Chapter 9

All his woes, the mounting pressure of expectations, and the whispers of gossip, came tumbling back with a vengeance the moment he returned home.

Yet, that night, unlike most of his nights which were filled with restless thoughts and the weight of responsibilities, Theodore roamed the hallways of his house with a peculiar sense of calm. There was something—or rather, someone—pleasant threading through his thoughts. Someone whose image his mind conjured up for what must be the umpteenth time since their parting: Agnes.

Driven by the restless energy that had become his constant companion, yet softened by the warmth of recent memories, Theodore decided to seek solace in the quiet company of books. The library had always offered him refuge from the tempest of his mind.

A sliver of light through the ajar doors told him that someone was already there. Pushing the doors further open, he was met with the sight of his sister, Harriet, in a precarious balance upon a stool, her fingers stretching for a book placed just beyond safe reach on the top shelf.

"Do you wish to chip a tooth?" His words cut through the silence as he quickly covered the distance between them to stabilize her stool.

Harriet, startled by his sudden appearance, chastised him with surprise and mock irritation. "If the stool doesn't chip my tooth, you will. You don't sneak up on people like that, Theodore," she complained.

"You're welcome," he retorted lightly once she safely descended with her chosen book in hand.

"What are you doing here this late anyway?" Theodore inquired, though the sight of Harriet in the library at such an hour was far from surprising. His sister's love for literature often saw her keeping unconventional hours, lost within the pages of her latest literary find. He wondered if Agnes shared the same interest.

"I needed a book, of course," Harriet replied, brandishing the tome before his eyes as if its title would explain her nocturnal quest.

"Couldn't it wait till morning?" he pressed, the question more an extension of their conversation than a genuine inquiry. He watched as Harriet's animated expression softened into something more somber.

"You're not sleeping again tonight?" she asked, her tone a blend of concern and resigned understanding.

"I will. In a bit," he lied.

"Don't even make the effort, brother. You are atrocious at telling lies," Harriet snorted.

"Am I now?" he chuckled.

"It's all right to share what bothers you sometimes, you know," Harriet encouraged, her voice soft. "God knows you've carried enough for years," she added.

"I'm fine, Harriet," Theodore reassured, his tone light, attempting to brush aside her worries with the ease of a statement that had been polished over time. Yet, the tightness he felt around his eyes and the slight ache of his head betrayed the truth of his nightly battles.

Harriet wasn't easily fooled. She was about to question him further when he said, "Are those dark circles underneath your eyes, Harriet?" he inquired with a pointed look, knowing full well the diversion would capture her attention.

"Where?" she gasped, her concern for her appearance momentarily overshadowing her worry for him. "Are they very visible?" she added, touching her cheeks and the tender skin under her eyes. Harriet, always meticulous about her looks, viewed wrinkles and dark circles as dire foes.

"Oh goodness! I don't want to debut looking like a dowager," she cried, the thought alone enough to send her into a mild panic. The image of presenting herself to society less than her best was unthinkable.

"You best get some sleep then if you don't want those dark circles progressing into God knows what," he egged on, a playful smirk dancing on the corners of his lips.

"I should," she said, clutching her book, and practically skipped to the door.

"Good night, Brother," she paused halfway, turning back with a look of affection. "And do get some sleep tonight," she urged.

Theodore offered her another empty promise. Once again, his night was spent wide awake. Memories, dark and tumultuous, haunted him like specters of the past, refusing to be laid to rest. He heard his father's censure once more, the angry, drunken tirades that shattered more than just the liquor cabinet. He heard the familiar cries, felt the pain that time had dulled but never fully erased.

But amidst the darkness, a resolve took shape—a silent promise to himself and to those he held dear. He vowed to make the future palatable at the very least. Whatever it took, he promised silently.

If Agnes had thought she'd been receiving an inordinate amount of attention as of late, then the intensity of tonight's scrutiny was nothing short of overwhelming.

The grandeur of another ball, shimmering under the soft glow of chandeliers, marked their third public appearance together. Agnes felt the intensity of stares and whispers that followed their every move. Her nerves were tangled knots, and her breath was short.

As she moved to the dance floor with Theodore, a remarkable transformation occurred. Within the circle of his arms, the clamor of the room faded into insignificance, the whispers lost their edge, and the stares became inconsequential.

Their gazes held, and Agnes could feel the color rush to her cheeks. Lowering her eyes, she smiled. Theodore tilted his head, looking more charming than ever. "It seems, Agnes, that you've finally decided to grace me with your genuine smile," he teased, his green eyes sparkling.

The warmth in her cheeks increased, but she held his gaze again. "And you, Theodore, appear less disagreeable in the dim light of the ballroom."

He laughed. "You wound me."

"Oh, but it is a compliment."

He shook his head slightly, taking a step back to twirl her. When she was back in his arms, he said, "I expected better words. Something romantic."

The mention of romance caused a flutter within her, and for a fleeting moment, she imagined true affection with Theodore. Quickly dismissing the notion, she smiled again. "I am not the romantic sort."

"I recall hearing you tell your friends that love has forsaken you. How could you have felt that if you weren't romantic?"

Her eyes widened. "It is impolite to eavesdrop!" It was the best response she could muster.

"Ah, but I had to, you see. A certain beauty had caught my attention, and I was keen to listen to every word she uttered."

His charm almost made Agnes believe his words…almost. She was not foolish, however. This was still very much a part of their game, and they were giving the ton a believable scene.

"A beauty, you say? Pray, what was it about her that captivated you so?"

"Captivates me," he corrected gently, his eyes flaring with an intensity that both warmed and alarmed her. "Come for a picnic with me tomorrow, and I shall tell you." He leaned slightly closer. "Chaperoned, of course."

Agnes had to inwardly commend his efforts at propriety despite his reputation. "Very well," she agreed. His response was a grin that would have made her swoon last season—when she was a clueless debutante.

The magic of the moment, however, was fleeting, and the end of their dance marked a return to the ball's bustling reality. It was with a palpable sense of disappointment that Agnes watched their connection dissolve into the air. "Forgive me, but I must leave you for a moment," Theodore said when a gentleman sought his attention.

He placed a soft kiss on her knuckles and left. She looked about the room for Frances and Emma, and a moment later, a gentleman approached her.

"You're looking well, Miss Young," said the gentleman. "I am Lord Fairfax," he introduced himself. "May I have a dance?"

"Of course," Agnes agreed with a slight smile. Being seen with Theodore was giving more gentlemen the confidence to toss the rumors about her out and approach her.

Why do I not feel any excitement, though?

Fairfax's demeanor was polished, yet, as he led her onto the dance floor, Agnes couldn't shake off the discomfort that crawled beneath her skin. There was something in his gaze, a certain intensity, that set her on edge.

"You're quiet," he observed, his statement more an assertion than a query, as if her silence was a puzzle to be solved.

"People usually are with strangers they're getting acquainted with, My Lord," she responded.

"Well, we will have to work on breaking your boundaries then," he smiled, the corners of his lips curling into what he no doubt intended to be a charming gesture. However, to Agnes, it appeared nothing short of predatory, and she managed a response that felt more akin to a grimace than a smile.

"So tell me, Miss Young, what is it you enticed Gillingham with? Think I could get a bit of it, too?" He leered, his intention blatantly clear and utterly distasteful. The audacity of the question, coupled with the lecherous look that accompanied it, sent a wave of rage coursing through her veins.

"I beg your pardon?" Agnes found herself stumbling, both in her steps and her words, her shock and anger tangling into a tight knot in her stomach. His insinuation was not only offensive but also deeply humiliating.

"Oh, do not feign innocence with me. It is common knowledge that you must have done something to get the Marquess interested in you. After all, those rumors about you have some truth in them. And a man of Gillingham's stature would never settle for…your kind," he said.

The insinuation that she was unworthy of Theodore's attention unless through some underhanded means, was both bitter and appalling. Something fierce and indignant rose within Agnes, urging her to retaliate, to reclaim her dignity from his cruel jibes. She willed herself to reign in her ire, choosing her words with care.

"My kind, as you say, are in possession of something his lordship lacks. Perhaps that is the key to my enticement of Gillingham," she said, her voice steady, playing along with his vile game. It seemed to catch him off guard, his interest piqued as he leaned in, expecting to be let in on some secret.

"Pray tell, what is it you offer, Agnes?" he asked, his impertinent use of her Christian name without leave yet another trespass upon her propriety. It caused a shudder to ripple across her skin.

"Simply some dignity and honor. Because clearly, you seem in need of those, Lord Fairfax," she retorted, her anger no longer hidden, her voice sharp as a whip. His face contorted with outrage at her audacity, but before he could utter a word, she deliberately stumbled, landing squarely on his foot with all her might.