Chapter 26

CHAPTER26

Glorious sunlight rained down upon the heavenly paradise of the Finch Estate, transforming the lake into a pool of glittering diamonds and filling the air with the rich perfume of blooming flowers. The lawns had not yet begun to scorch, the grass as warm as a blanket against Agnes’ back as she stared up at the clear blue of a cloudless sky, not caring if her entire face was browned and freckled by the time she was done basking like a lizard in the heat.

“You will crisp like bacon if you continue like this,” a sweet voice stirred Agnes from the half-nap she had been contemplating, her weary body soothed by the sunshine.

Raising her hand to her brow to block out the glare, Agnes peered up to find her sister’s face smiling back, upside down. “And if that is my intention? I have always said that people look less ghoulish when they have some bronzing from the sun, and I am in a particularly ghoulish interlude.”

“You are still not sleeping well?” Rose sat down on the grass at Agnes’ side.

“What is sleep?” Agnes yawned dramatically. “Speak to me of it. Comfort me with tales of such luxury. I would hear of that mythical event at great length, and if you could use your most dreary tone, perhaps there is a chance that I might capture slumber once more.”

Rose chuckled, but the humor did not reach her eyes. “Will you not tell me what plagues you?”

“To do that, I would have to know myself,” Agnes lied, closing her eyes and stretching out like a cat. “I suspect it is the heat in combination with the sonorous snores of our mother and the ceaseless chatter that somehow manages to drift down from Finch Hall.”

The truth, of course, was far simpler. It had been five days since they had abandoned London in partial disgrace, and George had not followed. For five days, he had not written, not even to Lady Finch to inform her of his plans. For five days, she had dreamed of him and hated him and chastised herself for believing that kiss meant anything to him beyond besting her at last. For five days, she had sought solitude, figuring she ought to grow accustomed to it before her days of true spinsterhood really began.

“The guests are rather loud,” Rose agreed, casting a nervous glance toward the woodland that separated the Dowager House from Finch Hall.

Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Are you looking for any gentleman in particular?”

“Pardon?” Rose blinked, hurriedly turning her face away. “I was not looking for anyone. I… thought I heard people approaching, that is all.”

Agnes reached out and patted her sister’s leg. “The ball is not for another three days. He will come.” She paused. “Unless, you were hoping to set your eyes upon the Marquess’ son? What is his name again? My mind is a sieve today.”

“Alexander,” Rose replied quietly, “but he is not who I was looking for. I was not looking for anyone other than you when I came out here. Lady Finch is concerned for your welfare. She thinks you are in the grip of a sickness and is threatening to summon the doctor if you do not improve. Are you poorly, my dear Agnes?”

Heartsick, Agnes longed to reply.

“London drained me of all my strength,” she said instead, her mouth stretching in another yawn. “I am restoring my vitality with rest and quiet as far from the Marquess and Lady Finch’s guests as possible. You see, I must always make a good impression, and I fear they will think me terribly drab if they were to meet me before I am restored to my former glory.”

Rose nodded, picking a daisy from the lawn. “I have been thinking of home a great deal, these past few days. Is it ungrateful that part of me wants to return?”

“Not at all,” Agnes murmured, for she had also been dreaming of home—a place where George had never been, where memories of him did not haunt the hallways, where she might actually sleep again without him invading her dreams.

“Why did Lady Finch have to invite so many people?” Rose flopped down onto her back, joining her sister in staring up at the sun. “I feel I cannot breathe without being pushed into the path of another “respectable gentleman” who has clearly been selected for me.”

The Weston ladies were not the only guests who had accompanied Lady Finch back to the Finch Estate. Not even a full day after their return, more guests had arrived, their carriages diverted up the road to Finch Hall where there were plenty of chambers to accommodate everyone. A few older guests had taken up rooms in the Dowager House, but they were much like Agnes—choosing solitude instead of engaging with the revels of a country manor gathering.

Agnes mustered a dark chuckle. “It is a cattle market, dear sister, and you may take your pick… as long as you only choose one of the marked bulls.”

There was a bitter irony in the fact that both sisters were in the throes of heartache, yet Agnes could not share her pain with Rose. Even if she had wanted to, Agnes had barely had any time alone with her sister, for their mother seemed to have decided that her decade of neglect was over, and she was ready to be a mother again—to Rose, at least. And not just a mother but a tyrant.

“I hear they are to go hunting this afternoon,” Rose mumbled sleepily. “I can see why you enjoy this. It is exceedingly comforting.”

Agnes smiled. “Be careful that Mother does not see you. She will suffer a paroxysm if she witnesses a single freckle upon your face.” She turned to look at her sister. “What time do they intend to depart for the hunt?”

“Why, are you eager to join them?” Rose laughed, fully aware of Agnes’ distaste for hunting.

“I am tempted to join the fox,” Agnes replied, wondering if she had the nerve to ride ahead of the hunting party to confuse the hounds. In truth, the prospect of a lengthy ride through the forests and hillsides, with the warm wind in her hair, did not sound unpleasant at all.

Rose groaned. “Is this because His Grace is accompanying them? Do not quarrel with him again, Agnes. He was so very generous in acting as an intermediary for Lord Morton and me, and I do hate it when you snipe at one another.”

Agnes sat up sharply. “His Grace is here?”

“You would know that if you were not determined to avoid everyone in the household,” Rose replied, smiling. “He arrived an hour or so ago, greeted Lady Finch, and went directly up to Finch Hall. I daresay he looks as weary as you, so one can only imagine what he was doing in London these past five days.”

Do I want to know? Agnes’ heart seized, gripped by a cold fist.

Through her sleepless nights, she had been plagued by every awful, gut-wrenching situation imaginable, setting her waking nerves on edge. She had endured nightmares of George entangled with other, faceless women. She had suffered through fevered visions of him kissing other ladies in that carriage and him mocking her tears as she ran away, heartbroken. And as there had been no letter nor his presence to reassure her that she was different, her nightmares had become certainties, her mind playing cruel tricks with her surprisingly fragile heart.

“Yes, I do believe I shall join the fox this afternoon.” Agnes tilted her head from side to side to loosen a knot in her neck. “It will benefit me greatly to ride, for I do so miss my darling Bessie.”

Rose squinted at her sister. “You cannot join the hunt, Agnes. It is just for the gentlemen.”

“I did not say I would be joining the hunt, now, did I?” Agnes flashed a determined grin and jumped to her feet. “If you wish to accompany me on a charming ride that will in no way coincide with the gentlemen hunting that poor fox, then meet me at the stables in half an hour in your riding attire. If not, I shall see you later this afternoon when those gentlemen will hopefully be returning empty-handed.”

Rose gaped at her sister. “Agnes, you cannot! Mama will box your ears!”

“I should like to see her try,” Agnes tossed back over her shoulder as she marched onward to the Dowager House, vowing that at least one innocent creature would escape George’s clutches that day.

* * *

Riding alone through the forests and over the gleaming, emerald downs that were a stone’s throw from the Finch Estate, Agnes almost forgot her true reason for venturing out on horseback. She had borrowed a beautiful, placid gray mare by the name of Whitecap though the sweet creature was no substitute for Bessie—her beloved black mare, no doubt pining for her at Snowley House.

Letting Whitecap lope through a shallow stream that meandered through shady woodland, splashing up water, Agnes felt a laugh bubble up the back of her throat. Utterly content, she spread her arms out wide and turned her face up to the canopy, swaying her body to the horse’s rhythm as the creature frolicked, just as grateful to be free and happy as her rider.

So, it came as rather a nasty surprise when the splintering crack of a rifle split the air. The mare reared in fright, but Agnes had chosen not to ride side-saddle, and her thighs squeezed instinctively, gripping the horse as she fought for control of the poor beast’s head.

She had just managed to calm the creature when something shot out of the bushes up ahead, running for its life: a blur of orange and brown and white, like moving fire. Fortunately, the mare did not seem spooked by the fox, but she began to walk backward in alarm as the distant din of barking dogs came within earshot.

Run fast and run hard, little fox, Agnes urged as she guided her mare up onto the far bank of the stream where she would be seen by the approaching huntsmen.

In that moment, an idea crept into her mind. With seconds to spare, she slid down from the saddle and leaned against the creature’s side as if she could not stand on her own two feet.

“Help!” she called, feeling a little guilty and more than a little silly. “Please, help!”

The thunder of hooves and the bark of dogs drew closer, prompting Agnes to shout louder. “Help! Please, help me! I have fallen and my ankle—oh, it hurts!”

“Did you hear that?” a deep, masculine voice asked.

“Over here!” Agnes yelled. “I have injured myself! Please, help me!”

The hunt broke through the bushes, the pack of eight dogs leaping over in a furry cascade, their interest in the fox sapped away as they ran toward Agnes, who had secretly whistled for them. She adored dogs, and the beautiful, dappled spaniels and setters crowded around her, tails wagging, noses sniffing.

“Good afternoon, my sweet angels,” she cooed, lavishing affection upon the hounds, scratching between their ears until she was certain the fox had fled far enough.

“Lady Agnes?” Christopher, the Marquess of Finch, chuckled at the sight of her. “You do realize you are not supposed to distract the dogs while they are hunting, do you not? They could have mistaken you for a vixen.”

Agnes flashed him a grin. “I cannot resist such darling creatures. If they wished to devour me, I could think of worse ways to depart this Earth.”

“But what are you doing here alone?” Christopher asked as a crowd of twenty gentlemen on horseback vied for space along the opposite bank, trampling the bushes.

Agnes put on a coy expression and gestured down to her foot. “I was riding when my mare lost her footing. I was thrown, and I fear I have hurt my ankle.”

“Then why did you not ride back to the manor?” a different voice questioned as George pushed to the front on the back of his magnificent, silver stallion. “You have not also hurt your arms, have you? You could have pulled yourself back into the saddle.”

Agnes shot him a sour look. “I planned to, but when I heard the dogs, I thought it prudent to wait, considering help was so near. But if you are not in a chivalrous temper, I can pull myself into the saddle and ride back to the manor alone with an injured ankle, if that would satisfy your desire to watch me struggle?”

She had not meant to say so much with so much venom in her words, but the ripple of laughter that rumbled through the hunters was enough to temporarily quell her ire. She had amused the gentlemen. All but one.

“She is quite right, Your Grace!” one gentleman declared. “She is a dainty thing—how could she possibly regain her seat in the saddle without a step of some kind?”

Agnes resented that remark, but she smiled sweetly. “Thank you, sir. I might have succeeded, but the shock of the fall has left me somewhat shaken. Why, I would likely quiver right off the other side of my mare even if I did regain my seat.”

Another ripple of laughter made its way through the gentlemen, who peered at her with admiring eyes. Yet, George’s disgruntled, annoyed gaze was the only one she concentrated upon.

“Lady Agnes, was it?” another gentleman asked, biting his lower lip.

She sketched a curtsy, remembering to wince as if her ankle really did hurt. “A pleasure to make your various acquaintances though I profess, I would not usually endeavor to meet so many gentlemen in such an embarrassing situation.” She hobbled a little for good measure. “Seeing you all there, with all these charming dogs around me, I do feel rather like a trapped vixen.”

“Go on with the hunt,” George barked. “I will return Lady Agnes to the manor.”

The other gentlemen eyed him curiously, but as he must have outranked the majority of them, if not all of them, they did as he commanded. A few of the mounted fellows tipped their hats to Agnes as they passed, and she made sure to flutter her eyelashes and smile coyly, raising her hand in a polite wave. After all, if George did not want her, maybe someone else would.

“What are you doing?” George got down from his horse, leading the creature across the stream toward her. “You should not be out here alone, riding without a companion! Do you have any notion of how dangerous it is? What if your fall had injured more than an ankle? What if you had tumbled from the saddle, and the horse had wandered off, abandoning you? You could have died, Agnes!”

Hot tears burned in Agnes’ eyes, pricking them without warning as she looked upon George’s angry, flushed face. “And you would care, would you? Were you not the one who just told me I should have returned to the manor by myself?” She paused, blinking to try and hold back the tears. “I must be speaking to both of you—the Duke and George—for your words are in conflict.”

The bluster seemed to drain out of him, the creeping red rash of anger fading to a softer pink. “Of course, I would care! And of course, I would not have expected you to return to the manor alone. I merely said that to…” He trailed off, turning his head away.

“To what?” she pressed. “To make it seem as if you do not know me? To make it seem as if you care not a jot for me? To make it seem as if I am nothing to you? Fear not, George, you have already succeeded in displaying that to me. I have received your message clearly.”

Confusion crumpled his sweat-slicked brow. “Message? I sent no message to you.”

“Precisely.” Reaching for the pommel of the mare’s saddle, Agnes hoisted herself up. “Oftentimes, what is not said is spoken loudest of all.”

Turning the mare around, not caring that he knew her injury was a façade, she squeezed her thighs and urged the horse into a lope. The notion of him carrying her through the forest and across the lawns in his arms had been a delicious one, but it had gone rotten before she could enjoy it. And she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry over him, not when he had already taken so much from her—he had stolen her heart without her noticing, and he had put it back broken.

Loneliness never scared me before you showed me there was another path, she cursed bitterly as the mare stretched out into a faster gallop. You did not tell me that path was scattered with pitfalls and traps, and I fell right into yours.