Page 50 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
She lifted a delicate shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t particularly care for dancing.”
Though he knew that wasn’t the entire story. She didn’t enjoy being wrapped in a man’s embrace, especially the men who tended to gravitate toward her. For not the first time, Fletcher cursed her brother for being a blind arse and not protecting his sister.
“We need a list,” Fletcher said. “I want to know who this bastard is.” Then he frowned. “My apologies, ladies, I should not use such coarse language.”
“Sometimes a situation calls for it,” Justine said.
The women volleyed some names back and forth.
“We know it’s not Sullivan, as much as I loathe the man. You dance with him at nearly every function,” Matilda said.
Fletcher raised one brow in question.
Matilda waved a hand dismissively. “The feeling is mutual, I can promise you that. My sister is married to his brother.” She visibly shuddered. “He makes her miserable.”
Fletcher blew out a breath. He hadn’t meant to get involved in any family ordeals.
“Do you think this admirer is dangerous?” Justine asked, her tone guarded.
Agnes met his gaze, and he knew that no matter what, he’d protect her with his last breath. She was too important to him not to. “I think he’s potentially dangerous. I’m not willing to take the risk with Agnes’s safety.”
“Perhaps I should retire from public life,” Agnes said. “That would solve everything.” The defeat in her tone was a punch to Fletcher’s gut. Why had he been such a bloody coward and not fought for her when he’d had the chance? He could have prevented all of this.
Not for the first time, he scoured his mind for a worthy man to marry and protect her. But every name that came to him proved wrong in some way or another.
“It certainly wouldn’t solve him scaling the wall into your garden,” Matilda said.
Agnes hung her head.
“What? Who scaled your wall?” Fletcher asked.
Agnes met his gaze. “It’s nothing. He sent me flowers last week. They had all been cut from my own garden.”
“How is that nothing?” he asked.
“That’s what we told her,” Justine said.
“I know it isn’t nothing, but it doesn’t change anything we’re discussing tonight,” Agnes said.
“Except that he knows where you live and how to get onto your property without being invited,” Fletcher said. He swore, but this time didn’t bother apologizing to the women. “This was the wrong bloody time for your brother to leave town.” He was ready for Chris to get back to London if no for other reason than Fletcher wanted to pound him in the face.
“My mother is there with me.” Agnes took a deep breath. “And in three days we are all going to Brookhaven for Lord Davenport’s country house party.”
“Then I suppose I shall attend as well.” He eyed the other women. “I need you to be vigilant in watching every encounter she has with any man.”
They both nodded.
…
“He is in love with you,” Justine said.
“It certainly doesn’t feel like love.” Not that she believed in love. That emotion was fleeting and induced by lust, but then it disappeared as swiftly as a rainbow. “He is threatening me,” Agnes said.
“Not your admirer,” Justine said.
“She means Lord Wakefield,” Matilda said.
“Fletcher? That is ridiculous,” Agnes said. “He is feeling protective because my brother asked him to look after me. That is all.” You’re important to me, Bluebell. She ignored the steadily increasing speed of her heartbeat as she remembered his words. Romantic love was only an illusion. But as firmly as she believed that, she also recognized that with Fletcher, she could fall into that illusion so easily. There was nothing imaginary about a broken heart.
