Extraordinary Tales of Regency Love: A Clean & Sweet Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Fanny Finch

  All morning it had been playing on her mind. Through breakfast and through the lesson, he refused to even mention it, so that his sister could not hear. Agnes had been wondering the entire time, and with each passing minute, her stress grew.

  Georgia had been put down for her nap, they had begun to make their way to the office, and still, the whole time not a word had been uttered regarding the matter he wished to discuss. She felt like she had a mental dam that was about to burst if someone did not release the pressure just a little bit.

  The duke did not sit down. He stood by his desk and looked a little sheepish suddenly, as though he were now reluctant to say anything at all. He looked down at his papers, and Agnes could see he was blushing a bit. Whatever this was, it seemed to be a matter of pride or anger, if not both. She stood, back straight, and waited for him to speak.

  "Agnes, I must apologize. I have been far too rude to you," he finally said, looking even more uncomfortable. "I know that I am above you, but that does not justify acting in an ungentlemanly manner."

  It was like a wave of release, like a door had been opened in her mental dam and the excess of water flowed out, releasing the pressure quickly and smoothly. It was not something she had done wrong. It was an apology. He was ashamed of apologizing to her.

  "Please," he insisted, making eye contact with her so she could see the earnestness with which he spoke these words. "Please, Agnes, forgive me for mistreating you. I cannot bear the thought that I might have hurt you without need and that you simply tolerated it because of my status."

  "You needn't apologize, Your Grace," she said, blushing a little. "You are doing what you feel is best for your family. It is natural."

  He pursed his lips. "Please, accept my apology."

  Agnes nodded. "If it means so much to you, sir, then I accept your apology wholeheartedly."

  He smiled in relief. "Thank goodness. I would hate to hurt you. I suppose I was in my own pain, and I wanted to be a good father to Georgia, to... to replace our father, in a sense. To give her what she deserved, what she needed to thrive. I took it personally."

  "I understand completely," Agnes replied. "We, of all people, know full well how hard it is to be orphaned at our age."

  "You said that you also lost a father," he said softly, pulling a couple of wooden chairs from the side of the room and offering one to her before sitting down beside her. "Would you like to tell me about him?"

  At first, Agnes hesitated. She had never considered telling anyone about her father. He had never known anyone very well, besides his business associates. He had never had much to do with people back home, or even his own family except when they were asking him for money. Even Agnes saw him rarely and for short spells. She had simply taken for granted that he was a man without a presence.

  "I would," she said with a smile, sitting down on the offered chair beside him. "Just a little. For starters, you and I were not so different, sir. Before he passed away, my father was the Earl of Kent. He was a good man, a kind man. Perhaps a little too strict, a little too direct in how he spoke and acted, but he loved his friends and family greatly, and would do anything to make them happy. My mother died when I was an infant, and he was all I had for so long."

  "The Earl of Kent? I am sorry but I have a hard time believing that," he said, dismayed. "How could the daughter of an earl end up like so?"

  Agnes sighed. "Misfortune and hatred. My family rejected me as soon as he died. He was a good, loving man who gave them all they asked for. He was a little strict, but he meant well. And yet that was not good enough. As soon as he was not there to protect me, they decided that I should no longer be one with the family. They despised my mother, and I was tarred with the same brush."

  "I am so sorry," the duke said. "I do recall my mother saying something about the Earl of Kent's family and his wife."

  Agnes felt her heart jump a little. "Do you recall what it is, precisely, that she said, sir?"

  "There was some scandal or another, and she was all but purged from your family's lips... on both sides," he said.

  Agnes felt her breath catch a little. "And what was the scandal?"

  "I am not sure. I was very young. And these things have a habit of fading into the background when a new scandal arises," he said. "I am sorry I cannot be of more help."

  Agnes felt a little deflated and, realizing she had moved to the edge of her chair, sat against the backrest again.

  The duke noticed her disappointment and reached out, placing his hand on hers. For a second she felt the heat rising to her face and contemplated pulling her hand away. But no, she could not insult his kindness like that. She looked up into his eyes.

  "I am sorry I cannot do more for you. It seems to mean a lot," he said.

  Agnes sighed. "I simply- I simply wish I could know what it was that she did, why I too must be burdened with her crimes. I do not need to know her in person, even if I could. I do not need to know any further details about her personality or her life. None of that could possibly change my present circumstances. I only want to know what exactly she did that was so terrible she cannot be forgiven after her death, and I cannot be forgiven for something I did not do."

  The duke was silent for a moment. She felt him squeeze her hand a little. He could sense her distress. "There are many of the thought that what traits a parent possesses, a child possesses also," he said. "Especially the worst traits and the best traits. If someone is perfectly average, nobody makes assumptions about their child. But if someone is immensely charitable, their children are burdened with the expectation that they shall be also. And if someone is immensely cruel, their children are considered cruel too, even if no act of cruelty has been performed by the children."

  "That is not right," Agnes said. "How can someone judge a child for having a parent who is charitable, or who is cruel? Perhaps if it were a personality, such as being a happy person, or being melancholic, it would make sense. But being charitable or cruel are not personality traits, they are choices."

  The duke shrugged. "There are those that would argue that the choices we make are reflections of our personalities. I do not see a big difference between claiming melancholy is inherited and claiming charity is inherited."

  Agnes paused and looked out the window. "I wonder if she was much like me," she mused. "I wonder if she and I would have got along before-"

  "Why to wonder?" he asked, interrupting her. "Do not wonder about such things. It cannot happen, all you can do is torment yourself with concerns about events which shall never take place."

  "I must wonder," she replied. "You do not understand, you knew your mother and your father. You can see what made you who you are."

  "What if they did not, though?" he asked softly. "Not in the sense you mean. My parents might have made me who I am in how they raised me, but that is all. I am my own person, not a simple copy of them."

  "Then what would my life have been like had my mother raised me? Would I have been an entirely different person?" she asked.

  "You already know the answer to that," he replied. "That is why you are putting so much effort into ensuring my sister has adequate female company as she grows older."

  "Do you really believe it makes a difference?" Agnes asked.

  "Of course it does," the duke replied. "And you do as well."

  A solitary tear began to roll down her cheek, and, unable to stand up and leave, she looked away, trying to stifle this shameful outburst. She could not be rude by walking out of the room to wipe away a single drop of salty sadness. But she could not be rude by weeping in front of the duke either, be it a single tear or a thousand.

  His hand was still firmly holding hers. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps they were getting a little too personal to be worrying so much about the shame of crying in front of him. He had already gone too far. She felt his thumb gently running over and over the back of her hand, and she heard him utter a single shush. He knew about the tear, even if he did not see it. He sen
sed it. And he wanted her to know everything would be alright.

  Agnes was not sure what to make of this warm, firm grasp she felt around her hand. It was not romantic, not as far as she could tell. It was a simple act of reassurance, like when he held and rocked his little sister. And yet his touch almost burned, and she could feel her tears drying up, replaced by a sensation of warmth that spread across her face. His hand felt nice. It was warm and gentle and entirely enveloped her own hand so very beautifully, like they were made to fit perfectly together.

  He squeezed her hand gently as the urge to cry left, the tears dried, and her heavy breathing turned to choking sobs and her face flushed with shame at what she had done and something else that she would not even begin to acknowledge.

  She turned her head back to face him, and immediately his other hand raised, a single finger removing the single tear from her cheek with a slow, tender caress.

  "Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

  Agnes turned her hand over in his, so their fingers locked together. "Much, thank you."

  He smiled. "Good. I am sorry I have made you cry. I seem to be only good at upsetting you. I hope you do not take it as that I hate you. I am simply too foolish for my own good."

  "Not at all. It felt nice to talk about my father. I have not been able to even mention him for a long time," she said, smiling back.

  She felt him squeeze her hand again and their eyes locked. He had such beautiful bright blue eyes, so wide and shimmering, so full of love and hope and happiness. And she could feel all that flowing into her own eyes, right into her mind, burying itself in her. He was like a soothing balm that brought her peace and joy, that allowed her to be happy.

  His lips met the skin of the back of her hand. "Besides, it does not matter if you inherit your personality or if you develop it. Because, for what it is worth, I think you are more like your father anyway."

  Agnes barely heard the words. All she noticed was the warm, soft contact of his lips on her skin.

  She could almost have fainted.

  Chapter 11

  Once she had left the office and calmed down from the intensity of the situation, Agnes gave herself some time to process what had happened, what she had seen and experienced. Her initial, visceral reaction to discovering he knew her father was confusion and anger. It hurt to know that this man had known her father. It hurt to know that she had not known about this. It was more than she was prepared for.

  But then it faded into something else. However much she wanted a thousand answers that she would never get, she was also so glad to meet someone who, however briefly and however impersonally, had known her father. There was a comfort in it, in talking about how her father used to visit his parents, and how close they used to be. Although neither child had met, as the duke described the earl's visits, Agnes felt as though she were hearing the other side to her childhood, like turning a coin over and finally discovering there was a different image on the opposite side.

  It seemed that her father's visits to this mansion had been much more frequent than those he paid anywhere else, and he even had a favorite room to stay in, which happened to be the one Agnes had been given.

  Of course, the earl had never mentioned the Duke of Portsmouth to Agnes. But he had never mentioned much to her. It was not her job to socialize. She had been forced, her entire childhood, to imagine his travels, his business, his meetings with friends and relatives and associates. She had pieced together aspects of his work and trips from little odd words here and there, from overheard conversations, from clues.

  It was not as though she had not asked him about all of this. But he had always insisted she was too young to worry herself with his financial and personal affairs. All she needed to do was focus on studying and becoming a pleasant, educated, graceful lady.

  "I suppose it must be strange, hearing so many new things about a man you knew so well," the duke said, after explaining another one of her father's visits in as much detail as he could manage.

  "I am simply glad to have met someone who knew him," she said softly. "Everyone else only seemed to care about what happened to his lands and his title."

  "Speaking of which," the duke began before hesitating and glancing at her, as though gauging the situation. "Speaking of which, whatever happened to the title? Did it go to another of his children? Did he have any other children?"

  Agnes shook her head. "No, only myself. My family began to fight over the title. Said a lady could not inherit an earldom. Never mind that ladies have done such things in the past. They simply did not want my mother's child to have so much power over them."

  "Who got it?" he asked.

  "I do not know who holds the title now," she said. "I believe they are still fighting over it."

  The duke stared at her. "No, there is most definitely an Earl of Kent again. I have not met him, but he exists. I wanted to know who it was. Had you not heard about it?"

  Agnes sighed. "No, and, without being rude, You Grace, I do not care. My family will not speak to me, and I do not care if they never do. That is theirs to decide."

  The duke seemed even more surprised. "You do not care about your family's affairs? You do not mind if they exclude you?"

  It was strange for her not to know something about high society that directly concerned her family. She felt so suddenly disconnected from everything. She had spent so long in the mansion, only leaving to spend time in the gardens or to go to church. Nobody except her four friends wrote to her. Nobody had paid her a visit. The world could vanish beyond the parish borders and she would not find out for months.

  She was not sure if she liked that, disliked it, or even had an opinion on it. It was strange, but it was so hard to care.

  "No, I do not mind," she finally said, smiling to show the duke she meant it in earnest.

  "I suppose it is not your place anymore to discuss such things," the duke said with a faint shrug, the expression of surprise fading. "I suppose it's normal for you to not know anymore, and to not want to know anymore."

  "I would not know if it is normal, either," she said. "I am completely separate from that world now. It is completely beyond my ability to enter it ever again."

  The duke was silent again. Agnes could hear Georgia breathing gently in her cot bed at the other side of the room.

  "Do you miss being a part of high society?" he finally asked, his whisper sounding almost booming against the silence.

  "Of course I miss it," she said. "But one must accept one's fate with dignity, with some sort of pride."

  "Must one?" he asked.

  For a moment she paused, attempting to discern if he intended to mock her, or simply to ask a question. She could not work it out. "Of course," she replied. "You have already said so yourself, sir. You cannot change what has already happened."

  "That does not mean you have to be dignified about it. It does not mean you cannot be angry about it," he replied.

  "What good would being angry do?" Agnes asked. "No matter how angry I get, I cannot change reality itself to make my life easier, or more just. I must accept it and look for joy wherever I can find it."

  "I am amazed that you can do so," he said softly. "I would certainly not tolerate such a radical demotion, such horrible treatment from family... It sounds positively awful. I would be furious."

  He stood up and walked a bit towards Georgia's cot, peering in at her. Agnes too stood and, not sure what to do with herself, followed him. For a moment they both looked into the cot where the girl rested. She did not have to worry about such things. She had a brother who loved her, and she would no doubt have friends who loved her too, in time. Agnes would make sure of that.

  She stepped a little closer to the duke, getting ready to wake up Georgia.

  The duke embraced Agnes. It was so sudden, so warm and loving, that for a moment she forgot he was not a relative or a family friend, and wrapped her arms around him also. "You are so very, very strong," he whispered to her, holding her tightly.
"You are so much stronger than you seem to realize, and I am in awe of your perseverance. Since you told me of your father, not a minute has passed where I have not been thinking about how terrible your situation was, and how well you have handled it."

  As he finished speaking, it was as though a spell had broken. She realized the meaning of his warm arms around her, the thumping heartbeat she could hear, her face pressed against his chest. Agnes hurriedly removed her arms from around him and swiftly stepped away.

  As they parted, Agnes looked aside, trying to act as though it had never happened at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see he was frozen, dumbstruck, as though he could not quite make sense of what had just happened.

  "I am so sorry, I did not mean to-"