by Julia Donner
AN AMERICAN FOR AGNES
by Julia Donner
Friendship Series Book 10
An American for Agnes copyright © 2017 M.L.Rigdon (Julia Donner) All rights reserved. No part of this of book may be copied or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover design by Stephen D Case [email protected]
Please visit my website: www.MLRigdon.com
Blog: http://historyfanforever.woodpress.com/
Twitter: @RigdonML
The Friendship Series
The Tigresse and the Raven
The Heiress and the Spy
The Rake and the Bishop’s Daughter
The Duchess and the Duelist
The Dark Earl and His Runaway
The Dandy and the Flirt
Lord Carnall and Miss Innocent
The Barbarian and His Lady
A Rogue for Miss Prim
An excerpt from the next book in the Friendship Series, A Laird’s Promise, is included.
For Mary Malas Wolfe, a sister and blessing gained through marriage. As your brother would say—this one’s for you, kid.
Oakland Hall, Kent, England
Early Spring, 1820
Chapter 1
Of all the things Agnes Bradford would have preferred to do, concealing intense emotions in the midst of an evening assembly came last. Her breath stopped, trapped in her throat, when the man at the root of her misery entered the receiving room.
She quickly took a seat on the couch next to Mrs. Marston and pretended absorption with the names on her dance card. What was Vincent doing here? He’d never mentioned that he had connections to anyone in the district.
Anxiety sent quivers down her arms. Fear of exposure swirled chaotic thoughts. She began a cautionary list, mental reminders of how to hide and counteract the internal battle being waged. She mustn’t think of him as Vincent. He was Lord Vernam. She could pretend that they’d met at an exhibition, a partial truth. She’d been dazzled by the elegance of his manner and apparel, his perfectly tousled, bronze-blond hair. To someone who’d spent the last ten years of her life sequestered in Scotland’s countryside, he appeared godlike, unattainable, his attentions bewildering.
Her cheeks burned with a blush, remembering how she’d soaked up his flattery like the bumpkin she’d been. He’d stolen her innocence without a second thought. When she discovered that he was married, she suffered the depths of foolishness. His sense of entitlement insisted that they continue the affair. When she refused, the final horror came when he offered payment.
Across the room, the guests from London happily welcomed him into their circle. What if he made an awkward insinuation to them or pressed her to continue their affair? He’d been so spiteful the last time they spoke. Would he dare to do such a thing in her brother’s house?
She discreetly inhaled a deep, calming breath. Tonight’s gathering meant a great deal to her family. The heir to the Loverton title and estate had been found, a distant cousin. This evening’s soiree was meant to welcome him, introduce him to the neighborhood. Her mother and brother, Cameron, were terribly eager that all should go well.
With that in mind, Agnes had been tasked to keep company with Mrs. Marston, the most irascible person in the district. The disheartening request to companion the lady provided an unexpected boon. Staying seated beside her made Agnes less noticeable and coincided with fervent prayers to avoid Vincent’s notice. The size of this gathering—nothing like the London parties where the number of guests were purposely inflated to ensure the success of a squeeze—would allow no chance of escape. Confrontation at some point was inevitable. She must find a way to compose herself and settle her racing heart.
Guilt reminded her that there were worse disappointments in life than having behaved stupidly with the wrong sort of man. She’d met Vincent when she considered her chances of marriage long dead and buried. She and her mother had lived in near poverty until Cameron, long-thought dead, found them and brought them back home to Kent. In hindsight, she could see her gullibility, how she’d been pathetically easy prey.
Before the disastrous association with Vincent, she used to love parties, meeting new people, hearing about them and their families. Even after breaking off with him, she continued to feel as if she had home-wrecker carved into her forehead. Hiding in her rooms hadn’t helped. Crowding memories eventually forced her to leave, to go out and do something to keep her mind from what might have been had she not been so blind. How long does it take to heal a heart broken, shame, humiliation beyond bearing?
She sent up another prayer that Vincent would show some compassion or good sense and stay on the other side of the room. There could be no other reason for his presence here this evening than to continue his pursuit.
If only Cameron’s wife had not been called away to attend Lady Ravenswold with her confinement. Allison had become the sister she’d always longed for, the confidant who never judged and hadn’t when the keeping of the mistake she’d made became too much. Allison’s bottomless well of empathy and compassion soothed the devastating aftermath of Vincent’s cruel usage.
The lady seated beside her made a small noise to indicate that she felt ignored. Agnes offered a contrite smile. Mrs. Marston received her silent apology with a sniff and glanced away. Sitting next to her felt like being seated next to a short-fused bomb. Mrs. Marston’s prominence in the community meant that she couldn’t be denied an invitation, even though her presence meant the likelihood of a social blunder or catastrophe. That was why Agnes’s mother had given her the task of keeping the unpleasant woman company.
Mouth-watering scents of supper delicacies wafted through the open doorway. Agnes welcomed the aromas that alleviated Mrs. Marston’s belief that bathing should be a rare event.
Unable to suppress curiosity, her attention was again drawn to the guests clumped in groups scattered around the modest reception room. Partition doors were being opened to enlarge the saloon for dancing. She fiddled with the dance card she had no intention of honoring, opening it and pretending to study the names written inside while sketching a covert glance across the room. Vincent had immediately inserted himself into the center of the London visitors. Perhaps he had friendships with all of them, since he spent most of his time in Town and not at his Oxfordshire estate.
Her alarm intensified with the increasing belief that his only possible reason for leaving London during the Little Season had to involve her. This part of Kent had nothing to offer in comparison to the Season’s events, Parliamentary obligations, and social engagements. Any assembly in the country would be set down as dull in comparison to the refinements of London’s social whirl.
A burst of laughter followed by lively conversation came from another side of the room. She glanced at the animated group that surrounded Countess Bainbridge. The plump, auburn-haired countess, known as a cheerful bluestocking, had come down to visit a friend. Many were grateful that she’d left her intimidating husband at home and brought his sister, Lady Caroline, instead. Tall, raven-haired and aloof, Lady Caroline did not fully conceal her boredom and impatience to be elsewhere. Agnes understood, not the boredom, but the need to escape.
She sought relief in positive thought. All was going well otherwise. Her mother needn’t have worried about the party. Happily chatting guests from all levels of society filled the saloon with buoyant conversation. Success was assured. It couldn’t go otherwise no matter how dismal the setting or the company. In the country, where such delights were few, assemblies of any nature became immediate successes. Even so, her mother sought to create a
perfect evening, which meant no hitches or avoidable calamities—such as the sort Vincent or Mrs. Marston could stir up.
The urge to weep welled up. She conquered it with the knowledge that this evening would eventually come to an end and she could escape to the sanctuary of her rooms.
Since Agnes adored her mother, she hadn’t been able to say nay when she begged Agnes to keep the usually sour Mrs. Marston occupied. In other words, away from the guests and where her commentaries and opinions were least likely to be overheard. Agnes knew herself to be too reticent to confront or contradict unless forced. Placing her with the belligerent Mrs. Marston seemed the best possible solution.
Because she had never been talkative, everyone thought she was shy. She had been as a girl, painfully so. Now, her silence and withdrawal came from the hope to not agitate emotions caused by her own imprudence. If left alone, she could avoid the errant reminders. She’d learned the many ways to block out the world. The slightest memory of what she had done, what she had lost, often smothered her breath, rendered her speechless. Someday, it would be better, but not yet.
She suppressed a wince brought on by a piercing voice and had to wonder if the woman seated beside her could read minds, when Mrs. Marston said, “We are so relieved that you were able to return in time for this evening’s festivities, Miss Bradford. London again?”
“Sussex.”
“And you have done something unusual with your hair.”
“A lemon rinse was suggested.”
“Continue to do so, Miss Bradford. One day you might almost achieve a becoming flaxen. You do have the Blayne eyes to recommend you, of course. Quite unusual. So many colors in them that one cannot decide on a description.”
Agnes picked up the dance card from the cream silk covering her lap and threaded its tasseled loop over her wrist. “Merely hazel.”
“The effect is quite striking in your brother. That gown does you very well, the figured silk quite cunning in its design. Although I do find the constant use of white unbearably tedious and the insistence on no jewelry. In my day, we sparkled! Mr. Marston lavished on me the rubies I am presently wearing as a bridal gift.”
“They are lovely, ma’am.”
Satisfied by the compliment, Mrs. Marston nodded and said in a congenial tone, “It is said that there is nothing quite so pleasing as a soft-spoken, retiring female, and that in order to designate a party a success, at least three must be in attendance. One must admit that you could be designated as such, Miss Bradford, but I have always held the opinion that the victuals and music must be the necessary ingredients.”
Agnes couldn’t look at Mrs. Marston, whose small, pinched mouth was made to look smaller due to a broad face with heavy jowls. “How discerning of you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Marston absorbed that as her due and unfolded her fan. “Your mother has gone to prodigious lengths to welcome the long lost heir to Loverton Grange. It would have been devastating and excessively ill-mannered had you not been here to finally meet him. Distant relative though he is.” She raised her fan to veil her next comment. “But I vow, it is most decidedly vexing that the title must go to a foreigner. Your brother, our dear Sir Cameron, would have made a marvelous Baron Loverton.”
Agnes turned slightly to respond to Mrs. Marston’s remark, but paused when that lady lowered her fan to reveal a tight, smug smile. The smirk lifted her heavy jowls, but did nothing for the spiteful glitter in her dark eyes, at one time hailed as the prettiest in the county. Mrs. Marston had gone to seed after twenty years of marriage to the richest squire in the neighborhood. Agnes might think it, but would never say so. Still, something inside balked at the idea of letting an unfair comment go without clarification. Anxiety overwhelmed her typical reticence and urged her to speak up.
She molded her reply in the gentlest timbre. “I must point out with apologies, ma’am, that my brother was not in line. We are related to Lord Loverton through marriage into the Camerons and Gillespies, my mother’s side, so he never came into consideration.”
Mrs. Marston languidly waved her fan. Her face glowed from perspiration, her coarse complexion flushed under the circles of rouge on plump cheekbones. The air in the room felt stifling from the company and fires lit to counteract the constant damp of early spring rains.
“It is indeed a sad thing,” Mrs. Marston went on to say, a malicious gleam in her narrowed glare trained on the drawing room entry, “when we must accept the encroachment of foreigners into our midst, especially when we have a perfect candidate here in your brother, a naval hero, and so kind. Such sweetness of character. Everyone remarks on it, you know.”
Agnes mentally agreed, but since she didn’t wish to appear proud, she merely smiled, which gave Mrs. Marston leave to continue. “Where is your delightful brother?”
“He has gone to the Grange to bring his lordship here.”
“Ah, yes. Lord and Lady Carnall gave up the lease on the Grange as soon as they heard that Loverton had been located.”
Eager to insert a positive note, Agnes added in a whisper that was sure to garner Mrs. Marton’s attention, “Cameron was relieved the marquis did not take up his offer to have them stay on until the lease came to an end. Both agreed that it would be easier for Loverton to acclimate to his position if he were in residence. There is much to learn, I expect.”
Mrs. Marston harrumphed and snapped her fan shut. “Even more reason the title should have gone to one of our own. How could a brazen Colonial know our ways? What do they call themselves? Americans? Dreadful. Taking our lands, sinking our ships. Why, one had the effrontery to invade our soil!”
Agnes kept her viewpoint concealed behind evasive silence. It would do no good to point out that Lord Loverton’s parents were from Yorkshire and their son born in Canada. Mrs. Marston had clearly stated her opinions and was a guest. She’d already contradicted Mrs. Marston. A second time would constitute poor manners.
She put a small, noncommittal smile on her face and vowed to remain silent. She glanced across the room and caught Vincent looking at her. To subdue the urge to flee, she continued to smile at Mrs. Marston, as if the woman had something interesting to say. It couldn’t be that much longer before the arrival of the honored guest. Perhaps then she could excuse herself, join her mother’s group across the room, and beg that someone else save the guests from Mrs. Marston’s acid tongue.
A fan tip whacked her wrist, startling Agnes from troubled thoughts. Mrs. Marston’s clever gaze narrowed to a squint as she pried, “Miss Bradford, you never said where you were these last weeks. The rain has been nonstop, which must have made for onerous travel conditions. Was your journey of long duration?”
“Not far. Only to Sussex again.”
She didn’t explain that she’d gone there to complete a commission. Only her family knew that she painted. Many women did so, of course, but not for money. She did and often used another name to hide the fact that the artist was female. She’d accepted the commission for another reason, which led to her present misery, but the portrait had been successful.
The suspension of conversation announced the arrival of her brother and Lord Loverton before the butler could make it known. The group followed her mother to the door, blocking the view. Agnes stood and Mrs. Marston did likewise after a cluck of disgust.
As the introductions in the doorway commenced, Agnes decided to stay where she was until the commotion and excitement abated. Sensitive to change, she noticed that the air of anticipation had become one of ill at ease. Nothing too overt, but Agnes had always thought she had a talent for understanding the mood of a room and laid it down to artistic awareness. There was now a definite change, an unsettled discomfort. When the group by the entry thinned, she got her first glimpse of Loverton and understood why. She doubted everyone would be less nervous if a jaguar had been tossed through the door.
Chapter 2
The constant ache lodged under her heart ebbed as she sought to study the honored guest without appearing obvious. L
overton’s striking features, swarthy and strong-boned, made her fingers itch to take up a pencil and sketch. He scanned the room with disinterest but stopped to stare, quite pointedly, at her. His penetrating observation pinned her in place. Her heart began to pound for no good reason. Perhaps this was his usual manner of looking at people, but she felt pierced through with the feeling that his regard was anything but impersonal.
Her brother noticed Loverton’s regard and leaned closer to make a comment, undoubtedly identifying her as his sister. Even though not as tall as her brother, Loverton appeared in every way larger. It had nothing to do with height or weight. It wasn’t his strict, upright posture that made for a commanding air. His presence would have dominated the room without being the much-anticipated heir to the barony. At the moment, his attention stayed entirely on her, an ebony-eyed scrutiny that sent a ripple of apprehension down her arms. She caught herself in the act of tugging up the tops of her evening gloves. A nervous glance across the room assured her that Vincent had remained with his group of never easily impressed Londoners.
The feel of Loverton’s examination made it impossible not to look back at him. He was nothing like the Blayne family portraits, austere depictions, some posed with languid grace, and all exuding the supreme confidence inherent in those of their birthright. This baron had their imposing manner, but under his urbane coating something prowled, something she could only describe as untamed. Loverton looked on the hunt. She set aside the bizarre impression that she was the prey.
Unable to look away, she watched Loverton abruptly cross the room in her direction, flanked by her brother and mother. He hadn’t bothered to excuse himself from the guests by the door and left them all but gaping. As he neared, she experienced the impression she’d had of him at the entrance. He bristled with latent intensity.
