by Robyn DeHart
Agnes looked up from her drawing and quickly shut her book. “What?”
“You have a gentleman caller,” her mother said. “And I must say it’s about damned time. Honestly, Agnes, there is no reason you shouldn’t have a line of suitors out the door every day.”
Agnes sighed and wished, as she’d done so many times before, that she had a normal mother who doted and encouraged her. “We’ve discussed this. So many times, Mother, and I’m truly not in the mood.” What she should have said was that it was far more likely that she’d have a line of suitors if her mother wasn’t hell-bent on stealing them out from under her. But it wasn’t worth the fight. Agnes didn’t want anything to do with her mother’s leftover lovers. She made for the door and her mother grabbed her arm, stilling her.
“Wait.” She whirled Agnes to face her, then pinched her cheeks. “You need some color in your face. Bite down on your lips, add some blood there, too.” Then she let her gaze follow the lines of Agnes’s dress. Her mother’s features squished. “Do you not have anything a little more flattering? This one does nothing to highlight your finer features.”
“Revealing, you mean, and no. I’m certainly not putting a ball gown on at only two in the afternoon.” At this point, she didn’t even care who the man was waiting downstairs. She only wanted space from her mother and her incessant, horrible advice on flirting and using her womanly wiles. It was all nonsense.
“You’re not getting any younger, Agnes. There’s no sense in wasting all of this time.” Her mother shook her head. “None of it makes any sense to me. By the time I was your age, I had three proposals and three times as many suitors. What are you doing to keep all the men away?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you, mother.”
“Is it your brother? Because I will speak to him when he returns to London.” When Agnes made no attempt to answer, her mother rolled her eyes. “Well then get yourself downstairs before you scare this one away. Or he loses patience waiting on you.”
Agnes shook her head, then made her way downstairs. She fully expected to find Sullivan when she reached the parlor. Instead, she found Fletcher leaning with one arm braced on the fireplace. He turned upon her entrance and flashed a cocky smile at her. Her breath caught. She silently cursed him and this effect he had on her. Her skin felt aflame and her neck and palms itched.
“Agnes, you said I could call upon you.” He shoved off the mantel and ambled toward her. The simple movement showcased his long, muscular legs, and the breadth of his shoulders.
She swallowed hard in hopes of hiding her reaction. He was distractingly attractive in a way that she’d never found any other man to be.
“I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time.”
She shook her head, then quickly said, “No, I was working on a project, but it’s not a bad time.” Motioning to the chairs adjacent to the settee, she took a seat on the gold fabric chair. “Please, sit.”
He lowered himself onto the chair next to hers. His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossing at the ankle. So long with thighs as thick as some tree trunks. Good heavens.
“I see my mother has already called for refreshments.”
He chuckled. “Yes, your mother greeted me when I arrived.”
Oh dear. Agnes’s stomach soured at the thought of her mother’s hands on Fletcher. Would he be tempted to say yes if the older woman propositioned him? “I feel as if I should apologize for her.”
“Nonsense. She’s a perfectly”—he paused as if searching for the correct adjective—“delightful woman.”
“That she is. My mother is many things, delightful being one of her finer qualities.” Agnes bit down on her lip. “Fletcher, might I ask you question?”
“Of course.”
“What are you doing here?” She smiled, then exhaled slowly. “I don’t mean that rudely.”
“Can a man not pay a visit to a charming lady?”
“Yes, but you never have before.” Agnes’s heart thundered in her chest. She ignored the thrill that shot through her. She should not relish the notion of his seducing her. Because certainly once that was done, he would leave her. He’d never be faithful to one woman.
Still, Justine had mentioned noticing an increase in Fletcher’s attention since Christopher had been out of town. Agnes narrowed her gaze at him for several moments without saying anything.
She knew this was not courting. Fletcher had had years to court her. Had years to express an interest, yet aside from the night they first met and the one dance he allowed them, he’d never shown any interest in being more than friends.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Fletcher’s brows rose slowly. “Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”
“I know you’re not courting me.”
He chuckled. “I don’t believe I claimed to be.”
“That’s certainly what my mother thinks by you making this ridiculous visit. Now I will have to endure questions for the rest of the evening and explain to her why I once again have no suitors.” Agnes held her hand up. “Not that I’m wishing you were a suitor. That is not what I said.” She dropped her head into her hands.
“I find it difficult to believe that despite your decision to not marry that you have no suitors.”
“Well, I do have one. Though he is most assuredly not wanted.” She didn’t want to tell him about the flowers. The Ladies of Virtue were on the case, as it were, and they’d uncover the identity. In the meantime, though, perhaps there was something to deter the man’s attentions.
“I’m certain you can have any suitor you wanted were you to express an interest.”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps.”
“Agnes, I am not blind, nor am I daft. I’ve seen the way men look at you.” He paused, eyed her thoughtfully, then frowned. “Are you holding out for someone specific? Someone you’ve given your heart to?”
“Heavens no. There is no one special.” She said the words while looking directly into his hypnotic caramel-colored eyes and felt every bit of the lie. He was special, her heart seemed to whisper.
“You’re hiding something from me.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “You can trust me. Tell me.”
She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “You are partially right about that. I do attract a certain type of man. It started the first year I was out, but it has only gotten worse as time progresses.” Was she honestly going to tell him this? She’d never told anyone. The burden of the secret ate at her and in that moment, she needed to tell him, needed him to know. But she turned her gaze away from him as she spoke, because she would die if he looked at her with pity. “Initially, men would clamber for my dances, but now they find excuses to be near me, brush against me. They stand too close, then they lean over and whisper all the filthy things they want to do to me. I learned rather quickly that men would never see past my physical attributes.”
Fletcher drew in a sharp breath, then swore. “Agnes, does Christopher know about any of this?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never told anyone.”
He stood and paced the length of the room several times. “You should tell him. He needs to know to be able to protect you. Or your father.”
“My father is too busy with his travels and collections.” Though she’d wondered what he’d say if she told him. He’d likely accuse her of being no different from her mother. She knew her parents hadn’t shared a room or any affection in years. They were married in name only, standing aside and allowing each other to live their lives separately, as countless other marriages seemed to do. What a miserable way to do things.
“Men can be disgusting animals,” Fletcher said. He stopped pacing as if considering something, then he knelt at her feet. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with being beautiful. You do realize that, don’t you?”
She stared at him and willed herself not to cry. Crying was futile and foolish. “In truth? No, I do not. Looking this wa
y has brought me nothing but grief. I’m certain that sounds shallow. ‘Oh, the poor girl who’s too pretty,’” she mocked.
“Agnes,” he said, his voice heavy with tenderness. He reached up and cupped her cheek.
No crying. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. “I don’t hate the way I look.” Finally, she was confident enough that no tears would escape and she looked at him. “I do, however, hate that it seems to be the only thing people see when they look at me. The fact that I’m intelligent, thoughtful, and have opinions and ideas, none of that matters.”
“I recognize those attributes in you,” Fletcher said, his tone low, deep, and devoid of any of its normal flirtatious nature. He stood, putting distance between them.
She was quiet for several moments.
“I know how I can help you,” he said.
She leveled her gaze him. “I know that my stupid brother asked you to watch over me while he is off doing God knows what, but you should not feel obligated.”
“It is not obligation,” he said. “Consider for a moment that if you had a suitor, one that by all appearances Society would deem a serious contender for your hand, that his presence might put a stop to these unwanted advances.”
“What are you suggesting?” she asked.
“That I pretend to court you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite. You said you had a new suitor who had become a nuisance. This would likely keep him away as well. It would only have to be until your brother returns, then you can tell him about these men and their lewd propositions and allow him to handle things for you.”
She saw no reason to tell Fletcher about the flowers or the unsettling love note the secret suitor had left her. But she did, in fact, want the man to go away, move his attentions to some other woman who might appreciate his unorthodox ways.
Fletcher’s brows shot up, then a slow grin slid into place. “You want to use me to make some other bloke jealous?”
“You would do this for me? I mean I realize it won’t be difficult, considering flirting is as natural as breathing for you. But devoting your time to me in that kind of scenario would mean you couldn’t be with any other women.”
“I can guarantee that I’d much rather spend time with you than any other woman.”
She looked into his hazel eyes and waited for the next quip, the one that would water down what he’d just said. But he met her gaze without wavering as if those words were true.
“If I make you uncomfortable, I suppose you could solicit Glenbrook for the job. I suspect he wouldn’t mind paying you more attention.”
“Sullivan? Heavens no. He is a friend.”
“Then you would welcome his attentions?”
She paused considering his words. She supposed she could have asked Sullivan to do this favor for her, but Fletcher had offered, and she’d never even considered telling her friend about those men and their filthy suggestions. “Sullivan has no feelings toward me in that regard, nor I him. We are friends.”
“What of the other gentlemen who often seek you out?”
“Who?”
“Lord Travers, and Lord Barrow’s son?”
“Lord Travers is a nuisance and Michael is shy, but kind.”
“Many women find him exceedingly handsome,” Fletcher argued.
“I suppose he is nice to look upon, but I have no interest in being courted by any of those men.”
Fletcher was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “Before he left town, your brother made it very clear, in no uncertain terms, that I’m not to touch you,” he said. “You have my word that I will not endeavor to seduce you during our fake courtship.”
She didn’t want to give much thought to why that promise left her feeling disappointed. She didn’t want him to seduce her, so she should be pleased he’d sworn not to.
Chapter Eight
Fletcher had not even fully processed the idea of pretending to court her before he’d opened his mouth to make the offer. But hearing about those men and the illicit propositions she received, having a serious suitor would deter them. If nothing else, paying close attention to her, as a good suitor should, would keep him close enough that he might identify some of the offenders. He’d like nothing better than to pound his fists into their faces.
If she were his, he’d protect her. He’d make certain every damned man in London knew that all it would take was a look in her direction and he’d make them regret ever knowing her name.
But Agnes could never be his. Christopher had made that abundantly clear—touch her and lose everything. He couldn’t blame her brother. She was intelligent, clever, and kind…everything that was beautiful and wonderful in the world.
Whereas he was nothing more than a cad with a courtesy title. Sure, he did his level best to earn his place in the world by relying on the only skill he seemed to possess—his ability to charm people. But pretending to be something he wasn’t wore on him. Agnes had been right to say that pretending to court her would be easy. He wouldn’t even have to feign interest in her. She was the only woman he’d ever truly wanted. When this was all over, Chris would send him on an assignment abroad and Fletcher would have finally gotten over his obsession with Agnes. Certainly, spending that much time with her would cleanse her from his system.
“What will this pretend courting entail?” she asked.
“Having never actually courted a woman, then, no, I don’t know how. But I’ve certainly seen it done and I’m a fast learner.” He hated that this was even necessary. He wanted her to give him a list of names of every man who had ever even looked at her inappropriately, so he could beat them senseless.
He smiled at her. Damn she was pretty. “If it means I have to spend more time with you, then I think I’m up for the challenge.”
“My brother asked you to watch over me while he was gone, did he not?”
Fletcher nodded. “Yes, he did. He’s worried about your safety.” Fletcher wouldn’t tell her that he and Christopher both knew about her activities with the Ladies of Virtue; any change in her behavior could potentially lead her to more danger. Right now, he was to watch, observe, and protect. And keep his hands off her. All while pretending he was courting her. Yes, keeping his hands to himself would be a significant challenge.
“If Glenbrook isn’t the unwanted suitor, who is it?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “That matters not.”
“Very well. At least I know this will keep you protected until your brother can return and see to things on a more permanent basis.” He leaned forward so that he was close enough to touch her. “Agnes, will you give me the names?”
“Names of who?”
“The men. The men who propositioned you and touched you.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He reached up and cupped her cheek. “Bluebell, no woman should have to endure such behavior…especially not you. Tell me who they are.”
Tears formed in her eyes, but she tightened her mouth and shook her head, refusing to let them fall. “I am not different from any other woman.”
He shook his head. “Not true. You are special, Agnes, you always have been. Now, tell me.”
“What do you want to do to them?”
“I want to pound my fists into their faces. I want to hurt them. I want to scare them so badly they’ll never look at you or any other woman ever again.”
She leaned into his hand, then closed her eyes.
He wanted nothing in the world more, in that moment, than to pull her into his arms and hold her. Promise her no man would ever hurt her again. But she was not his, nor would she ever be. He was merely a stand-in until her brother returned. That being said, Fletcher fully intended to tell Christopher precisely what had been going on and to tell him what an ignorant arse he was. Not to mention a hypocrite. Passing judgment on Fletcher all the while ignoring the fact that his sister was potentially in danger.
She pulled away
and shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
He clenched his jaw and nodded. He’d not pressure her now, but eventually he’d know each and every bastard who had ever looked at her inappropriately. “Very well, we will begin immediately with our charade,” Fletcher said. “The ball tomorrow night can be our first public appearance.”
“It will not take my mother long to tell all of her ‘friends’ that you paid a call on me. The rumor that you’re courting me will be spread halfway across London by tomorrow night.” Agnes gave him a smile. “You’ll have no trouble feigning interest in me?”
“That is something I’d never have to pretend.” He stood. He needed distance between them before he did something foolish like pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. “I should go, but I shall see you tomorrow night. Wear something pretty, preferably blue.”
“Blue? Why blue?”
“Don’t be daft, Agnes, no one looks better in blue than you do. Until tomorrow night.” He bowed and left the room.
…
Agnes paced Harriet’s bedchamber while her friend finished getting ready for the ball. Why was she so nervous? She pressed a palm to her belly in an attempt to quiet the flock of birds that had taken up residence in there.
“You are going to wear holes in my rug if you keep up that pacing,” Harriet said.
Agnes turned and faced her friend. She opened her mouth, then shut it.
Harriet’s brows rose. “What?” She looked down at her pink gown. “Does this look terrible?”
“What? No, of course not. I want to tell you something.” Agnes paused and took a measured breath. “Tonight, at the ball, it’s going to appear as if Fletcher is courting me. But he isn’t.”
Harriet’s head tilted. “That doesn’t make any sense, Agnes.”
“It actually does,” Agnes said. “Fletcher convinced me that if he pretended to court me, at least until my infernal brother returns to town, then it would deter all the unwanted advances that I get.” She never told Harriet the depth of those advances, only that men often bothered Agnes. She nearly explained about her new admirer, but with everything her friend had been dealing with in her quest to help Lord Davenport, Agnes hadn’t wanted to burden her friend.
