Chapter 8

CHAPTER8

“You were wonderful, Rosie!” Agnes gasped, her entire being flooding with relief at the beauty of being able to speak again. “You charmed them all, and if they were not all married, I am certain you would have had a proposal from each and every one.”

Rose fanned herself as the sisters walked in the gardens that surrounded the Dowager House. Lady Finch had retired for an afternoon nap, and George had graciously made himself scarce, probably to lick the wounds of his failure. After all, despite countless fierce urges to make a witty retort, she had not said a word for what felt like an eternity.

“One man was not married,” Rose said quietly, concealing a shy smile behind the accordioned silk of her fan.

A peculiar blade of something like jealousy sliced underneath Agnes’ ribs, prompting her voice to sound harsher than she had intended as she replied, “I have told you, Rosie—the Duke is prohibited territory. I do not care if you find him enchanting and handsome and all those other fanciful things that have led other young ladies astray; he is not for you. You will not become one of his… fleeting whims.”

Rose spluttered, lowering her fan. “Sister, I did not mean the Duke!”

“Pardon?”

“The Duke is very pleasing, I do not deny that, but I remember what you told me—I would not defy you, sister.” Rose looked a touch offended. “I was speaking of Lady Finch’s grandson. He is my age. He is entering society at the same time. It would be like Mama and Papa’s story of love, repeating. Only the happy parts, of course.”

Agnes almost turned on her heel and marched herself inside the Dowager House to dunk her face into the nearest basin of cool water she could find in the hope that it might bring down the fever that seemed to be hounding her every time she thought of or spoke of or encountered George.

“Oh…” she murmured, fanning her own face with a fury to stave off the blazing fire of humiliation. “You favored him?”

Rose shrugged coyly, swaying like she was already upon a ballroom dance floor with him. “He was sweet and amusing, and he had such pretty eyes, and I think it would be rather pleasant to truly be a part of Lady Finch’s family.” She paused, touching her hand to her cheek. “Oh goodness, I am getting rather carried away. I think I imbibed too much wine with luncheon.”

“Passion is a fine thing,” Agnes reassured, rallying as quickly as she could. “If he has stirred up warm feelings within you, then perhaps it is something to pursue, but I would not mention it to Lady Finch until after your coming-out ball. You might find an even sweeter gentleman there, and it would not do to start nibbling upon other delights if you are already all but courting the Marquess’ son.”

Rose nodded. “Of course, you are right.”

“But you were exceptional this afternoon, Rosie,” Agnes insisted, taking hold of her sister’s hand. “I have never been prouder of you. Either Lady Finch is a genius instructor, or you have always had that confidence, and you just needed an arena in which to display it. A small arena. A podium, really, but the size is not important.”

Rose flushed with pleasure but, a moment later, she halted in her steps and stared at Agnes, raising an eyebrow. “What has happened to your voice? You are not croaking anymore. Did you have something stuck in your throat? Have you dislodged it?”

In her hurry to compliment her sister and be free of George’s challenge, Agnes had quite forgotten that she was supposed to be afflicted with a terrible sore throat. Of course, she had not truly considered that the ruse might have to be continued after the test was over, but it would seem strange if she was suddenly better again.

“I think the luncheon helped,” Agnes lied, feeling awful about it. She hated deceiving her sister. “I hear it is what opera singers do when their throats are tired—they rest, say not a word for a while, and the scratchy feeling vanishes.”

Rose did not appear to be convinced. “Something is afoot, Agnes. What are you not telling me? You have been peculiar since this morning after your visit with Mama.” Worry tightened the muscles in her face, making it look like she was holding her breath. “Was she… Has she… Is she as she was before we left Snowley House again? I know I should not hope so fiercely for change, but I cannot help it. I would relinquish everything if she could be happy again.”

“Hush, dear sister,” Agnes said softly. “Do not say such things. Only she can decide to allow cheer into her heart again, and I do believe that when she sees you make your entrance into society, she will brighten before your very eyes.”

“Do you really think so?” Rose sighed, the issue of Agnes’ swift recovery forgotten.

Agnes urged her sister back into a walk. “I do, my sweet Rosie. Truly, I do.”

It pained her to have to use more deception upon Rose, but it was better than seeing Rose’s disappointment. Throughout the years since their father had passed, Rose had done everything she could to try and bring a smile to their mother’s face, and always, it failed. Agnes would not witness that crushing defeat upon her sister’s face again.

You deserve better than the cards you have been dealt, Rosie, but your luck is about to change. I am certain of it. At luncheon, the gentlemen at the dining table had not been able to resist stealing glances at the beautiful young woman, and if the Marquess’ son really had taken a shine to her, then he would make an excellent reserve if Rose could not capture the heart of a grander fellow.

“Goodness, is that His Grace?” Rose’s arm gripped Agnes’ tightly, the younger sister jigging with excitement.

Up ahead, George cut a fine figure, striding along the gravel path that sliced through the lawns. His great coat blew out behind him, teased by the warm winds, and his top hat made him appear even taller than he was. His trousers were fashioned in the Brummell style; Agnes was certain he had been wearing them to luncheon though she had not noticed until that moment how tight they were. She could see the definition of his muscular thighs, flexing with every step, drawing her eye up to places it should not wander.

He raised a hand in greeting, and Rose eagerly waved back.

“I thought you were not going to defy me?” Agnes whispered, her heart racing as he neared. She had never seen such ordinary garments worn so well, the tailored pieces breathtakingly flattering upon his athletic physique.

Rose chuckled. “Waving is not defiance, sister. To ignore him would be the height of rudeness.” She cast her sister a sideways glance. “Are you going to pretend you still have a sore throat?”

“It would be better if everyone knew of my recuperation, for I think I shall actually destroy my throat if I continue to rasp and cough when the discomfort has already passed,” Agnes replied, wondering just how much Rose had guessed of the truth.

George removed his hat and bowed his head as he stopped in front of the women before setting the hat back onto his luxurious curls. “Are you also attempting to walk off the effects of that immense luncheon?” he asked, so cheerful and sunny in his demeanor that Agnes became increasingly convinced that there were two of them, for this was not the same George who had frightened her that morning.

Perhaps, one is the Duke of Crampton, and one is George. But which is which, I cannot decide, she mused, bracing for the punishment she would surely receive for besting him.

“When the Marchioness asked if I should like a second helping of that delicious blackberry and apple pie, I knew I could not refuse, and yet I thought I would burst as I ate it!” Rose confessed, her face lighting up with the excitement and beauty of youthful infatuation. It worried her sister.

But George’s gaze was fixed upon Agnes. “Are you feeling better? I was concerned by your lack of appetite.”

“Rose ate for the both of us,” Agnes replied, feigning just a hint of a scratchy throat. “I am glad of it, in truth, for she has had no hunger for weeks, and I feared she might not have the strength to dance and converse if she did not recover it.”

George arched an eyebrow, still looking at Agnes as he said, “Oh, why so?”

“Anxiety is the theft of appetite, Your Grace.” Agnes smiled politely. “I take her hunger as a good omen that she is growing more comfortable in this high society of yours.”

George nodded. “Does that mean that you are growing less comfortable?”

“Perhaps.” Agnes mustered a soft laugh, her breath catching as he suddenly stepped forward to push a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“I noticed that particular tendril giving you trouble at luncheon,” he said as if he had not crossed an intimate line. “You ought to pin it or lacquer it, unless you prefer to let it fly wildly in the wind like that?”

Rose blinked, wide-eyed, as she watched the exchange. She held one hand to the base of her throat as if the scene before her was utterly shocking, stealing her ability to breathe properly. But then, a secret sort of smile played upon her lips, and she took a subtle step back, giving the pair a small measure of privacy.

“My hair is free to do as it pleases,” Agnes said, equally breathless with surprise. “Like an exasperated mother, I have done my best to quell its disobedience over the past three-and-twenty years, but it is particularly wayward. As such, I have had no choice but to yield to its rebellion. I must warn you, however—it does not like to be touched.”

He grinned. “My apologies. I suppose I should have asked permission first.”

“Yes, you should have,” she challenged, her skin tingling where his fingertips had brushed it. If he had asked for permission, she would not have granted it, and she might have missed the delicious tickle that his touch conjured.

Pivoting on his heel, he offered his arm to her. “Might you walk with me a while? There is something I have been meaning to discuss with you, but I did not want to intrude upon your afternoon exploits.” He nodded back at Rose. “You shall make an excellent chaperone, Lady Rose, for I have not the vigor after that luncheon to go inside and wake Lady Finch from her daily nap. She is quite the beast when her routine is disrupted, and she loathes being stirred from her slumber most of all.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Rose hurried to comply. “Although, let us be careful that we are not seen. I would not like to elicit gossip.”

George smirked. “Ah, but it always has a nasty habit of following me. Still, I am certain we will be quite safe here.”

With a nervous breath, Agnes took his proffered arm and allowed him to guide her away from the kitchen garden where the sisters had been admiring the scent of rosemary and thyme while watching robins and blackbirds hop along the soil beds, plucking out worms and pecking at the caterpillars and slugs that threatened the crop.

He guided her along a path of crushed seashells before they came to the walled gardens that Agnes had not yet enjoyed. Passing through a quaint, green gate, they entered the sheltered realm where roses, lily of the valley, and forget-me-nots, primroses, columbine, and cornflowers exploded with color, responding to the warmth and the damp of spring. Wild cherry trees flowered overhead, scattering white petals across the garden pathways like snow, filling the air with a heady perfume.

“What is the scent you wear?” George asked, startling Agnes out of her delighted reverie.

“Pardon?”

“That perfume. What is it?”

Agnes paused to rub her fingertips against a row of sprouting purple lavender, bringing the potent aroma to her nose. “It is mine, Your Grace.”

“But where is it made?” he pressed.

“I cannot give up all of my secrets,” she teased, parroting the words he had spoken at luncheon. “What of yours?”

He laughed. “I do not wear perfume.”

“I was referring to your secrets.” She returned her hand to his forearm, no doubt leaving the scent of lavender upon his skin. “I did not realize that you were a gentleman of business. I assumed you were much like the rest of your kind: a dragon, relishing its horde of golden coins.”

George swallowed loudly, the apple in his throat bobbing temptingly. “The horde was frittered away by other dragons, long before I unfurled my wings and sharpened my fangs.”

“I… admire it,” she confessed. “In life, one should be able to solve one’s own difficulties, for it rarely fares well if you rely upon others to save you.”

He peered down at her. “You speak as if you know the feeling well.”

Agnes contemplated sharing her tale of bygone woes, of losing her father and being forced into a position of motherhood in order to see her sister flourish, but the garden was too beautiful to tarnish with self-pity. Nor did she feel courageous enough to tell him her story, for she did not know with absolute certainty which version of him she would be confiding in.

“What was it you wanted to discuss?” she said, instead. “I fear I have diverted your attention from your cause.”

He chuckled, his eyes shining. “You are verydiverting.”

“Flattery holds no sway over me,” she told him, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“I am becoming aware of that.” He sighed and moved her toward a bench in the center of the gardens where he urged her to sit. “To the matter at hand, then. You were victorious this afternoon. As such, I should like to know what you decided to request as your prize.”

Agnes had considered what she might like ever since she had concocted the plan to feign a sore throat. She had known that she would win, but with him standing before her, she still could not think of something… satisfactory. Money would make her appear conniving, a gift was too vague, and what she really desired—to see Rose become a success—was not a prize he could deliver unless he married her which she certainly did not want.

“Ask me again at Rose’s ball,” she said while her mind wandered to improper places, daring her to request a kiss or a dance or to feel him brush that strand of hair from her face once more.

George bowed his head. “Of course. I also struggled with what I might have asked for if I were the victor.”

“Did you come to a decision?” Agnes blurted out, intrigue taking the reins of her tongue.

His eyes met hers, a private smile turning up one corner of his lips. “I did.”

“And what was it? There can be no harm in telling me now as it will not come to pass.” Her stays strained to contain the frantic rise and fall of her breath, swiftened by the need to know what he would have asked of her.

Closing the gap between them, he took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it even though she had left her gloves at the manor. His mouth grazed her bare skin, and her heart threatened to burst from her chest at the brazen touch. She glanced back in a panic, but Rose was otherwise occupied, picking some of the primroses and cornflowers.

“I cannot give up all my secrets,” George purred, letting her hand fall. “But I shall tell you this—it is fortunate that you were the triumphant one. Although, perhaps, I have already stolen my prize.”

He touched his fingertips to his lips, and with a wink, he walked away, leaving Agnes panting and confused upon the garden bench, unable to comprehend what had just happened… and even more eager to know what he might have requested had she failed to stay silent.