Chapter 28

CHAPTER28

Aknock came at the bedchamber door, startling Agnes out of a glorious daydream where she lay on a soft blanket in a woodland glade with George beside her. Seated by the window with a fine view of those woods, she had done her best to imagine beyond the wonders he had just begun to show her, but twisting thorns of ignorance kept rising up in her mind, blocking her path to what would happen afterward.

“I thought I would see how your ankle is faring,” Rose said, coming in with a tray. “Lady Finch instructed me to bring this to you. She seems to believe that chicken soup can heal anything.”

Agnes laughed, hoping Rose could not see the heat in her cheeks. “If I had a cold, perhaps, but I do not think it can do much for a sore ankle.”

“She is furious with you,” Rose continued, coming to sit with Agnes in the window-seat. She put the tray between them and nudged it toward Agnes.

“She is?”

Rose nodded. “It is more of a concerned anger. All throughout dinner, she kept pausing to exclaim all of the awful things that could have happened to you if you had not been found.” She spooned up some of the soup and brought it to Agnes’ lips, giving Agnes no choice but to eat though her stomach was too full of butterflies to have much appetite. “His Grace seemed very concerned, too.”

“Oh?” Agnes nearly choked on the mouthful of hot, rich, salty broth.

“He kept agreeing with Lady Finch, the two of them imagining all sorts of terrible fates that could have befallen you. I thought I might faint by the end of dinner, for they spoke of such upsetting things.” Rose brought more of the soup to Agnes’ lips, prompting Agnes to take the spoon into her own hands.

“What of Mother? Did she show the same concern?” Agnes already knew the answer.

Rose turned her gaze out of the window, pursing her lips. “She cares for nothing but her own greed.”

“Rose!” Agnes stared at her sister, shocked by the remark.

“I cannot pretend any longer, Agnes,” Rose replied, the cords in her neck standing out as a rush of red crept up her throat. “I cannot pretend that she is any sort of mother to us anymore. You know how long I have hoped for her recovery, but I have witnessed an even worse side to her since my coming-out ball. I could sympathize with her grief, I could understand her loss, but I cannot comprehend this sudden, desperate desire to offer me up to the highest bidder. She had love, so why is she forbidding me from having the same?”

Agnes leaned back against the wall, picking at a bread roll. “Have there been more notes of intent?”

“More than I care to consider,” Rose replied bitterly. “Mother has whittled it down to three prospects—a Scottish Earl, a Northern Earl’s eldest son, or a southern Duke’s eldest son. I do not know their names, I do not know their character, I do not know anything about any of them! Even Lady Finch disapproves—she told Mother that we should wait until the ball, at least, before any replies are sent.”

Agnes exhaled, dimming the lantern of her own fragile hope. She had considered telling Rose about George, but now did not seem like the time. If anything, it would seem like Agnes was flaunting her small flame of happiness while Rose’s continued to be doused at every turn.

“Have you received word from Lord Morton?”

Rose hesitated, glancing toward the door as if she suspected eavesdroppers. “A little note,” she admitted in a whisper. “He is attending the ball.”

“I did worry that my “invitation” had not reached him.” Agnes took hold of her sister’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I cannot promise that this will all end the way you desire it to, but at least you will be permitted to see him once more. Perhaps, upon seeing the two of you dance and converse, Lady Finch might change her mind and might encourage Mother to do the same.”

Rose seemed dubious. “Did you discover anything else for that report you planned to give to Lady Finch? I know you have not been yourself of late, but… I hoped you had not forgotten me.”

“There was nothing else to find,” Agnes replied with a smile. “He is exactly as I suspected—he is pleasant, well-respected, generous, sensible, and beloved by those in his barony. Once again, I cannot promise it will be enough, but I shall offer Lady Finch and Mother my findings after the ball. If I put it to them prior, they might suspect that Lord Morton will be in attendance, and I do not want them barring him at the door.”

Rose sighed wearily. “Why can it not be simple, Agnes? Why can we not marry whomever we please? Why can we not fall in love with whomever we please and be blissfully happy for the rest of our days? Why must it feel like it is out of our hands?”

“Perhaps, you should ask me something that I can answer—like, is it not a beautiful night tonight? Or will you manage a wink of sleep tonight?” Agnes took a small bite of her roll, answering, “Yes to the first, no to the second.”

“Because of the pain?” Rose gestured toward her sister’s ankle.

Agnes shrugged. “In part.”

“Is something troubling you?” Rose drew her knees up to her chest. “Is it this business with Lord Morton? I know I should cease twittering about it and do my duty, but—Oh, there I go, speaking only of myself again. Please, sister, tell me what is robbing you of your sleep.”

I would not dare. Agnes’ heart leaped, her skin tingling with a feverish rush of warmth as if she was back in the forest again with George’s hand touching her so skillfully in unmentionable places.

“Nothing much. I do worry for your happiness, of course, and I have fretted over it ever since we departed London, but I think my sleeplessness is simpler than that.” Agnes rested her head against the windowpane. “Do you not find that the silence here is intolerably loud? It is quiet at Snowley House, but I suppose it is a familiar quiet. Here, I cannot help but stir at every tiny sound.”

Rose nodded. “I know precisely what you mean. It is the strangest thing. Just last night, I thought I heard hooves upon the gravel. I would have sworn it upon everything we possess, but when I went to the window, there was nothing there.”

“Did you hope it might be Lord Morton, come to steal you away?” Agnes flashed a grin, but Rose did not match it, her face falling.

“Do not tease me, dear sister.”

Agnes tore her bread roll in half and offered the larger piece to Rose. “That was not my intention, Rosie.” She smiled as her sister took the offering. “I have also heard mysterious noises. Truly, my heart almost jumped out of my chest when an owl flew by the other night, hooting as it went. I thought it was a ghost!”

“In a manor this old, I would not be surprised if there was a phantom or two,” Rose agreed, her expression softening into a chuckle as she gave a dramatic shudder. “Oh, we must not speak of this, or I shall not sleep tonight either!”

“You ought to stay in here with me,” Agnes urged, “like we did when we were girls.”

Rose’s face brightened. “Do you mean it?”

“Certainly, I do.” Agnes would have done anything to keep that cheer upon her sister’s face. “Gather your night things, let us send for treats in secret, and we shall spend the evening reading and eating and drinking and talking until we are brave enough to fall asleep.”

Rose jumped off the window seat, not needing to be asked twice. “I will only be a moment! Stay exactly where you are!”

Agnes laughed as she watched her sister hurry out of the bedchamber as if they really were girls again without a care in the world— too young to have to consider marriage and love and the whole tangled business of society.

* * *

By one o’clock in the morning, Rose was fast asleep, snoring softly and taking up most of the bed with her arms and legs stretched out like a starfish. Meanwhile, Agnes held a vigil by the window, grateful that her sister was comfortable enough to sleep well though Rose’s deep slumber might have had more to do with the bottle of wine she had pilfered from the kitchens than anything else.

I should fetch some warm milk, Agnes considered, carefully slipping down from the window seat and padding across the bedchamber to the door. If she did not sleep at all that night, she knew she would be insufferable tomorrow, and she wanted to be at least partially rested before she saw George again.

I wonder where he is tonight, she mused, stealing barefoot into the hallway in nothing but her nightdress and housecoat. The Dowager House did not have too many servants, and those it did have would have taken to their beds by now, unlike the poor souls who had to stay awake and tend to the guests over at Finch Hall.

How peculiar it is that I have no notion of where he might be after knowing him so intimately… Yet, the panic that had plagued her before George’s arrival had dissipated, her jealousy and suspicion replaced with a yearning ache to be near him again. He had soothed her doubts about him with his words and his sincerity and his intoxicating kiss, and though she still had a tiny, nagging worry that it was all a ruse, she had decided to believe him for now. If she could not, it would drive her to madness.

Heading downstairs on cautious tiptoes, she was about to veer left and make her way toward the kitchens when a soft light caught her eye; it peeked out from the bottom of the library door, halfway down a branching hallway on her right. She might not have noticed it at all if it had not been for the otherwise pitch blackness of the corridor.

Who would be awake at such an hour? Bemused, the light drew Agnes to it like a moth to a lantern.

Reaching the door, she did not bother to knock as she gently eked it open, fully expecting to find Lady Finch in her armchair by the French doors that led out into the gardens. The older guests who were residing at the Dowager House retired before ten o’clock, Agnes’ mother thought reading was a foolish pursuit, and Rose was asleep in Agnes’ bedchamber, leaving only Lady Finch as the possible origin of the light.

But as she stepped into the welcoming glow, Agnes froze on the threshold of the library, her mouth falling open as she set surprised eyes upon an altogether more sensual scene. George lay on his back upon the rug by the fireplace in a state of undress—his tailcoat, waistcoat, cravat, and boots piled neatly on the floor by Lady Finch’s armchair. His white shirt was rumpled and pulled free of his trousers, exposing a small, tempting gap of bronzed, bare stomach, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And above his head, he held a book, reading in what might have been the most uncomfortable position possible.

He tilted his head back at the sound of the door clicking into the jamb, his lips curving into a smile as he saw Agnes.

“I… did not know it was you,” she gasped, eyeing his open collar and the deep contours of a muscular chest that showed through the revealing triangle of fabric.

George twisted onto his side, setting the book down. “I could not sleep and felt an urge to read something dull to aid in my rest.” He tapped the book. “Have no fear, dearest Agnes, it is nothing sordid—just a very tiresome tome about the fall of the Roman Empire. My eyelids were assuredly growing heavy before you strode in without so much as a knock. One would suspect you had no manners, walking in on a gentleman like this.”

Desire and panic bristled through Agnes’ veins, squeezing her ribs and stomach until she could not breathe. If she had known it was George, she liked to think she would have had the sense to go on to the kitchens and return to her bedchamber with a glass of warm milk and her reputation intact. But seeing him there, bathed in firelight, resembling a mythical hero, all sense abandoned her. There was nothing in her mind but him and his broad chest and his corded forearms and his ridged stomach and the way his lips and fingertips had felt upon her.

“I should… leave you to your book,” she said thickly, her legs refusing to move. She had already closed the door without realizing as if she wanted to be trapped in there with him.

“You should, perhaps, but I do not want you to,” George replied, patting the rug. “Come here to me. I have thought of another way that I might exhaust us both, so we can both rest well.”

Agnes gulped. “I do not think that is wise.”

“Then, lock the door,” he told her, smiling. His eyes shone with hunger, stirring her own. “Yes, lock the door, and then come to me. Let me help you to sleep.”

Before she could stop herself, Agnes reached for the key and turned it in the lock. Next thing she knew, she was walking toward George in a daze, her heart and mind no longer listening to one another. Or, perhaps, they were in agreement for once.