Chapter 4

CHAPTER4

“Your Grace, do not be unkind!” Lady Finch barked with a harshness that George had rarely seen from her.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pewter carafe on the table, George grinned wider and let laughter slip from his lips. “Who is to say I am being unkind? Is it not a tempting thought?”

“You are teasing the poor girl,” Lady Finch chided while Lady Agnes looked as if she might explode.

You did not think we were finished with our battle, did you? George sipped his coffee, relishing the deepening shade of red that streaked Agnes’ plump cheeks. It would not be long before she turned purple.

“Are you?” Lady Rose frowned up at him and, for just a moment, an unfamiliar twinge of guilt caught him in the chest.

It vanished quickly enough as he replied, “I did not say that I would be the proposer or the eloper.” He patted Rose’s hand gently, softening his voice to its most charming cadence. “My sincerest apologies if I confused you, Lady Rose. It was not my intention.”

“You are quite forgiven, Your Grace,” Rose replied in a rush, blushing a much daintier shade of pink than the puce of her sister.

“You see, a debut is nothing more than a perusal of prospects,” he carried on. “It is similar to wandering past a dressmaker and admiring the garments within. I shall be the proprietor, ensuring you purchase only the finest garb. If it is a husband you seek, I shall reel out reem after reem of silky gentlemen for you to judge and favor at your discretion. There is nothing I do not know about society’s fellows, meaning I am the one person who can steer you away from… suitors who might glisten like gold but are really painted brass.”

Rose hid her mouth behind her hand as a soft, feminine chuckle escaped her lips. “Why would you do such a thing for me?”

“Firstly, to make amends for confusing you,” he told her, his skin burning from the heat of Agnes’ glare. “Secondly, because I have been asked by Lady Finch, and there is nothing that I would not do for her. Well, almost nothing.”

A shrill shriek erupted from Lady Finch’s throat, but at least she was smiling again as she shouted, “Scoundrel!” at him.

“Was I not supposed to mention that you have involved me?” George flashed a wink at the older woman, wearing the mischievous grin that she had never been able to resist.

“You remind me of my son when he was a boy, when you do that,” she had always told him, and thus far, that smile had allowed him to get away with more than he cared to admit. For it also worked wonders upon his countless conquests when they asked about a marriage that would never happen, turning their outrage into sympathy and forgiveness in the blink of an eye. Although, he never misled any of them; they just chose to believe that they could change his mind once they had joined him in his bed.

Lady Finch rolled her eyes. “I would have preferred it if you had not, but I cannot put the horse back into the stable once it has bolted.” She hesitated. “Indeed, I did not expect you this morning. It must be a miracle, for you are never awake at such an hour.”

“It is a mystery to me as well,” George replied, catching the eye of Lady Agnes, whose expression had returned to one of calm. Her talent for hiding emotion made him uneasy, for a person he could not read was a dangerous thing, counteracting his own talents.

Worry corrugated Lady Finch’s lined brow. “You did not sleep well, or did you not sleep at all?”

George heard the implication in the older woman’s question: did he spend his night in the nearby town, making a nuisance of himself? He might have done if he had not already exhausted the delights of every town in the area. There were far too many angry brothers and fathers who wanted him dead for him to enjoy those provincial places anymore.

“In truth, I could not sleep, thinking of all the ways in which I might assist Lady Rose here,” he lied, for it was Agnes who had made him restless, causing him to toss and turn in his bed.

At first, her words had robbed him of sleep as he had repeated every clever exchange in his mind, imagining all the retorts he would have said if he could begin their first meeting again. Then, her dancer’s grace and that simmering wildness had crept into his thoughts, leading him to envision an exchange of a very different kind. A more physical conversation where all her witty retorts would be lost on a tide of gasps and moans, and when she cried out his name in delirious abandon, he would know that he had won the war between them, not with his banter but with his other, more exceptional talents.

He realized he was staring at Agnes, who frowned back at him, tilting her head to one side to elongate that slender, tempting neck. Rubbing his eyes, he looked away, pretending to retrieve an eyelash.

“Did I hear mention of venturing to Christopher’s today?” he asked in a voice that was a note too bright.

Lady Finch nodded. “Around noon.”

“Well then, what shall we do to while away the hours until then?” George returned his attention to Rose, who kept casting secret, sideways glances at him.

He was accustomed to such things, and when he happened to catch her eye, he smiled and felt a small thrill as she hurriedly grabbed her glass of elderflower cordial and drank it down like a woman who had not seen water in weeks. Yet, that little rush of amusement was nothing compared to the scorching embers that Agnes had, somehow, stoked within his belly. She was the reason he had come to Lady Finch’s house again so soon, and she was the one he wished would blush and fumble, so he could restore his faith in his invincible charm.

If I could press my palm to her breast, I am certain I would feel her heart racing, he told himself, but the thought lacked certainty. Perhaps, he had finally encountered the impossible: the one woman who could not be enchanted. The one woman who saw right through him.

“First, I think I shall tend to my mother. After that, I thought I might take a turn in the gardens as I am yet to fully appreciate the estate. Anyone is welcome to join or avoid me though I am not averse to company,” Agnes said, smiling so sweetly that George could not look away.

Her not inconsiderable prettiness took a leap into the rarest sort of beauty as her face brightened and her eyes shone, the fading red of her cheeks creating the most wonderful flush of pink. The kind of pink reserved only for the bedchamber.

She is an enchantress, he scolded himself, sitting up straighter and forcing his gaze away. Clearly, this was another trick of hers to try and gain the upper hand over him. It would not work. He would not allow it.

“Goodness, I had quite forgotten about your mother!” Lady Finch cried, her eyes widening. “How terrible of me. Has she had breakfast? Is she feeling much improved?”

Agnes chuckled, suddenly annoyingly coquettish in her behavior. “That is what I intend to discover. I know she had a tray sent to her chambers, but as for the headache—sometimes, they have been known to last years. It might even be the same one, peaking and troughing through the past decade.”

The sweetness in her voice and demeanor was far too saccharine. George eyed her with curiosity, wondering what manner of sourness or bitterness lurked behind that sugary façade. There was a story there; George could sense it, but it did not seem polite to delve deeper at the breakfast table.

“Well, do let me know,” Lady Finch urged. “I should hate for anyone to think that I have neglected an honored guest.”

Agnes waved a dismissive hand. “I assure you, no one could possibly be offended. You have been the very epitome of a munificent host. Our mother is… She favors her solitude, but I shall do my very best to coax her out of her lair for this visit to your son’s residence. You see, her curiosity is often greater than her headache.”

With that, she sketched an elegant curtsy, bending deep at the waist, her legs performing a graceful sort of plié that took her almost to the floor while her arms were like the wings of a swan, floating downward and then guiding her up from the curtsy. It was the most captivating gesture of respect that George had ever witnessed, and not merely because the forward bend of her waist had flashed him the most delicious glimpse of her pert and ripe bosom.

He had to blink to remind himself not to gawp. Indeed, quite bewitching, but I am not a gentleman who allows himself to be bewitched.

Remembering to breathe, he glanced over at Lady Finch; the look in her eyes made his blood run cold. As did the small, amused smile that played upon her crinkled lips.

“She is magnificent, is she not?” the old woman observed.

George sniffed. “If you relish an unrefined delicacy. I find her rather… abrasive.”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” Lady Rose interjected, anxiously sipping what was left of her elderflower cordial. “She merely seems that way to those who do not know her. It is how she protects herself and others, or so she has told me. But when you know her as I do, there is no mistaking her golden heart. I have never encountered anyone more lovely than my sister, and I do not say that from a place of bias.”

George relaxed, flashing Rose his best smile. “A golden heart, hm?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

More like a golden hart—a once-in-a-lifetime prize for a hunter such as I, and I daresay I have my arrows ready, he mused, trying to rid his mind of her supple limbs and distracting bosom, conjuring images of them tangled together in his chambers instead.

In truth, he had always relished the chase more than the reward, and he had the most thrilling feeling that this was about to be the greatest pursuit in all of his thirty years.

By the season’s end, I will have her captured, he vowed. Let us see how triumphant she feels then.