by Robyn DeHart
The women separated then, each going off with a dance partner. Agnes had just finished dancing with Michael when the young Lord Travers came to collect her.
Michael frowned at the younger man, eyeing him suspiciously.
Lord Travers glared at Michael in return.
How did she always manage to put herself in these positions where she should be able to diffuse the awkwardness and instead she made it worse by just standing there? The music began on the next song and she glanced at Michael and gave him an apologetic smile. Truth be told, he was shy, but she’d much rather dance with him than Lord Travers.
Michael then bowed to Agnes. “Miss Watkins, always lovely to see you.”
“You as well,” she said with a smile. He was very pleasing to look upon with golden hair and deep-green eyes. He strode away as Lord Travers took her arm.
“Miss Watkins,” he said in his slightly nasal tone, “you look spectacular in that gown.” His eyes slid down to rest of her cleavage.
She repressed a shudder and didn’t even bother to say thank you. Why had she agreed to this dance in the first place? Lord Travers wasn’t an unattractive man. He was actually considered quite the bachelor to catch, considering his youth and fortune. But with the way that spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth as he spoke and how she could feel the sweat from his palms through her gown and his gloves, he did not appeal to her in the least.
“You know I have not changed my mind about us,” he said.
Oh dear, here it came. This was why she rarely danced with him. She winced, bracing herself for his words.
“I will convince you to marry me one of these days.” He smiled broadly which only drew attention to the white lines of spit at the corners of his grin. “I desire you and only you, and I shall have you.”
“You flatter me, my lord, but as I’ve told you before, I am not in the market for a husband.” When could she be done with this foolishness and simply enjoy social gatherings without the pressure of would-be suitors. She was ready to be considered a spinster—a woman firmly upon the shelf.
“Yes, yes, that is why you women do make yourselves so appealing to us. Feign indifference so that we proceed with a chase.”
Annoyance tightened her frame and she shifted a little farther away, putting distance between them. “I can assure you, Lord Travers, that I am not doing anything of the kind.”
He chuckled. “We shall see.”
She endured the rest of the dance in silence, then quickly made her way to her mother’s side to inform the woman she was leaving for the evening. A headache was always a worthy excuse. In truth, she found herself giving the driver of her rig Fletcher’s address.
She’d known for years that his grandfather’s townhome was only two doors down from her family’s, yet she’d never had reason to call upon him. Though she knew she could sit on the settee in the parlor while waiting for Fletcher to appear, Agnes remained standing. He didn’t make her wait long before he entered the room, no cravat with the top two buttons unfastened, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, and bare feet.
She had no standing to lecture him on his behavior since she’d come to his home to see him. Unannounced and uninvited.
“Agnes.” He came to stand in front of her and gripped her arms gently. His features etched in concern. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I am well. Everything is well. I merely wanted—” She shifted her shoulders and notched her chin up. “I wanted to continue our discussion from the other night, and you were not in attendance at the Anderson ball this evening.”
His hazel eyes darkened and a muscle in his jaw tensed. “You want to continue chastising me about my affairs?”
“Specifically, your problem with lust,” she said abruptly.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Yes, lust.” He moved to sit on the settee and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing his bare feet at the ankles. “Though again we have a difference of opinions, because I fail to see it as a problem.”
He had nice feet, she couldn’t help but notice. And it was far better to notice his toes than to fixate on how strong his thighs looked encased in his trousers, or how the cords of his muscular forearms seemed to draw her attention. Spending this much time with her thoughts on lustful behavior was toying with her mind. She never noticed such things before.
“Sit, Agnes.” He motioned to the empty space next to him.
She acquiesced but sat with enough space between them to fit another person. A rather large person in fact. “I thought I would give you the opportunity to prove your theory.”
“My theory? And what would that be?”
“That there is pleasure to be found between people who are not emotionally bound.”
“I have proven that sentiment time and time again,” he said. His arms crossed over his broad chest.
She took a bracing breath and met his warm gaze. “To yourself, perhaps, but in my esteem your logic is flawed. I’m presenting you with the opportunity to prove yourself.” She paused, gathering her courage. “To me.”
He chuckled. “How do you propose I do that?”
“Kiss me.”
His brow furrowed, then his eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you should kiss me. I propose that because we are not emotionally attached to each other that there will be no real pleasure found in a romantic embrace.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She arched one brow. “Are you so uncertain of your hypothesis?”
“That’s not it at all. I have rules I follow. Self-constructed rules. I do not touch virgins, I do not touch married women, and I never dally with any woman long enough to get emotionally involved.” He ticked off each rule on a finger. “You, my dear Agnes, are a virgin and therefore you are off-limits.”
“That’s ridiculous. I am not proposing we have an affair.” Just the mention of the word caused her face to flame. Her cheeks warmed to such a degree she nearly fanned herself. “I am suggesting a simple experiment.”
He said nothing in response to that.
Her skin prickled everywhere. She stood. “Very well. Then you must concede my point.”
“I will do no such thing. I know you’re wrong. I will not lie to appease you,” he said, coming to his feet. He gripped her chin, gently, tilting her head so she could look up into his face. “Are you truly saying that you will feel no passion, no pleasure, if I kiss you?”
“That is, in fact, what I’m saying,” she said. The only reason her heart was beating faster and her breaths were shallow was because she was nervous. She didn’t go around asking men to kiss her. This was new territory for her. That explained her physical reaction more so than his nearness and hand on her face.
His thumb rubbed gently across her bottom lip. “Oh, Bluebell, I’m going to thoroughly enjoy proving you wrong.” With that he lowered his lips to hers.
His hands cradled her face as his mouth moved against hers, slowly, sinfully. He nipped at the corners of her mouth, then ran his tongue lightly over her bottom lip.
On instinct, she parted her lips and their mouths caressed each other’s. Then he slid his tongue into her mouth, rubbing it against hers. She released a little moan and arched her body to get closer. Boldly she reciprocated his moves and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He growled and deepened the kiss.
Their mouths moved in sync until the kiss became an entity all its own. Her entire body flamed with awareness. One of his hands slipped from her face to her neck and then to her chest, just resting at the edge of her bodice. Her breasts rose and fell, nearly begging for his palm.
That’s when she came to her senses. She pulled herself back and stood, putting distance between them. His hazel eyes had darkened so much she couldn’t even see any of the color from his irises and his chest rose in rapid breaths.
She put a hand to her mouth. Oh God. She’d been wrong.
“Agnes,” he said, his voice rough.
> She shook her head. “You were right.”
“I was?”
She searched for any sign of arrogance in his tone but found none. “You must be right. Passion must not have anything to do with affection. Either that or we’re in love.” She snorted. “And we both know how ridiculous that notion is.”
“Yes, ridiculous,” he repeated.
“I have to go.” With that she turned and fled. She ignored his voice as he called to her. And she didn’t stop running until she’d reached the steps to her home. She stopped before opening her front door, her heart pounding so furiously. It wasn’t from her light jog home, she recognized that. No, this was purely a reaction to Fletcher and his kiss.
She almost missed the letter on the stoop, but her shoe shuffled against the paper, drawing her attention to it.
Chapter Five
Fletcher loathed to receive calls at his townhome with the exception of last night’s caller. He’d welcome Agnes and her heated kisses anytime. He should simply rent something away from his damned grandfather, but here he could at least keep his ear to the ground, so to speak, on familial matters. Because of this, though, he spent an extraordinary amount of time at the club, which meant he ran into friends quite often. Today he sat with Malcolm Wheatley, the Duke of Lockwood.
Malcolm sat with complete casualness, his legs stretched out, boots crossed at his ankles, managing to look both relaxed and incredibly arrogant at the same time. “Tell me about the Widow Brooks.”
Fletcher eyed his friend. “What do you want to know?”
“Is she worth the effort?”
“She requires little to no effort.”
Malcolm made a noise of disgust. “Then she is not worth it. Damnation, but I’m bored.”
“Oh, the poor rich duke,” Fletcher said drolly.
“Yes, my life is a terrible waste.” Malcolm scratched the stubble on his cheeks.
Fletcher chuckled. “I was told recently that I must mend my lustful ways. That I’m leaving a trail of broken hearts across London and being a poor example to my dear brother.”
Malcolm scoffed. “Your brother is practically a priest.”
“I said as much.”
“Who told you all of this?”
“It matters not.” He would not tarnish Agnes’s reputation by mentioning her name. He knew that Agnes and Harriet, Malcolm’s sister, were very good friends. Any mention of her name could easily get back to her.
Chris stormed into the room, scanning it until his eyes fell on Fletcher. Did he know Agnes had been in his arms the night before? Chris walked over and didn’t even bother sitting. He merely braced his hands on the table.
“What’s happened?” Fletcher asked.
“Good God, man, you look like the devil himself has been chasing you. Sit,” Malcolm said.
Chris took a deep breath, then sat. He glanced at the room behind them. “I need to leave town for a few days, at the very least.” He leveled his gaze on Fletcher. “Agnes is potentially in danger and I need you to look after her.”
His heart thundered. Agnes in danger? Fletcher shook his head. “How is she in danger? Where is she now?”
“She’s paying a call to a friend of hers.” He looked pointedly at Malcolm. Chris combed his fingers through his hair, then swore. “What I’m about to say does not leave this table. Understood?”
Malcolm and Fletcher both nodded.
“She’s in this ladies’ group.” He leaned forward so he could speak low. “She doesn’t know that I know, but they’re trained with some basic defense skills and have managed to wrangle a handful of pickpockets off the streets. Thus far it has been harmless, and I keep an eye on her.”
“I read about them in the Times,” Malcolm said.
Fletcher had read the article as well, all about these ladies of good breeding wielding hatpins as weapons. “Agnes does all of that?” Damnation! He did not need another reason to find her attractive. But the image of her using a sharp object to take down a pickpocket flashed through his mind and it was so damned sexy.
Malcolm frowned. “Wait a moment. Is Harriet involved in this nonsense?”
“I cannot confirm that,” Chris said.
Malcolm swore.
“It would seem the source from that article is causing trouble,” Chris said. “She has some sort of plan for vengeance and is after the group of ladies. This morning I found a letter that Agnes received directly from the woman.”
Fletcher’s heartbeat sped up. A direct threat to Agnes did not sound good. “You know who this woman is? This source?”
Chris was quiet a moment before inclining his head. “I have my suspicious, but I need to be certain. Which is why I need to leave London.” He looked directly at Fletcher. “I need you to watch over Agnes.”
“What? Why me? You don’t like me nor trust me.”
“True on both accounts,” Chris said.
“What about Malcolm?” Fletcher asked. After the kiss they’d shared, he was not too keen on spending any more alone time with Agnes lest he be tempted to break all of his rules.
Malcolm waggled his eyebrows.
Insufferable bastard.
“No,” Chris said. “Malcolm is London’s most eligible bachelor. If he were to spend more time with Agnes, rumors of their impending engagement would start.”
“I’m out,” Malcolm said, hands up as if to ward something off.
“But if I’m seen with her there won’t be rumors?” Fletcher asked. “I’m fairly certain I have a specific reputation as well.”
“He’s right you know,” Malcolm said with a grin.
“No one asked you, Lockwood.”
Malcolm shrugged, but his grin never faded. “You boys are so entertaining. I should really venture out more often.” Then he stood. “But I’m afraid I must leave you.” He grabbed his glass and downed the contents. “Safe travels, Chris.”
Chris nodded, and they said their goodbyes.
“What about her friend, Viscount Glenbrook? They’re often together,” Fletcher said once they were alone again.
Chris frowned. “Glenbrook is harmless, but I need someone trained. I can’t very well bring this to the Seven. It’s not an official assignment, but I need to ensure her safety.”
Fletcher exhaled slowly. He couldn’t tell Chris that it was fear of being alone with Agnes that held him back. Good God, he could certainly control himself around her for a few days. He’d done so for years. Yes, but that was before he’d tasted her, felt her supple curves pressed to his body. Damnation.
“You think I’m happy about this?” Chris asked. “You are the last man I’d want alone with my sister. I don’t exactly trust you to keep your hands to yourself. So, I’m prepared to make you an offer.”
“I’m listening.”
“You do this for me. Keep Agnes safe and I will send you on the big assignment we’re putting together. It leaves next month.”
Fletcher eyed Chris. Everything he’d been asking for the last five years only to be repeatedly denied.
“But if you touch her improperly, I shall end your career. Do we have a deal?” He held his hand out waiting for a shake.
Fletcher gripped the man’s hand and nodded. “I will keep a watchful eye on her.”
Chris shook his head. “No, not merely watching. I need you with her, protecting her.”
Fletcher nodded.
“And, Fletcher, God help me if you lay one finger on my sister, I will dismember you…and then I will end your career.”
“Understood.” Wouldn’t Chris love to know that his perfectly virginal sister had come to his townhome begging for a kiss all in the name of experimentation?
Chris held out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve written down what I know of Agnes’s schedule for the next two weeks. Hopefully, I won’t be gone that long, but there are several parties and other engagements that you’ll need to attend.”
“Do you wish me to engage or merely shadow her?” Fletcher asked, not knowing whi
ch option he truly preferred.
“Both. Depending on the function. You’ve been trained, use your judgement.”
Fletcher’s brows rose. “So despite the fact that it isn’t, you wish me to consider this an official assignment?”
“Yes.”
Fletcher nodded.
More time with Agnes. He glanced down at the schedule and the first event was a poetry reading that evening at Lord Bartholomew’s library. And so it began. Christ. How was he going to keep his hands off her for two weeks?
…
“Agnes!” her mother squealed. “Come and see.”
She did not have the patience for her mother this morning. She’d been working on a new weapon design and had already tossed several sketches that weren’t quite right. Shortly after joining the Ladies of Virtue, it became clear that it was quite challenging for a lady to have any legitimate means of protection should she find herself in a bit of danger. Agnes had taken it upon herself to begin designing such items specifically for women and concealed in everyday items such as fans, parasols, and pieces of jewelry. Her fans had become quite popular with the cleverly hidden blades that released with a tiny lever. She’d sold out of them every time she made a new batch. This morning she’d been attempting to work on a new piece that would hide a thin, flexible blade inside a bracelet.
Setting aside her drawing, she made her way down the stairs to find her mother standing at the bottom holding a bouquet of flowers.
Agnes groaned internally. She especially didn’t have the fortitude to endure hearing her mother wax poetically about any of her special admirers, as she so fondly called them. Though everyone knew they were her lovers. Agnes wished, in that moment and not for the first time, that her father didn’t travel as much as he did. Perhaps if he were home more, her mother might be more discreet with her affairs.
Until her experiment with Fletcher, Agnes had always assumed that her mother merely didn’t understand how matters of the heart worked and she fancied herself in love with all of these men she entertained. Her mother’s fickle heart was a testament to how Agnes understood love. Now though, she suspected that her mother merely had no desire to control her lustful nature and baser desires. If she thought she didn’t understand her mother before, now she was even more perplexed.
