a slow walk toward the seller.

“I fear you are in the wrong season,” George jested, bringing his horse alongside the stall.

The seller, a kindly-faced old man, smiled up. “I’ve discovered that if there’s no cross on them, you can sell ’em whenever you please.”

George had always loved hot cross buns, remembering countless Good Fridays when Lady Finch would have them served in the afternoon with endless cups of tea. They were square buns, dotted with currants and other dried fruits—whatever could be acquired—and mixed with heady spices that made the entire manor smell heavenly. Usually, to honor Lent, they were finished with a glazed cross, but the ones before George had none.

“I’m callin’ ’em summer buns,” the seller explained. “Can I interest you in one?”

George handed down some coins not bothering to count them. “I’ll take three.”

“For that, sir, you can have a dozen!” The seller eyed the coins in wonder.

“Just three will suffice.”

Even so, the bun seller wrapped four of the buns in waxed paper that he must have been saving for special customers and handed them up to George, who took them gratefully, eager for a taste.

The seller bowed awkwardly. “Thank you, sir.”

“No, my good man, thank you for deciding what I should have for my breakfast.” George smiled and urged his horse away from the stall, hoping he might find a quiet spot to eat the delicious goods.

William drew level with him. “I hope you bought one for me.”

“Naturally.” George opened the packet and passed one to his friend while he scoured the endless spread of grass and visitors for somewhere peaceful.

That was when he spotted her, lying upon a picnic blanket without a care in the world, like a cat stretching out in front of a fireplace. Agnes did not even seem to realize that her skirts had ridden up slightly, exposing a flash of stockinged ankle that nearly made George drop his package of “summer buns.”

She was like a muse in repose, patiently holding her position while a painter immortalized her upon canvas. Indeed, George wished he had a talent for art, for he would have relished having such a portrait upon his bedchamber wall.

She lay upon her side, balancing her head upon the palm of her hand, the fabric of her day dress hugging the curve of her waist, revealing a tempting hourglass that George had only been able to imagine but his imagination had not done her justice, in truth, for the valley of her waist between the sweeping peaks of her hips and breasts was more dramatic than he had envisioned.

The constables will be sent for if you are not careful, he considered. That is tantamount to public indecency. Yet, his fingertips itched to caress those thrilling curves, to explore in greater detail what his eyes savored.

Suddenly, she rolled over, a look of surprise raising her eyebrows as she met George’s appreciative stare. Lady Finch, Lady Snowley, and Lady Rose had not yet noticed him, giving Agnes the perfect opportunity to ignore him. Instead, she subtly beckoned… and his heart nearly stopped.

You should not do that, he knew, his stomach tightening at the graceful, teasing gesture. Do not invite a fox into the chicken coop.

Before he could prevent himself, he was guiding his horse toward the cluster of women. As he neared, Agnes discreetly adjusted her skirts and sat up, hiding that glimpse of stockinged ankle from him and concealing the hourglass of her figure once more, leaving it to his imagination.

“My goodness, George!” Lady Finch cried. “Is that really you?”

George smiled and dipped his hat to the ladies. “One of my acquaintances mentioned the fair yesterday, and I could not resist seeing it for myself.”

I cannot resist seeing you, Agnes, reclined as you were as if we were alone in my bedchamber. He inhaled, fighting to calm the rising heat within him.

“Well, you must join us!” Lady Finch insisted, gesturing at the wicker hampers that were arranged upon one corner of the large blanket. “There is ample food, and we cannot eat it all. It was Lady Agnes’ suggestion, and though I found it rather peculiar at first, I am now entirely in approval of picnicking in public! We are the envy of everyone.”

George avoided Agnes’ gaze though he felt it tingling his skin. “Would you not have been better served by purchasing your early luncheon from the stalls?” He thumbed back at the avenue. “I, myself, have just sampled some delights.”

“Oh, we have plenty from the stalls,” Agnes said, forcing his attention to flit to her. “That is why we have such an unmanageable quantity and shall all have to be rolled home when we are finished. Pray tell, what have you been sampling?”

There was a knowing quality in her lopsided smile as if she understood entirely what he had been enjoying a few moments ago. Her expression was almost reckless, taunting him in a way she had not done before, her voice silky. Had she decided that her wit was no longer enough to best him, launching a surprise attack of allure to disarm him?

“The seller called them “summer buns,” but I believe they are just hot cross buns without the cross so as not to be sacrilegious,” he replied, faltering beneath the sultry heat of her gaze.

He slid down from the saddle, hitching his horse to a nearby tree, and brought over the wares. Although, in truth, he just needed a moment to catch his breath and gather himself. For if Agnes was going to behave like that in his presence, it would be an unbearably stifling, deliciously uncomfortable experience.

“Do you ever race?” Agnes asked as he sat down on a distant corner of the picnic blanket, determined to stay as far from her tempting figure as possible.

He frowned. “Pardon?”

“You have such a magnificent horse. I wondered if you ever raced,” she replied, speaking slowly as if he were a simpleton.

“Not if he can help it,” William’s voice cut in before George could respond. “He has a terrible fear of losing, Lady Agnes, which I am certain you are familiar with if you have spent any time with him at all.”

George cursed silently. “It is not a fear of losing, it is a courtesy to those I am racing, for if I were to race, there would be wounded pride among every gentleman who challenged me.”

“So, you fear wounded pride?” Agnes said, her eyebrow slightly raised. “I see.”

George’s stomach tightened. “You see what? I am… intrigued to know.” Ever since she had said the words “I see you” to him, he had wrestled with her meaning. Perhaps, this was the moment when she would finally tell him what it was she saw in him.

“I merely meant that I understand,” Agnes explained with that annoying, knowing smile upon her tempting lips. “Perhaps, I meant that I understand you better.”

Lady Finch chuckled as she swallowed a bite of scone, thick with cream and jam. “I imagine Lady Agnes was asking because we thought we might attend the races at Ascot tomorrow afternoon. She was just telling us that she has never witnessed a horse race before.”

“And I do not consider hunting to be the same thing,” Agnes pointed out, pulling a face. “Our cousin partakes in it often, but I cannot abide it. What have those poor foxes done to meet such a fate?”

George met Agnes’ gaze with defiance. “They kill chickens, for one thing, and spook livestock.”

“And that means they ought to be ripped apart by a pack of dogs while fine gentlemen upon horseback gloat of their victory?” Agnes challenged. “Is that not akin to a large army congratulating itself in battle for defeating a cluster of unarmed farmers?”

Lady Finch almost choked on a second bite of scone. “Let us not discuss such unpleasant things when the weather is so delightful, and we are all having such a lovely time.” She threw a warning look at George as if he was somehow to blame for beginning the argument. “So, would you care to join us at Ascot? It will mean rising early.”

“I shall decline,” William said, oblivious to the fact that the invitation was not for him.

George glanced at Agnes. “I would be delighted to join you all. Indeed, I shall look forward to making a wager or two.”

“George,” Lady Finch muttered, dabbing crumbs from her mouth. “There will be no wagering of any kind.”

George smiled at the old lady he thought of as a mother. “We shall see.”

As he caught Agnes’ eye once more and bit into one of his “summer buns,” the look she returned seemed to say, “Indeed, we shall.”