Page 41 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
Chapter Twelve
Agnes exhaled slowly. Fletcher had left her in the gardens and she was taking a few moments to clear her head. His admission had stung, she couldn’t deny that. How could it be that he experienced such passion with every woman when she only felt it with him? Granted, she’d only kissed two men now, so she wasn’t an expert by any stretch of the imagination. Still something in his words didn’t ring true. Had he lied? Or was she merely hoping he had in order to make herself feel better?
Why were men so bloody complicated? A good reminder why marriage wasn’t for her.
She truly feared that if she allowed herself to indulge—to really explore passion—she’d never be able to contain it. Pandora’s box would be opened, the cork ripped from the bottle and she’d never be able to stuff it back inside. So, it was best that they had no future together. She’d find a nice, suitable husband who wouldn’t evoke such potentially dangerous emotions in her.
She made her way back inside, not quite knowing if it was the slight chill in the air or the lingering feelings of desire that had her nipples so tight. All these years she’d judged her mother for being unfaithful, but if Fletcher was correct, and he wasn’t the only man who could make her feel such lust, then she was in more trouble than she thought.
Agnes was nearly to the staircase, which led up to her bedchamber, when a servant stopped her, telling her that her mother was waiting in the front parlor to discuss something. Discussions with her mother only ever went one way and Agnes was not in the mood for maternal manipulations today. Still she made her way over to the parlor, knowing full well that if she didn’t, her mother would simply hunt her down.
“Agnes, darling, I see that Lord Wakefield paid another call on you,” she said as Agnes entered the room. The older woman was reclined across the settee. She motioned Agnes forward. She was stuffed into a gown with a bodice so tight, her breasts practically fell over the top. She gave her a conspirator smile. “Come and tell your mother all about it.”
A maid brought in a tray of tea, and Agnes sat on one of the chairs adjacent to the settee.
They sat in silence for a few moments while they readied their tea.
They weren’t close, she and her mother. Agnes simply didn’t know how to relate to the woman. They might look alike, but they were so very different. Sadly, Agnes knew that the only times her mother sought her out was because she wanted something.
“Lord Wakefield is very dashing,” her mother finally said. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. They were blue, like Agnes’s, but where Agnes’s were light, her mother’s were dark. “Very dashing, indeed.”
“He is.” Agnes stirred her tea thoughtfully, wondering what other girls did when having such conversations with their mothers. She would not tell her about the kisses. If she did, that could potentially lead down a road that Agnes did not want to travel. In fact, she would tell her as little as possible.
“Do you have anything of note to share with me about his visits?”
“Not particularly. I believe he is merely following standard courtship protocol.”
Her mother released a frustrated groan. “Honestly, Agnes, no wonder you don’t have more suitors. You can’t speak that way.”
“Do you need anything else, Mother?” Agnes asked.
“Why do you hate me so?” her mother said with an obvious pout.
Agnes looked up. In that moment, she searched her mother’s pretty features for anything resembling real emotion, but she found nothing. She sighed. “Mama, I don’t hate you. Why would you ever think such a thing?”
Her mother straightened herself, rolling her shoulders backward and tilting her chin up. She had such poise, such grace in her movements. “I know you do not approve of some of my choices.”
Agnes nodded, unsure of what to say. They’d never actually discussed her mother’s affairs. What was one supposed to say about her mother’s infidelity?
“I know you hear things. I’ve heard the rumors. I know what others say about me.”
“Are the rumors true?” Agnes asked.
Her mother tilted her head slightly. “Some are. Some aren’t. That is not the point.”
That was as much of an admission she was likely to get from her mother. “What of Father?”
“Your father is a busy man. He hasn’t always made time for me.”
“Did you ever love him?”
“Your father?” Her mother paused as if considering the question. “I suppose I believed myself to be in love. When you’re young and foolish and caught up in a whirlwind courtship, it’s easy to convince yourself it’s love.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“Perhaps it was. The truth of the matter is that there are a multitude of men who can bring you pleasure. I didn’t understand then in my youth. I’ve loved some of them, but certainly not all of them.”
Thus proving her theory that love does not endure. Agnes felt a weight settle on her shoulders.
