The Earl and the Reluctant Lady (Lords of Vice)

by DeHart, Robyn

  Chris scoffed. “And you wonder why I won’t allow you to court my sister.”

  Fletcher slowly nodded. “Agnes is forbidden territory. I hear you.” There would be no convincing him otherwise.

  That didn’t mean he’d forget about her. No, Fletcher suspected that little minx would haunt his dreams for years to come.

  Chapter Three

  Three years later

  Agnes strolled through the ballroom searching for a specific gentleman, despite the fact that she already walked next to one. Her companion, for the moment, was an acquaintance through her family. Lord and Lady Barrow were friends of her father’s, and their son, Michael, often sought her out for a dance or chat at parties. He was a pleasant sort, though a little shy, but kind and so exceedingly handsome he was nearly pretty.

  “I did enjoy them, but I admit I found some of the exhibits to be ostentatious,” he said, commenting on her question about the Crystal Palace. “Do you not agree?”

  No, she didn’t. Admittedly she’d only asked to give them something to talk about, since he’d seemed insistent in escorting her around the ballroom. She wasn’t paying him much attention as she scanned the room.

  “Miss Watkins?” Michael asked softly.

  But before she could even respond, her friend, Sullivan Chase, the Viscount Glenbrook, appeared at her side. “There you are,” he said.

  She eyed him, momentarily confused, then she slowly nodded. “Yes, here I am.”

  “I’m slightly premature for our first dance,” he said, then nodded at Michael.

  “Glenbrook,” Michael said.

  “I didn’t want to lose you in the crowd,” Sullivan continued.

  “Of course,” Agnes said. She smiled, glancing between the two men. No matter how much better she’d gotten with speaking to men, she still wasn’t the kind of woman who could effortlessly diffuse an awkward situation like this one. She tried to think of something to say, something for the three of them to discuss, but nothing came to mind.

  Michael eyed Sullivan cautiously, then bowed and made his excuses before he skittered off to another part of the ballroom.

  “We don’t have a dance,” she said once Michael had left them.

  Sullivan shrugged. “You looked as if you could have used a rescue.”

  “From Michael?”

  “He’s odd.”

  “Shy, Sullivan, there is a difference. Not everyone is as friendly as you are.”

  He looped her arm around his elbow. “Shall we continue your parade around the ballroom?”

  She nodded.

  “Who have you been looking for?” he asked, his deep voice lined with an edge of humor. “You’ve been searching the room since you arrived.”

  “No one of consequence.” There was no need to discuss this matter with Sullivan. They were friends, close friends, but still she didn’t tell him everything. Especially not Ladies of Virtue business, which is precisely what this was tonight.

  She and her two closest friends, Harriet and Iris, had formed a pact with a few other members of their group to take the skills they’d acquired as members of the Ladies of Virtue into the ballrooms of London. Normally, they stuck to the streets, with a few exceptions, finding petty thieves and whatnots and stopping them in their tracks. Granted, that was before the article exposing their group had been printed in London’s most popular broadsheet. Though it listed none of them by name, it had bothered Lady Somersby enough that she’d put their crime-fighting activities on hiatus.

  That hadn’t stopped Agnes from catching two young boys pilfering watches and baubles from the pockets of people wandering through the exhibits at the Crystal Palace yesterday afternoon. Thankfully she’d been able to snag them without causing too much attention. She’d hate to get into trouble with Lady Somersby.

  But as much good as she and her group normally did, Harriet had recently brought to their attention the debauchery that was right in front of their eyes. Directly within Society’s finest families. So, they’d each selected a gentleman who embodied one of the seven deadly sins. Her choice had been simple: Fletcher Banks, the Earl of Wakefield.

  Tall, impossibly broad, and handsome as the devil, Fletcher was the very picture of lust. Not so much inspiring it in her—she was immune to such foolery—but he made it his business to seduce nearly every widow in London. He was quite brazen about it and his seduction skills were becoming something of legend. London’s very own Don Juan. Agnes rolled her eyes. What a ridiculous notion.

  Tonight, though, would prove the perfect opportunity to speak to her target and begin his reform. Every year, at this precise ball, Fletcher Banks, the Earl of Wakefield would ask her to dance. It was the anniversary of the night they met and the only time he ever danced with her. She hadn’t yet seen him this evening, but she knew he’d be there.

  That night when they met, when he stole her one and only kiss, she’d foolishly thought it had been the beginning for them—that he might be different. She’d momentarily considered giving up her self-proclaimed single status. As it turned out, though, he’d never pursued her. She was nothing but another skirt in a long line of ladies who the notorious Earl of Wakefield had feigned interest in. She’d be a liar if she said she wasn’t looking forward to the dance. Three Seasons later and it was always this one waltz that she looked forward to the most. She hated to even admit that to herself.

  “For someone who is looking for no one in particular, you are most assuredly searching quite thoroughly,” Sullivan said from beside her.

  “Don’t you have some pretty lady to flirt with?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “Agnes, you know you are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “You make me want to swear when you say ridiculous things like that.”

  He chuckled again. “Noted. Dance with me and you can search the room from a better location.”

  “Insufferable.”

  “One of my finer qualities, I think.”

  She allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor and wondered for the millionth time why Sullivan didn’t inspire anything in her more than friendship. Perhaps even brotherhood. He was handsome, dashing even with his tall athletic frame and smoldering brown eyes. But that wicked gleam he shot her did nothing more than amuse her.

  Normally, she wouldn’t spend a moment even thinking about Lord Wakefield and his scandalous behavior. But she’d made a pact with her friends, and already two of them had followed through on their ends. Iris had confronted Lord Ashby about his pride and Harriet was having a devil of a time convincing Lord Davenport that his overspending was a sin worth considering. Tonight, she would broach the subject with Fletcher. Admittedly, his sin of choice was notably more sensitive than the others. It wasn’t precisely proper for her, as a lady, to discuss such matters at all, let alone with a gentleman. Still, it was time his lustful ways were reformed.

  It was more than that, though. As much as she loathed to admit it, she looked forward to this dance the entire Season because it meant being in his arms. They would never be anything more than friends, or acquaintances, really. He worked with her brother and she’d always gotten the impression that they weren’t friends. In fact, she was certain that her brother loathed Fletcher.

  Fletcher’s grandfather, the Duke of Harcourt, was still living, as was his father, the Marquess of Longley, which gave Fletcher the honorary title of the Earl of Wakefield. But his title came with no responsibility whatsoever, which was a disaster in the making, as it gave him nothing but time on his hands. Time and privilege combined could bring about the destruction of a gentleman.

  Idle hands were the devil’s handiwork. It was something her grandmother had always said to her and it had stuck with Agnes since childhood. She, herself, rarely sat still, which, being a proper lady, was a challenge. She was expected to embroider and play the pianoforte. She wasn’t accomplished at either of those tasks, preferring that if she had to sit still, she’d rather do so with a book in her hand. Or with her weaponr
y designs.

  “You’re never the chattiest of females. I suspect that is why I enjoy your company,” Sullivan said. “But you are unusually quiet tonight.” They left the dance floor. “Care to discuss?”

  “Nothing to discuss,” Agnes said. “My thoughts are merely elsewhere.”

  “You wound me, Agnes.”

  “That is highly doubtful.”

  “Miss Watkins,” that rich voice came from behind her. Chills scattered up her spine and she closed her eyes briefly as his deep baritone washed over her. Fletcher.

  She spun to face him, and her breath caught. “You startled me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people in such a way.” His lovely hazel eyes framed by arched brows and that square jawline…being that handsome served no purpose.

  Then he turned his gaze to Sullivan and nodded.

  “Right then, I shall see you later, Agnes.” Sullivan kissed her hand, then walked away.

  One side of Fletcher’s mouth quirked upward. “Are you certain that’s all it was?” His deep playful voice would distract her from the task at hand were she not careful.

  If not his voice, certainly his beautiful face. Vigilance, she reminded herself. His cocky grin and hazel eyes spoke of nothing but absolute wickedness, and she had neither the desire nor the inclination for that. “Of course, what else would it be?”

  “My devilish charm? My exceedingly handsome face?” He winked at her. Winked. At. Her.

  She rolled her eyes. “You are a scoundrel.”

  That won her his full smile, which nearly knocked all of the air from her lungs. Whereas some ladies experienced what they equated to butterflies flickering through their bellies at the sight of a handsome man, Agnes was certain hers was more a herd of elephants. But only Fletcher could rouse the sleeping beasts and set them loose. Did he have to be that bloody handsome?

  Though she supposed this was why he had the reputation he did. One did not become known as the greatest lover in London without exuding charm.

  “Bluebell,” he said warmly. “I see you’ve missed me.”

  “Must you insist on calling me that ridiculous name?”

  “Yes, I must. It makes no sense that you hate it so. It is all rather romantic, my equating your eyes with the precise shade of a lovely flower.”

  She rolled said eyes heavenward. “There is no need for romance between the two of us.”

  His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “More’s the pity.” He clicked his tongue. “It is that time.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Time for what?”

  He brought a hand to his chest. “Do not tell me you have forgotten we always dance at the Winthrop ball?”

  “Oh, I suppose we do, don’t we? I hadn’t even considered it.”

  …

  The musicians began the waltz and Fletcher held his hand out to her. She took his hand and he immediately swept her into his arms where he held her far too close. But he allowed himself only this one night a year to touch her, so propriety be damned.

  “It is scandalous that you refuse to wear gloves, my lord,” she said, her voice taking on a breathless quality.

  He wore no gloves, because he found them irritating. Frankly, he felt the same about his cravat and his boots, but going without those in public would be far too scandalizing for the gentle sentiments of London’s elite.

  “If I wore gloves, then I wouldn’t be able to feel the warmth of your body when I hold you this close,” he said, leaning next to her ear.

  She sucked in a breath. “You are a cad.”

  “I know I’m not the first to say, but you look stunning tonight, Agnes.”

  She bristled some, her body stiffening and her cheeks turning red. “Thank you.”

  He knew that she hated that compliment or any that sounded similar. Still, he couldn’t not comment on it. She was lovely. Exceedingly so. Distractingly so. And he liked to compliment her because he found it so unusual that she hated it. What woman didn’t appreciate being told she was pretty? It made no sense.

  “Are you not going to return the compliment and tell me how dashing I look?” he teased, trying to lighten her mood.

  Her startling blue eyes scanned his face, lingering on his eyes, then his mouth. Desire flitted through his body, but he’d long been in control of such reactions, so he easily swallowed the groan her bold perusal ignited.

  “Come now, Bluebell, you’re taking far too long to answer that question. Either you disagree with me and don’t find me dashing at all, or you’re mentally cataloging all of my finer features. Which is it?”

  She stared into his eyes, arching a brow.

  He chuckled. “The latter, I see.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “I catalog your finer features all the time. While I lie in bed.”

  Her cheeks flamed and desire heated her gaze. “Fletcher, it isn’t proper to say such things.”

  “I never once claimed to be proper.” Nor had he said what usually happened when he lay in bed thinking of her. How his body grew hot and his cock heavy and hard. How he had to touch himself while imaging her sweet innocent mouth wrapped around him, taking him all the way to the back of her throat. Damnation. He needed to rein in his thoughts.

  “Are you still determined to not marry?” he asked.

  “This again? Why do you always ask me that?”

  “Should there come a day when you decide to marry, I should like to be the first to know. So are you still dead set against it?”

  She glanced at him, her eyes widening slightly. “I am. It is not different from you being a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Aside from the fact that I can earn my own money and buy my own property?”

  “I have my own funds. I do not need a man to take care of me.”

  “Perhaps, but I am not so stubborn as to refuse to acknowledge that I would marry if the right woman came along.” He paused a moment and looked her directly in the eyes. “I would marry you, Bluebell. You need only say the word.”

  She snorted. “London’s most notorious lover settling down for marriage, no one would believe that.”

  He turned her on the dance floor to hide his disappointment at her mockery. “Tell me what you have been doing so far this Season.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her brow furrowed with a frown. “I actually wanted to speak with you about something first.”

  “Indeed. Were you intending to seek me out this evening had I not come to collect my dance?”

  “If I had to, yes.”

  He felt his grin spread. “I do enjoy the thought of you seeking me out.”

  “Can you be serious? If not for the entirety of the night, at least grant me your full attention for this dance.”

  “You, Agnes, always have my full attention. And when the situation calls for seriousness I can acquiesce, though in my experience, it rarely does.”

  “This does,” she said.

  “It is of that much importance?”

  She nodded once.

  He searched her face looking for some clue as to what troubled her so. Her pale-blue eyes framed with those dark lashes stared back at him. God, she was beautiful. “Are you well? In some sort of trouble?”

  She swallowed visibly, then shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

  He nodded. “Very well then, let us have it.”

  “First, I must apologize for the unladylike nature of this discussion.” She inhaled slowly. “There are things that must be said.”

  “Unladylike?” His hand tightened on her waist and he fought the urge to pull her body closer, pressing those lush curves to him. “Oh, Bluebell, you have definitely intrigued me. What could possibly drive you to unladylike behavior?”

  “No, not behavior. Merely a conversation.”

  He clicked his tongue. “That is a pity. I was hoping for a confession.”

  “No, this is about your behavior.” She took a deep breath. Her shoulders rose and the creamy globes of her breasts nearly pressed against him as he turned her o
n the dance floor.

  His gaze dropped to her cleavage and he indulged himself by staring, imagining peeling her dress down and mapping every curve with his tongue. Christ, he shouldn’t be this close to her.

  “You are far too lustful,” she whispered.

  His gaze rose to her face and though he expected humor, he found nothing but earnestness. She was serious. He tipped back his head and laughed heartily.

  She smacked his arm where she held on to him. “Stop that. People are staring.”

  “People always stare at you, Agnes. You are far too stunning to look away from. I know that once my eyes find you across the room I am done for, for the entirety of the evening.” For the entirety of his life, if he were being honest. No matter how many women he’d bedded, it had always been Agnes.

  “I was being quite serious.”

  “Yes, I can see from your scowl that you are. But what could you possibly know about my lustful ways?”

  Her gaze dropped briefly to his lips and he realized with alarming clarity that Agnes wanted to kiss him. Tempting information that was not particularly helpful while she was in his arms and they were discussing lust.

  “I know you have a despicable reputation as a layabout and lothario.”

  He shrugged. “I am a man of leisure.”

  “You should not say that with such pride. Being a man of leisure is nothing to brag about. Truly you must mend your ways.” She paused for a moment, then lowered her voice even more. “Do you know that you are known as the Don Juan of London? That people speak of your legendary prowess with women and your seductive skills?”

  Damnation, how he wished he knew what she’d heard and what she’d felt at the time. Did her pale flesh blush with desire? Would he find her slippery with want? “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to clarify something for me, because while your tone indicates that my behavior is reprehensible, the words you’re saying fill me with pride, not remorse.”

  She shook her head. “I knew you were going to make this difficult.”

  “You obviously came prepared tonight to educate me on why my behavior is so terrible, so please proceed,” he said.