Chapter 10

"La, I must confess, all the dancing is making me rather clumsy!" Agness said.

"You did that purposefully," Fairfax accused.

"Do you have proof?"

"I—"

The music ceased at that moment, and she stepped back, turning on her heels and leaving the suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom, seeking refuge on a quiet terrace overlooking the gardens.

As she closed her eyes and took in a deep, steadying breath, Agnes grappled with the whirlwind of emotions within her. Fairfax's venomous words echoed in her mind, a cruel reminder of the societal barriers that stood between her and acceptance. Was his vile opinion shared by others? Was this disdainful scrutiny the reason she had remained on the fringes, overlooked and underestimated?

She glanced down at the dance card attached to her wrist, counting five names. Perhaps all the gentlemen that had penned their names wanted the same thing as Fairfax from her. What would be the point of dancing with them, then? What would be the point of seeking a match at all?

When she had the attention of a marquess, it was not her wit, her grace, or her intellect that was acknowledged, but rather she was approached with the worst of intentions and expectations.

She swallowed the bitterness, anger, and hurt that rose to her throat. The quiet of the terrace offered a momentary escape, but Agnes wanted to be far away from here.

"That was quite the flight after your dance."

Theodore came to stand beside her, and she kept her gaze on the garden below, refusing to allow him to witness her discomposure.

"I needed some fresh air," she said. "Have you noticed that ballrooms are unusually warm?"

"Yes." He moved closer. "Is everything all right?"

Theodore sounded concerned, but Agnes couldn't help questioning his sincerity. After all, she had learned, rather painfully, that appearances often concealed the truth, and gentlemen of their station always had ulterior motives.

Even Theodore, for all his charm and attentiveness, had his own reasons for keeping her company. She was a pawn in his business dealings. Although he had not behaved improperly toward her, Agnes thought every gentleman in society was the same.

"I think I understand my luck, or rather, the lack of it with the gentlemen now," she confessed with a bitter little chuckle, taking a step away from him.

"And it is?" Theodore's frown remained, and it deepened when she moved.

"Most men are the same," she replied. "It's a wonder the ladies are able to tolerate them."

"What manner of man is your ideal, Agnes?" he asked. His question was innocent on the surface, but it probed at the depth of her desires.

"An honorable man who would cherish me and protect my dignity and reputation with the same fervor as his own. Someone sincere and perfectly romantic." Agnes sighed and turned to face him. Theodore's expression was an unreadable mask, but she did not allow it to keep her from answering. "He would read me poems under the moonlight, we would have picnics and rides in the country. I want a man who is not afraid of allowing me to see his heart."

Theodore was quiet for a moment, then he chuckled. What? Was this a joke to him? This angered her even more than Fairfax's disrespect.

If anyone were to treat her with such insouciance, it certainly shouldn't have been him. The realization that his apparent indifference wounded her more deeply than she could have anticipated revealed a vulnerability she hadn't acknowledged to herself.

Without waiting for him to speak or perhaps even apologize, she turned on her heels and stormed down the short flight of stairs into the gardens below. The cool night air brushed against her face, doing little to soothe the heat of her emotions.

"Agnes, where are you going?" Theodore's voice reached her. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she was imagining the worry in his tone, given her tumultuous state of mind. "What is the matter?" She could hear the sound of his footsteps as he followed her deeper into the garden.

"I don't know. You should ask yourself that question, Gillingham," she shot back, her pace quickening in an attempt to flee him and her conflicted feelings.

Theodore, with his longer strides, closed the gap between them effortlessly. He reached out and took her wrist in a gentle but firm grip, halting her flight. "You seem angry. Is all well?" he asked.

"I seem angry?" she scoffed, her frustration boiling over.

"You are angry." The observation came with some uncertainty, as if he were navigating through a minefield blindfolded. "What is wrong? Did I say something?" he pressed, his concern deepening.

"Am I a joke to you, Theodore?" she demanded. "Am I a joke to all the gentlemen?" She added.

"What?" Theodore's expression morphed from confusion to surprise. "How in the world did you come to such absurd conclusions?"

"Is this absurdity perhaps why you laughed at what I just said?" Agnes countered.

"Is this what this is about, Agnes? Does our arrangement call for a banishment of humor now?" He was clearly attempting to calm her, but his words only widened the chasm between them.

"That was certainly not a time for humor." Agnes made to withdraw her hand from his, intent on leaving both the conversation and his company behind. Her patience frayed beyond repair.

She twisted her hand, seeking to free herself, but his grip remained unyielding. In her frustration and determination to escape, she pulled harder, a move that backfired disastrously. She stumbled and the lace of her dress caught in the thorns of a nearby bush. The sound of fabric tearing filled the air, followed by Theodore's arms wrapping around her waist to prevent her fall.

He steadied them, and their eyes held for a moment. "Forgive me," he whispered, and as he was releasing her, a surprised cry rent the night air.

"Oh my goodness! Miss Young and the Marquess of Gillingham in the bushes!" The voice, now dreadfully familiar, belonged to none other than Lady Kirkland. Her eyes glittered with shock and unmistakable delight at the scandalous tableau before her.

Agnes's heart sank as she met the gaze of Lady Kirkland, who looked upon them with an expression that spelled the doom of Agnes's social standing. This was it—the end of her season, perhaps even the end of her reputation.

"This isn't what it looks like. She was falling, and I'd merely steadied her," Theodore attempted to clarify, hastily putting some distance between them in a bid to salvage what could be an irrevocably damaged situation.

Agnes, caught in the throes of shock, found herself struggling to breathe, much less articulate a defense against the accusations that were sure to follow.

"That doesn't explain the rip in her frock, Lord Gillingham," Lady Kirkland countered. "Or is it a caterpillar that gave you the rip, Miss Young?" The contempt and derision dripping from her words were like acid, corroding what little hope Agnes had of emerging from this scandal unscathed.

At that moment, Agnes knew that any attempt at explanation would be futile. Lady Kirkland thrived on gossip and scandal, and this incident was a feast for her voracious appetite. Agnes was ruined.