Chapter 7

CHAPTER7

The walk to the grand, Tudor legacy of Finch Hall was a relatively short one, made rather pleasant by the warmth of the noonday sunshine. A cool breeze chased away any discomfort from the exertion, and the pace was slow, almost as if there was some reluctance among the group of four: George, Lady Finch, and the Ladies Agnes and Rose.

What shall I ask of her when I win? George pondered, confident in his success. There had been no opportunity for Agnes to tell him what she desired as a prize before their departure as Lady Finch had seemed particularly intent on buzzing around her guests like a bee in summer. Still, he doubted he needed to know, for she could not possibly triumph this time.

A portrait, perchance? No… no one would be able to capture the essence of her accurately. Attending a party in an amusing costume, maybe? Saying something awfully rude to an honored guest? Shall I make her read that dreadful book? She had been right when she had accused him of using it as a prop, for he enjoyed the shock it created but not the book itself. He had tried to read it once, but it had made him feel queasy. Although, afterward, it had made him feel absolved in some way, like he was not such a terrible rogue, after all.

He glanced at Agnes’ shapely silhouette as she glided across the meandering woodland path that led to Finch Hall. Even the way she walked was compelling; her sinuous figure made the ground her stage, her hips swaying gracefully, and her exquisite posture never faltering, allowing him to admire the elegant slope of her neck.

A kiss… A kiss would seal my victory. His lips burned with anticipation though a greater question sprang to mind—where would he kiss her? On the soft cushion of her mouth, on the nape of that slender neck, on the curve of her throat? The choice was too much, yet not enough, for one kiss might not temper his lust for her; there was always a risk that he might desire more.

“What are you two gossiping about?” he asked, appealing to Lady Rose.

Despite the wager resting upon a temporary vow of silence, the details were hazy. He had not explicitly said that Agnes could not speak with her sister, and he supposed it would be unfair to insist upon it. Besides, there was no way that Agnes would be able to navigate meeting a Marquess without saying a word, so what did it matter if she exchanged a few words with Rose? Failure was inevitable.

“Nothing of interest, Your Grace,” Rose replied shyly, pausing to answer him. “We were discussing the gowns that the dressmaker brought earlier. I preferred the pink muslin and the yellow silk, but Agnes thinks the lavender muslin and the peridot silk becomes me much better.”

George pursed his lips, contemplating the conundrum. “I would have to agree with your sister. Lavender and peridot will assuredly flatter you. Pale pink is very dull and worn by every lady I can think of, and yellow silk always looks rather ghastly.”

What of your gowns, Lady Agnes? Jeweled colors would befit you—rich greens, blood reds, deep blues. He blinked in surprise, for he could not remember ever considering ladies’ gowns, nor what color he would have liked to see.

“The peridot was very beautiful,” Rose mused shyly, while George sought to catch Agnes’ eye.

Infuriatingly, she would not look his way; she kept her gaze fixed upon the near horizon, all but ignoring him. Did that mean her vow of silence had begun, or did she simply wish to avoid speaking to him, in particular?

A twinge of disquiet unsettled his stomach and winched a tightness around his throat. After parting ways with Agnes earlier, an unfamiliar fever of shame had plagued him, blistering his skin and forcing him down to the kitchens to seek some ice for his face. That shame had spiraled into a clawing guilt, rooted in the way he had spoken to Agnes. Namely, the barely veiled threat he had made to her.

I was just jesting, he wanted to tell her. A tasteless jest, but a jest, nonetheless. He knew in his heart that he would never have stooped so low as to use Rose as a pawn, but every encounter with Agnes seemed to incite some madness within him that made it impossible to be reasonable.

The gentleman who had said, “You realize that I am capable of helping or hindering your sister’s prospects, and the direction I choose might very well hinge upon your behavior toward me?”was not someone he recognized. It mortified him, in truth, but her reply had shamed him more.

“I see you.” George’s mind still raced, trying to figure out the true meaning of those three tiny words that had struck him like a horse’s hoof to the chest. What did she see? What could he not hide from her? What had she deciphered behind his well-cultivated mask of lovable rake?

“We are almost there,” he said, pushing his unease away. “Lady Agnes, are you looking forward to the afternoon? You have been unusually quiet.”

She turned to flash him a smile and dipped her head in a nod.

“Is something the matter?” he pressed.

She shook her head.

“My sister is so very courageous,” Lady Rose cut in, ironically verbose. “She has not been feeling well, and though I urged her to remain in her chambers, she refused.”

George’s brow furrowed. “You are unwell, Lady Agnes? It must be a sudden illness, for you were in fine spirits this morning.”

Agnes offered an expression of false apology, putting up her hands in mock surrender. She had clearly come into the afternoon with a plan, and George was beginning to think he might have underestimated her, yet again.

“She was coughing terribly while we took tea in the glass house,” Lady Finch confirmed, patting Agnes gently on the back. “I thought it was the scones that Marianne had baked, catching in her throat, but when I touched her brow, she had a fearsome temperature.”

Annoyance flared in George’s chest as if he were the one with a fever. “Then, is it wise to bring her to your son’s residence? We would not want anyone else to fall ill, now, would we?”

He realized what he had said, just as soon as it had tumbled from his mouth. Agnes must have seen the dawning understanding, for her lips spread wide in a grin that she hastened to hide behind her fan—a gesture so ladylike that it felt, to him, like an outright taunt.

I have fallen into her trap for a second time, he cursed silently, astonished by her subtle talent for manipulation.

“I said as much,” Lady Finch replied, “but she insisted that she wished to join us. Still, I have informed her that she is to return to the Dowager House the very instant she begins to feel worse.”

Agnes gave her a kindly smile and took the older woman’s veined hand, giving it a tender squeeze as if they had known one another for a lifetime. It seemed that Agnes did not need words, for her expressive face did all of her talking for her.

How clever you are. George could not stay angry at the deception, marveling at Agnes’ gift for performance. Even now, she was breathing strangely as though under duress, and she kept touching her fingers to her throat. A few soft coughs, covered by her hand over her mouth, bolstered the act of poorliness.

All too soon, the foursome arrived at the Tudor manor where they were greeted by a proud, middle-aged man in starched livery, standing so straight that a strong wind could have toppled him: Mr. Ballinger, the butler of Finch Hall.

“His Lordship and guests are expecting you in the dining hall,” Mr. Ballinger said, leading the quartet through the oppressive mahogany and rosewood of the entrance hall, made even more depressing thanks to a chandelier of antlers and several dusty animal heads that had evidently been hunted centuries ago. Old swords, crossed over one another, and a leatherbound shield added to the gloomy, old-fashioned presentation of the place.

“Charming, is it not?” George drew level with Agnes. As she had not taken her opportunity to flee back to the Dowager House, the game was not yet over.

She smiled politely at him, tilting her head from side to side as if to say, “It is passable.”

“I ought to penalize you for speaking to your sister,” he continued, “but I am a fair man, and as we did not hash out the rules in detail, I shall permit that small transgression.”

Her palm lifted to her chest where she pressed it against her heart. The gesture was one of gratitude, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise. Either way, it served to draw his eye down to her bosom, giving him yet another option of where he might kiss her when he won.

“You really do not intend to speak?” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Intriguing. I look forward to seeing the afternoon unfold,” he taunted, leaning as close to her ear as he dared, just seconds before they all entered the grand dining hall.

Yet, as he drew back, a lasting impression lingered in his senses: a faint scent of cedar and vanilla, so sultry and rich that he nearly halted. It was not a common perfume among society ladies, who favored the delicacy of jasmine, orange blossom, and lavender aromas. Indeed, it was intoxicatingly bold and unique, even dabbed sparingly upon the skin.

What manner of sorceress is she? He stared at the back of her neck as she walked on ahead of him, struggling to make sense of her and the intense response that she sparked inside his body. Her words, her movement, her scent, her defiance, her soul—they all mingled in a heady concoction, driving him to the brink of a delicious, overwhelming kind of madness. And the fact that she showed no reflection of that desire only stoked the fires within.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Lady Finch began the introductions, though George was au-fait with the gathered company. “It is my great pleasure to introduce you to Lady Agnes and Lady Rose, daughters to the former Earl of Snowley and cousins to the current.”

There were ten people seated at the dining table: the Marquess and Marchioness of Finch and their two sons, the Baron and Baroness of Coleford, the Viscount of Debney and his sister, Miss Hill, and the local cleric, Reverend Kelley and his wife, Mrs. Kelley. Lady Finch introduced each one in turn, the gentlemen standing to greet the newcomers while the ladies remained in their seats, nodding graciously.

“I must apologize on behalf of my sister, Lady Agnes,” Lady Rose said with surprising confidence as the introductions came to an end, and everyone was seated. “She has a sore throat and will not be able to say much, but she was so eager to meet you all that she insisted on coming, even as a silent guest.”

A ripple of sympathy made its way around the table with Miss Hill replying, “It seems to be the latest malady. I, too, had something of a sore throat just a fortnight ago, and I refused to leave my chambers. So, I applaud your fortitude, Lady Agnes.”

How is she doing this? George blinked in awe and confusion. Without saying a word, Agnes had gained the favor of the room. Indeed, he almost applauded, for it was quite the feat.

“Of course, it is a pleasure to see you again, too, Your Grace,” Miss Hill added, casting him a look so venomous that it might have burned a lesser man.

George put on his most endearing smile. “As it is to see you again, Miss Hill. Last I heard, you will soon be married. I meant to send my congratulations, but as so many engagements flood in before the season, I must have forgotten.”

“My betrothed could not attend today. A pity, for I was very eager for you to meet.” Miss Hill shrugged. “No matter. I accept your congratulations.” Her cold tone of voice made him think she would have thrown them back in his face, had they been alone.

You cannot still be angry with me, Miss Hill, he mused. We barely shared a kiss. Or was it more? He truly could not remember, sifting through his mind for the memory. When he could not find it, he was content to brush it off… until his eyes met Agnes’.

She stared at him with the full brunt of judgment in her gaze. And the accompanying small, slow shake of her head screamed a depth of disappointment that knocked the air out of him. All of a sudden, a strange, sticky sort of discomfort cloyed in his veins—adjacent to shame, but not quite as clearly defined.

As conversation drowned out the rush of blood in his ears and footmen glided in to serve the luncheon, hiding his awkwardness in the chatter and movement of others, he became the silent one, distancing himself from the cheer at the table. He could not even concentrate on the watercress soup or the second course of pigeon breast in a silky blackberry sauce without seeing Agnes’ disappointed expression, robbing him of his appetite.

“Your Grace, are you also unwell?” Christopher, the Marquess of Finch, asked from across the table.

George looked up. “Hmm?”

“You are awfully quiet. I have to wonder if this sore throat might be catching,” Christopher replied with a concerned smile. “My eldest is also set to enjoy his first season, and I would not want him to fall ill.”

George mustered a chuckle. “Apologies, my good man, for my mind is admittedly elsewhere.” He resisted the temptation of glancing at Agnes. “There is a shipment of silk and spices coming from India which was supposed to arrive a fortnight ago. As it has not yet, I am anxious in regard to its whereabouts, and my entire lake house rests upon its successful docking.”

It was a partial lie, for the shipment was not due to arrive for another fortnight, but Christopher did not need to know that. He was a Marquess with a long history of predecessors who knew how to manage and protect their fortune while George hailed from a lengthy line of Dukes who relished the fine art of squandering everything they possessed.

“I forget that you partake in business,” Christopher said, unable to conceal the slight wrinkle of his nose quickly enough.

George met the remark with grace. “My mind would disintegrate without it, Finch. When I am at my work, whether it be shipments of saffron and silk or finding the flock of sheep that made a midnight bid for freedom out of a broken fence on my land, I keep my boredom satisfied. I dread to think what sort of beast I would be if I did not have such welcome distractions.”

“I find it admirable,” the Baron of Coleford agreed. “I, myself, have recently purchased a vineyard in the South-West. We are not all as fortunate as you, dear Marquess—expanding our sources of income is becoming a necessity for more and more of us noblemen, year after year.”

The Viscount of Debney nodded eagerly. “I was hoping I might speak with you about your endeavors, Your Grace, for I am also searching for prospects to bolster the Debney fortunes. After last year’s storm, we have an entire wing that is not fit for purpose, and more coin is required.”

Even the Reverend chimed in, adding, “There is no dishonor in hard work, nor do I understand the… fear that the very notion seems to strike into the hearts of peers like yourself.”

It was not what George had expected, for he was more accustomed to the light teasing of his acquaintances, who never intended to work a day in their lives. In his younger years, George had not planned to, either, but when he inherited the exhausted duchy, he had been given no choice. After all, his father had ensured that he had the finest education, preparing George to clean up the mess that his father and every predecessor before him had made.

“I would be glad to share my experiences with anyone who asks,” George said, his voice wavering with unexpected emotion. He cleared his throat, pretending he had swallowed some pigeon awkwardly. “Although, I must warn you, I cannot give up all of my secrets, for while you are all respected friends, I should hate to have you as business rivals.”

The gentlemen laughed, and the dining hall settled back into a rhythm of amusing conversation, clinking cutlery, and an easy ambience.

Only then did George dare to steal a glance at Agnes, whose absent voice perturbed him more than he had anticipated. He knew that, had he not orchestrated this charade of silence, the entire dining hall would be reeling with laughter, dabbing streaming eyes with napkins, reveling in the wild mirth of her conversation. Instead, it was a polite and sedate luncheon—pleasant but not memorable.

It pleased him in a way he could not explain when he found that Agnes was gazing right back at him. She smiled sadly, and under the pretense of brushing a loose curl of hair behind her ear, she pointed to her eye. “I see you,” the gesture whispered, and though he was attired in layer upon layer of fine tailoring, he had never felt more naked, stripped bare before her as he had never been exposed before.

And what do you see? he longed to ask, but as he had demanded quiet from her, he could not hope to gain a response. A pity for, in that moment, hers was the only voice and opinion he wanted to hear.

You win, he mouthed, but she shook her head.

Perhaps, she had fallen into one too many traps in her life to fall into his.