by Jo Barrett
Lady Crittenden, a woman whom he greatly admired, had a tendency to treat him like an extra son since he'd stayed at Haverton House in his youth many Christmases past. And on most occasions he appreciated her attentions, and had formed an affection for her. She was kind and considerate, and she loved her son. He wished often that his own mother had been like her, but in this instance, he wanted her out of his plans and out of his business, whatever it entailed.
"I've not yet decided, my lady,” he said, taking up his glass and finishing his brandy in one large gulp.
"Closed mouthed, the both of you,” she said with a huff. “At least give me the lady's name, Magnus. I may know her and can help you make your decision."
He glanced at Crittenden who sat grinning like a thief, praying he'd keep his mouth shut, but diversion was a favorite tactic of his friend's.
"Her name,” Crittenden said, ignoring Magnus subtle shake of his head, “is Miss Agatha Trumwell."
Lady Crittenden's brows rose. “Really? How interesting."
"As I said, I have made no decisions in any way about marriage or my immediate future,” he hurried to say.
"She's an unusual choice, not as young as I would think you'd prefer, but interesting. Yes.” She tapped her chin with the tip of her fan as she strolled toward the door. “Very interesting,” she murmured, and slipped out of the room.
"You bloody fiend,” Magnus grumbled.
Crittenden stood and slapped him on the back with a hearty chortle. “Better you than me, old boy. Better you than me."
With a roll of his eyes, Magnus made his escape from the ball before Lady Crittenden could make any arrangements on his behalf.
Yet later, sitting in the comfortable darkness of his carriage as it made for his townhouse, he couldn't stop seeing full, pouty, kissable lips and a pair of large brown eyes, filled with compassion and conviction, blinking up at him.
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Chapter Two
"Beg pardon, miss,” the maid said. “But you're father wishes to speak with you in the library."
Agatha lifted her head from her notes spread across her worktable with a sigh. Still no progress. Something was off in her calculations. Perhaps she should write to her friend in America for his opinion.
Naturally, the man had no inkling she was a woman, but he'd been ever helpful in supplying her with nitrophosphate, a difficult substance to acquire, as well as interesting facts from his own experiments in its use. He'd become an invaluable asset. It was a pity she had to fabricate a lie to converse.
"Tell him, I'll be along in a moment. I need to clean up a bit."
Her father, although quite supportive in her experiments with fertilizer, didn't care for her to bring the various odors through the house. There was no avoiding it, manure was a prime ingredient.
Still pondering her latest failure, she removed her smock and washed up as best she could at the basin in the corner of the greenhouse. It wasn't a large structure, but it provided ample room in which to work. Many of her specimens, however, were outside. What good was experimenting in a perfect environment when her ultimate goal was to increase crop production, not cultivate flowers? Although she enjoyed flower gardening, it was not her primary focus. If anything, it provided a respite from her work, when she felt the need to step back.
"Perhaps that is what I need to do today? The rose garden could do with some attention,” she said to herself, as she made her way to her father's study.
But she knew it would only be a temporary distraction. The real problem was her lack of focus, for she couldn't stop thinking about Lord Crittenden's ball.
"You wanted to see me, Papa?"
"Yes, my dear. Close the door and sit down."
She noted the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. They seemed more prevalent today for some reason. “Is something wrong?"
"No,” he said, but rubbed his jaw, as was his way when he was concerned about something. He gazed at her solemnly for nearly a full minute. That she was used to. He worried over her future as did she, but they never spoke of it.
"Papa, you may as well say whatever it is that's on your mind. No matter what it is, I shall weather it, I assure you,” she said with a small smile.
He chuckled, and said, “You are so like your mother.” He leaned forward and lifted a letter from his desk. “I have had an offer for your hand."
Her breath caught in her throat as he peered at her over his spectacles.
"I beg your pardon,” she managed to squeak out.
"A gentleman wishes to marry you, my dear,” he said, waiving the missive in the air then laid it down. Her eyes followed its movement as if it were a living thing. “What are your feelings on this matter?"
She blinked a moment or two then lifted her gaze to his. Her mouth opened, her lips formed words, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and attempted again. “Who has asked for—who could possibly want—"
"I see, so you've no knowledge of this. Interesting. But not to labor the point, the gentleman in question is Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby.” He stroked his jaw as she stared with her mouth hanging open. “I wasn't aware you knew the man."
She shook her head. “N-n-no. We've never—that is to say we've never been formally introduced."
He sat back with a frown. “Then I find it rather odd that he would ask for your hand, with or without your knowledge.” He lifted the letter again. “And with strict instructions that the marriage take place post-haste at his estate."
Her eyes widened at that. “Papa, nothing inappropriate has occurred between Lord Leighton and myself. Between myself or any man, for that matter."
"I see. And his unusual proposal?"
That night replayed itself in her mind. “Oh dear. Something did happen the other evening at Lord Crittenden's ball, between myself and some of the other ladies. A rather heated—discussion."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh, dislodging his spectacles. “And I take it this discussion involved Lord Leighton."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Papa, I would not be surprised if these, um, ladies took it upon themselves to play a rather nasty prank."
The pain of that fact hurt more deeply than she'd ever imagined. It was the only logical conclusion. They were trying to foster some horrid joke on The Monster and The Dog. Lord Leighton wouldn't wish to marry her of all people.
Her father re-adjusted his glasses and studied the letter before him. “A prank, you say? That must have been one devil of a discussion.” Lifting his gaze to her, he said, “But I'm afraid this isn't a prank, Agatha."
Her heart bounced around inside her chest. “No?” she croaked.
"I received an unexpected note from Lady Crittenden a few days ago,” he said with an awkward chuckle and shake of his head. “She suggested Lord Leighton was likely to make such an overture, and to consider him without any past prejudices. Of course, I replied that I considered him an admirable fellow. But until now,” he said, waving the letter, “I'd not seriously considered it as plausible. I thought Lady Crittenden had her gossip mixed up, or some such thing."
He sat back in his chair. “But if you don't wish to marry the man, Agatha, you simply need say nay. I will not force you. Yet you should think on it, my dear. You've not had any serious offers for some time. I doubt you shall ever receive one from so esteemed a gentleman again."
She knew he really meant she would never receive another offer ever again, but was too kind to say so. And as to serious offers, she'd never received one in her life. There had been the occasional interest of some older gentleman looking for a young stout lady to take over the raising of his brood, but her father knew better than to approach her with those.
He despised the fact that she knew how to curse, and quite well. She'd learned from the best gardeners in the area. So he avoided situations in which her ire would be so high that she'd resort to foul language. But marry Lord Leighton? It wasn't some cruel joke perpetrated
by those horrid girls?
"Well, Agatha? What is your decision? I know you aren't one to tarry over such things,” he said.
"No.” She wasn't one to tarry, not when her heart was involved. Or would be.
His brow furrowed. “I see,” he said with a sigh. “Then I shall let the gentleman down as nicely as possible."
"Yes. I mean no.” She giggled at her incoherence, it was so unlike her. “I mean, I shall accept."
His brows rose. “Are you sure, my dear?"
She stood on shaky legs. “Yes, quite sure.” She moved to the door, curious as to how she managed it. Her heart was pounding so hard beneath her breast she felt certain she was going to faint, which she never did.
"Well then. I shall respond immediately. But Agatha..."
She looked to her father, her damp palm on the doorknob.
"I will miss you, my dear."
She smiled, her throat tight. “And I shall miss you, Papa."
"I cannot believe you are getting married before me,” Hattie said with a giggle.
Agatha clutched her cousin's hand. “Neither can I."
The coach rattled on, closer to their destination. Within the hour she would be Lady Leighton, wife to the fifth Earl of Pensby. How could her life have taken such an unexpected turn in so short a time?
"I still say this is too sudden,” her aunt fussed, but with a smile. “Your father should have insisted on a minimum of three months of courting before packing you off to Yorkshire."
"Obviously the man was so smitten with Agatha, he couldn't bear to wait,” Hattie said.
Agatha chuckled, but it came out as more of a choking sound. He'd not wanted to wait for any number of reasons, but she felt sure that smitten wasn't one of them, which left the question as to why he had chosen her.
The night in the long gallery had been the only night they'd ever spoken. There'd been no courting at all. Her father had said that he'd returned to his estate immediately after the Crittenden ball, but should he not have come to call at least once, or perhaps dine with her and her father one evening?
"The banns were read, Mama,” Hattie said, drawing Agatha from her thoughts.
"Yes, but I don't see what's all the rush. I would've loved to help you plan the wedding dear."
"Oh, but you have, Aunt. My gown, my trousseau, the flowers."
"Oh posh. That isn't hardly planning. Why, Lord Leighton took it upon himself to select and approve, mind you, the entire guest list as well as the menu for the wedding breakfast,” she huffed.
"I'm sure he was merely trying to precipitate things, Aunt,” she said with a forced smile. Was she about to marry a controlling man?
The carriage rattled to a stop and her father appeared beside the door to assist her. “You look lovely, my dear."
"Thank you, Papa."
He patted her hand as he guided her into the church and her waiting fiance. Shaking with excitement and dread, she walked to the front of the small parish to stand by her husband to be. Even scarred, he brought a sigh of admiration from her.
She knew, in that moment, that she'd not made a mistake. Although looks had not been on her list, having never been tempted by a man before, lusty thoughts had been her companion since they'd met, and now she was about to marry him. She knew desire wasn't enough to sustain a relationship, and she knew nothing of his views on politics, science, or women in general, still concerned about what her aunt had said in the carriage, but somehow he seemed, for lack of a better word, right for her. It had to be the most illogical, irrational thought she'd ever had.
Her father kissed her cheek and stepped away, leaving her to stand beside Lord Leighton. She risked a glance at him as the service began, his unmarred features toward her. Straight dark hair, nearly blue-black in the dim light, just touched his collar and framed his strong jaw. A quiet intelligence hovered around his sharp features.
But how would he react when he learned of her work? He already knew, no doubt, of her tendencies to say what was on her mind. That night at the ball had been a clear demonstration.
Thinking on it as the priest before her continued the service, oblivious to her wandering thoughts, she began to understand. His need for a quick wedding at his estate instead of in London, the small gathering as opposed to hundreds, it all made perfect sense.
The Monster and The Dog, she thought. Gossip amid the ton was brutal. No doubt he wished to avoid it as much as possible. He too had heard those ladies horrendous gibes and wanted to avoid them and their kind. Just as well, she didn't care for grand fusses anyway. They seemed so unnecessary.
A throat cleared, jarring her from her thoughts.
"I do,” she said quickly, her face burning with embarrassment. She could feel the groom's intense stare.
A moment later, he said the same and took her hand and slipped on a ring. She gasped at his touch, the sudden shock of awareness racing through her body. Why did she have such a reaction to him? He wasn't handsome like Lord Crittenden, fair-haired and boyishly charming, but there was a bearing about this man, an intensity that spoke to her very soul.
He released her as soon as the deed was done, leaving her thoughts to run wild. Would he regret his choice? Perhaps he'd offered for the wrong hand. Perhaps—
She met his gaze, there was no love there, not that she expected any, but there was no malice either. Only an odd emptiness she felt a need to fill.
How very strange and very wistful of me. Not at all like her. Nor was the intense longing, the heightened expectancy of his kiss.
Her very first kiss.
She wanted to lift up on her toes and meet his lips as he lowered his head, but it would be uncouth of her to do so, therefore she waited, eyes closed for the first kiss of her life.
The cool brush of his mouth against her forehead sucked the air from her lungs.
He doesn't want me.
That truth turned her legs to water, and she stumbled along by his side out the church door. He assisted her into his carriage amid the boisterous well-wishers and followed to sit across from her instead of alongside. A final blow to her pride—and her heart.
They rode in silence to Bridley Hall and the wedding breakfast that awaited them there. She wanted to cry, but could not, she wanted to shout out her frustration, but would not, so she sat silently and stared out the window at the cold ocean rolling beyond the cliff's edge. Marriage to Lord Leighton was not going to be what she'd imagined.
Magnus watched her gaze at the scenery, thankful she'd finally stopped trembling. Perhaps, with luck and time, she would learn not to fear him. He'd held much hope after their odd meeting. Here, he'd thought, was a woman who was no weakling, one who spoke her mind, defended her opinions, and teased his senses.
But she was afraid of him. No doubt her father had badgered her into the agreement to marry. It was even likely Lady Crittenden had paid her a call to convince her.
However it happened, there was no turning back now. They were wed before God and man, and nothing could change that. He sighed and turned his attention out the window, unable to bear the look of despondence upon her lovely face.
Lovely, he thought with a silent sniff. Crittenden had thought him balmy marrying again. He'd not ventured so far as to say she was unattractive, but she was nothing like the beauties the season had to offer, which was the very reason she intrigued him. That and her spirit.
He cast her a glance and recalled how she looked without her spectacles, her temper high. A sight, he surmised, very few ever witnessed. Her eyes were her loveliest feature. They pulled him in, held him in their dark depths. But when he'd seen his reflection in her spectacles as the service ended, he regretted his actions. How dare he be so impudent to think he could gain her favor? He was The Monster.
The carriage lurched to a halt. He stepped out and extended his hand to her. She took it and allowed him to assist her down. He noted that her trembling did not return with his touch, and held on to his first hope, although he knew it nothing more than de
speration.
He released her hand and bade her precede him into the house. His staff stood along the walls of the hall as they entered.
"May I present my lady wife,” he said, his voice calm and in control, although his gut clenched.
After a few minor introductions, the guests arrived and the wedding breakfast commenced. He prayed it would not drag on too long. He had business to tend to, and his new wife undoubtedly would like to retire from her ordeal. Remove herself from his presence as quick as may be.
No sooner did he have the thought, did she lean toward him at the table.
"Would it be too much to ask that we take our leave soon?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
Magnus clenched his jaw against her scent filling his nostrils. Like a wolf scenting its mate. What had possessed him to think he could live in the same house as she and not want to take her to his bed? He'd never intended to, knowing full well the rejection he would receive. He'd only wished for a companion, one who'd not flinch at the sight of him. A pleasing face he could look upon from across the table, someone of some intelligence that he could converse with. He held no hopes for an heir or family.
"If we do, it will cause a bit of a commotion, I'm afraid,” he replied.
"Yes, of course you're right,” she said with a sigh.
He looked at her, noting the deep crease in her forehead. “Are you not well? Is that why you wish to leave?"
She turned and opened her mouth, then clicked it closed. “No, I'm fine,” she said, looking back to their guests seated at the table, as she adjusted her spectacles. “I'm just not comfortable with being on display."
"It will be over soon,” he said, taking her hand beneath the table. He didn't know what possessed him to do such a thing, as she sucked in a breath at the contact.
With a resigned sigh, he removed his hand and returned it to his thigh where he dug his fingers into his flesh. To be wed to her, and not be able to touch her. To want her, and not be able to bed her. He had surely lost his mind. He should've left well enough alone, lived alone, and never sought another's comfort, it was an effort in futility.
