Chapter 24

CHAPTER24

George haunted the racecourse stands, infuriated by Agnes’ rejection. As far as he was concerned, his remark about her being like a Baroque muse had been tantamount to a confession, and she had walked away. Although, he still did not know what he had been confessing to exactly—his desire for her or a desire for more than the fleeting infatuation she had spoken about?

“And what did she mean about solid bones?” he grumbled, observing how she laughed and smiled and batted her eyelashes at another gentleman, Lord Horsforth. “I ought to employ a translator for that damned woman.”

For the better part of half an hour, Agnes had flirted with Lord Horsforth, allowing him to place a bet for her, letting him fetch her refreshments, standing too close to him for George’s comfort. George had watched them intently reading the board of racehorses and had listened to Lord Horsforth’s dull drone as the fellow had explained the advantages and weaknesses of each thoroughbred.

If Agnes had been any other woman, George would have assumed she was trying to make him jealous, but she had not cast a single glance his way since she had walked off. It was like she had completely forgotten he was there, and if there was one thing he hated above all others, it was being ignored.

“This is intolerable,” George muttered, stalking down the steps of the stand, intending to make his exit. If Agnes was going to pretend that he did not exist, then he would make it easier for her. He would no longer give her the satisfaction—if that was, indeed, what she wanted—of standing around, waiting to be noticed by her.

On his way along the balcony, heading for the exit, he did turn back to ensure she was watching him go. But she had her back to him, laughing sweetly at something Lord Horsforth had said.

His pride deflated, and his anger spiked as another sensation, slow and insidious, slithered through his veins and poured into his chest like bitter medicine: jealousy. Whether it had been her intention or not, she had succeeded.

He stood there, torn between marching right over to Agnes and pulling her away, so he could scold her for what she was doing to him, or continuing on to his carriage, so he could make his escape with some dignity intact.

That was when he felt a light tap upon his arm. “Your Grace?”

George glanced down to find Rose smiling nervously in front of him, holding a racing ticket. “You know you should not approach me alone, do you not?” he said, his tone harsher than he meant it to be.

“Oh… um… of course.” She dropped her gaze, her breath catching. “I apologize, Your Grace. I only meant to ask if you would be willing to act as intermediary as my sister requested. You see, her horse won.”

George clenched his jaw. “Pardon?”

“Cheshire Gold,” Rose replied. “He won. And though I was most certainly not eavesdropping upon your conversation, I did hear the part where she said she would ask you to be an intermediary if her horse beat yours. As hers won, it must have beaten all of the other horses, for that is how races work, is it not?”

He could not believe it. Agnes had never attended a horse race before and had no knowledge of horses, yet her horse had won. For a moment, he was back on the path between Lady Finch’s residence and Finch Hall, realizing that he had underestimated Agnes’ affinity for winning.

“Beginner’s luck, I imagine,” he said gruffly.

Rose hesitated. “Perhaps so, but I wondered if you still intended to meet her terms? I know I am being much too brazen, but Lord Morton is right here, and I…”

“Follow me and maintain a sensible distance.” George huffed out a reluctant breath, for though Agnes had decided against the wager, he could not refuse Rose’s gentle pleas.

One of us ought to get what we want, and as it clearly cannot be me, I shall endeavor to aid you instead, he promised, but there was a small accusation in the back of his head that whispered of ulterior motive. If he did as Agnes had requested without being asked, perhaps she would soften toward him again. Indeed, if she saw him with Rose and Lord Morton, maybe it would be enough to draw her away from that insipid dullard, Lord Horsforth.

I will not be ignored. Hate me, spurn me, scold me, but do not ignore me. George’s sensibilities could not tolerate that.

“Lord Morton,” he said with false cheer as he leaned upon the balcony beside the fellow. A short distance away, Rose did the same, careful not to look in Lord Morton’s direction.

Seth seemed surprised, dipping his head in a hurried bow. “Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Have you had much success upon the course?” George asked, sweeping a hand across the expanse of green where sleek, muscular horses were presently being led toward the starting line.

Seth shook his head. “I do not like to place bets. I merely like to watch.” He paused, raising his voice slightly. “My father was a keen horseman, and he would take me to the races whenever he could. He never placed a bet, either, though he used to tell me which horse he thought would win. In all the years I attended these races with him, he was wrong only a handful of times.”

“He should have placed a bet,” George remarked, chuckling. “You might have been the wealthiest Baron in England if he had.”

Seth smiled sadly. “My father thought it a dishonest way to gain a fortune, and I suppose I have carried that with me. I prefer to bolster my wealth in a more respectable fashion. I am certain you can sympathize, Your Grace, for we are both gentlemen of business.”

“What is yours?” George canted his head, genuinely intrigued.

“Mines and vineyards,” Seth replied with a note of humility in his voice. “I hope to enter into the merchant trade in due course, something that does not rely upon the seasons and the earth providing, but for now, my family and my barony are prosperous.”

George nodded. “Very sensible. We ought to speak about it one evening if you might care to dine at my residence or at Lady Finch’s, perhaps?” He saw an opportunity to aid Rose and Seth while helping himself, for a private dinner would be the perfect place to steal a moment alone with Agnes where she would not be able to walk away from him.

“I should be delighted,” Seth replied, his gaze flitting toward Rose. “In truth, I have been meaning to call upon Lady Finch and Lady Snowley, so that would be a generous invitation indeed.”

George glanced at the gentleman. “If you have been meaning to call upon them for the reasons I suspect, I would not delay. They are ladies of tradition and propriety, and the longer you refrain from making your intentions clear, the less chance of success you shall have.”

You ought to listen to your own advice, his mind taunted, quite rightly.

“Oh, I see.” Seth nodded eagerly. “Then, I shall not delay. If you can arrange this dinner, I shall leave them in no doubt about my intentions and my sincerity. Should I bring evidence of my earnestness?”

George shrugged. “It will not hurt to do so.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Seth smiled. “Truly, I cannot thank you enough.”

“Do not thank me yet. I am merely the gatekeeper while Lady Finch and Lady Snowley are the true guardians, and they will be the judge of you.” George sighed, wondering if this intervention would make more of a mess instead of helping the young pair.

Yet, Seth continued to smile, his eyes gleaming as he viewed Rose. “That is enough, Your Grace. I shall prove my worth. How could I not when a life of happiness is at stake?”

“Let us say… dinner tomorrow evening,” George suggested, knowing that Lady Finch would likely box his ears for making an invitation on her behalf without asking first.

Seth took hold of George’s hand and shook it firmly. “Tomorrow evening.”

“I wish you luck.” With that, George turned to leave, and as he reached the exit, he chanced one last look back. This time, Agnes was nowhere to be seen. Lord Horsforth stood alone and despondent, staring up at the board while Lady Finch and Lady Snowley were sitting rigid in their seats as the race began: a deafening pistol shot splintering through the air.

Confused, George used the distraction of the anxious spectators to head down the stairs, intending to depart Ascot all together. It was not his lucky day, and though he knew his heart had settled upon the wrong horse, he could not stop placing all of his bets upon it. If he could not win Agnes, he wanted no other.

Reaching the exterior where all of the carriages were waiting for their respective passengers, George found his beneath the shade of an oak tree, apart from the rest. The driver, however, was not where he should have been though George could not blame the fellow; he had informed his driver that he would not be returning for several hours. The man must have gone to place a bet or two himself or had ventured off in search of refreshment, for it was a cloyingly hot day.

Wearily, George climbed inside, contemplating a nap. He had just settled onto the squabs, trying to remember if he had stowed a book somewhere, when the opposite door creaked open and a figure slithered inside, landing with a heavy thud upon the squabs.

Panting and red-cheeked, Agnes stared at him as if he were a highwayman who was trying to rob her carriage. “Why did you do that?” she gasped, clasping a hand to her bosom. “Why did you do that for Rose?”

“I did not do it for Lady Rose,” George replied, too shocked by Agnes’ sudden appearance to think of a lie.

“Then who did you do it for?”

His lips softened into a smile that he hoped would be enough of an answer while the rest of him hurried to catch up to the peculiar, scandalous situation he found himself in. Not once had he thought he would ever be able to get Agnes alone in his carriage, and he would have laughed if anyone had told him that she would be the one who pursued him inside it.

“I fear I shall never understand you,” Agnes said quietly, fidgeting with her skirts. “One moment, you behave like the rake I have heard you are. The next, you do something so… kind that I am now convinced there are two of you. There is the Duke, and there is George, and while I admire one, I ought to whip the other.”

“But which is which?” George tried not to look at her exposed ankle, struggled in vain not to relish the frantic rise and fall of her bosom, and fought not to think of her in repose as she had been at the picnic.

Agnes sighed. “I am yet to decipher that.”

“I might say the same thing about you.” He smiled, his heart pounding hard in his chest, his fingertips itching to touch her. “One moment, you are cold and aloof. The next, you are fluttering your eyelashes at me, flirting with me, and, it has to be said, flirting with other gentlemen too.”

“Lord Horsforth?” Agnes snorted. “If he could marry a horse, I am certain he would. As for flirting with you—I would not know how, so if that is your perception, it is quite accidental.”

He leaned in, sweeping that wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Is it accidental, or is it the honest part of you, secretly indulging in something you desire?”

“I do not wish to speak to this man. Bring out the other,” she replied in a thick, sultry voice. “I want the generous, well-intentioned twin.”

He chuckled, deep in the back of his throat. “So, you do want me?”

“You are putting words in my mouth,” she gasped in reply, yet she did not seek to push him away or put distance between them or flee even though the door she had entered through was not locked.

“Am I, or am I merely saying what you do not dare?”

Her eyes fluttered closed as he traced his fingertips down her throat to her necklace, touching the pearls that gleamed there. Her neck arched back, inviting his caresses to wander further.

Seizing the moment, driven by a tormenting madness that he could no longer quell, he dipped his head and grazed his lips across the hot, vulnerable curve of her throat. His tongue tasted that forbidden fruit, savoring the sweet and salt of her, marveling at the delicacy that was her, for she tasted like summer personified. If he could have bottled it, he would have needed crates upon crates to even begin to satisfy his thirst for her.

“I should not… have come here,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his arms, running along his shoulders until her arms locked behind his neck.

“I do not see you leaving,” he replied against her skin, urging his searing kiss down while his arm encircled her waist, pulling her closer.

Grateful that he always kept his carriage drapes closed, his hand explored the dramatic curve of her waist, smoothing up and over the quickening rise and fall of her bosom. Through her dress and stays, he cupped her breast, eager to feel each breath that stirred her while his lips pressed into that soft flesh, his tongue sliding along the valley between those plump, pert, perfect breasts.

Indeed, he thought about freeing them from the constraints of her stays altogether, so he could bask in her gasps and moans as he took her nipple into his mouth, but not knowing how much time they had before Lady Finch came looking for her wayward ward, he swallowed the desperate need and forced his kisses back up to her throat.

As his lips drew nearer to hers, Agnes’ breaths ceased entirely. Her body turned rigid in his embrace; her eyes squeezed shut as if she feared what might happen next.

“There is nothing to fear,” he told her, stroking his hand up her neck until he cradled her face. “I would never do any harm to you, my dear Agnes.”

Before she could let her nerves get the better of her, George caught her mouth with his, burning a feverish kiss against her lips. At first, she did not respond, her bosom still, her body frozen, her mouth unyielding. But as he softened every undulation of his lips, guiding her, letting her know that he had longed for this too, she began to melt in his arms.

It started in her limbs, her arms loosening as she ran her hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. Then, she took a breath, like a drowning woman who had finally reached the surface, and as she exhaled, she sank into his kiss. Her body moved forward, pushing herself against him, emulating the eager press of her lips as she kissed him back.

Like any elegant dancer, she learned quickly, and though the art of kissing must have been new to her, George would not have known, for she kissed him as he had dreamed of being kissed by her. She kissed with passion and fire, her touch as much a part of the dance as their mouths as she explored the muscle of his arms and smoothed her palms along his shoulder blades, skimming her fingertips up the sides of his neck.

And as she pulled upon the lapels of his tailcoat, he could not resist any more. With his arm around her waist, he leaned forward, pushing her backward onto the wide, velvet squabs. Her legs slipped around him, wrapping around his waist in a manner that nearly made him lose his last fragile grip upon control.

Nestled between her thighs, he knew she must have been able to feel the powerful effect she had upon him. He strained with want, his manhood desperate to sink into the warmth of her, his hips already moving to a slow, tortuous rhythm that could never be satisfied as long as they were still clothed.

“Was this… your winning request?” she gasped, crushing her lips against his.

“You were… the victor, so it… does not matter what my request… was,” he replied between kisses, running his hand along her slender thigh, way above where her ribboned stocking ended. Yet, he met another barrier: the flimsy fabric of her pantalettes, blocking his pursuit of mutual desire.

Agnes laughed softly against his lips as she held him tighter, sinking into the heat of their kiss. It took everything George possessed to concentrate upon her mouth, her neck, her throat, her bosom, for though the prospect of making love in a carriage should have thrilled him, he did not want that for her. He wanted to make love to her where they could take their time, spending as long as they pleased savoring one another—somewhere private where he could teach her everything there was to know of pleasure.

“You have driven me to madness,” he growled, drawing his tongue along the line of her throat. “Are you aware of what you have done to me?”

She squeezed her thighs, coaxing a moan into the back of his throat. “It is all quite accidental as I have already told you.”

“It is no accident,” he replied, catching her mouth with his once more. “The moment you met me, you were on a course to torment me. You are… unlike any lady I have ever encountered. You are… inexplicable.”

She pulled back slightly, frowning up at him. “I imagine you say that to all the ladies.”

“I do not,” he assured, rolling her hips to let her feel him. “Nor would I confess to encountering a lady I did not understand, but you make me say things I have never said before. I have a sickness, Agnes, and you are the cause of it.”

“A pity, then, that the cause cannot also be the remedy,” she teased, pulling his face down, so she could kiss him again.

This time, she kissed him with a delirious abandon that turned his entire being into a furnace that raged only for her. Her hunger made him ravenous in return, their mouths meeting in a frenzy of desire, their tongues dancing a waltz that would make society keel over in shock while her soft moans and stirring gasps brought him to the very edge of ripping her clothes off and plunging into her depths, certain that they could take their time on another occasion.

Perhaps, he might have given into that overpowering need if a voice had not called out across the external grounds of Ascot at that very moment.

“Agnes!” It was Lady Rose. “Agnes, where are you?”

Lightning fast, Agnes withdrew, pushing George up in a hurry as she scrambled for the door and spilled out onto the grass beside the oak tree. He was still half lying on the squabs as he watched her dart away, using the continuing row of oak trees and sycamores to hide herself as she ran.

A short while later, still panting and frustrated by her abrupt departure, George heard her voice reply, “Rosie, is that you? I am over here in the shade. I thought I would faint among all of those people!”

And I, sweet Agnes, shall explode if I cannot have you close again. He had hoped that a morsel of her would quell his hunger, encouraging his infatuation to ebb, but he should have known that when it came to Agnes, she was not to be underestimated.

And she had left him starving.