Page 62 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
“Certainly. I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
She winced. Did that mean she was an idiot?
He shrugged. “Seems about as likely as getting struck by lightning, though. Statistically speaking, the fact that two of my siblings have found it likely means that my family has reached our quota. There is nothing out there for me. So, I shall make my own happiness.”
She nodded. There was a certain brilliance to his logic. Love matches—if they actually existed—did seem to be extraordinarily rare. “It does seem that more often than not, one partner loves while the other merely abides.”
He appeared as if he intended to say more, but then he didn’t.
“You are a kind man, Sullivan,” she said. “To everyone, except Matilda, whom you seem to loathe. What is it between the two of you?”
His jaw clenched. “She has not said?”
“Only that your brother makes her sister miserable.”
“Then that is all there is to say on the matter,” he said.
Though Agnes suspected there was much more to be said. For now, though, she was done taking pity on herself. It was time to go back to the house and support Harriet. Agnes knew she was good at being in the Ladies of Virtue and she was a good friend. Despite the fact that her heart disagreed, those two things would have to be enough for her.
Two days later, Harriet was married and Agnes had gone home to London.
She had decided before she had even climbed into her return carriage that, upon arriving, she’d pay a call to Fletcher. No, she wasn’t expecting him to fall to his knees and confess his adoration and love for her.
Things had obviously changed between the two of them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. Regardless of what he thought that night had meant or not meant, she needed him to know she had no expectations of him. She also wanted to release him from any duties he felt at protecting her. She would simply stay home the remainder of the Season.
So it was she found herself standing in the study of his family’s townhome.
“What do we have here?” an old garbled voice asked from behind her.
Agnes turned at the sound of the scratchy voice, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Behind her she found an elderly man rolling himself into the room in a wheeled chair. A blanket covered his legs and an ear trumpet sat on his lap. Wrinkles lined his face, but not the pleasant kind that spoke of laughter and smiles, but rather the ones built upon scowls and anger.
“Your grace,” Agnes said with a slight curtsy. “I’ve got an appointment with your grandson.” Not the truth, but Agnes knew Fletcher and his grandfather were not close.
The old man barked out a cold laugh. “I’ll bet you do.” He rolled farther into the room. Then he coughed, hacking into a handkerchief.
She wanted to feel pity on the poor man because he was obviously in pain, but she’d heard tale of him and knew that the Duke of Harcourt was not a kind man, nor had he ever been.
“Who are you?”
“Miss Watkins. I am Viscount Darby’s daughter.”
“You’re wasting your time with my grandson. He’s a simpleton. Nothing but a lazy cad.”
Agnes felt anger bubble to life in her belly and she glared at the old man. On principle, she was nice to the elderly, but this man was trying her patience.
“Spends all his time doing nothing but tossing my money around.”
She’d heard enough.
“Ungrateful—”
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” she interrupted his tirade, “but I kindly disagree. Fletcher is intelligent, kind, and a champion to those who are weaker than him. He’s dedicated and strong.”
The duke snorted in derision. “I suspect he has you spread your—”
“Enough!” Fletcher’s voice bellowed into the room. “Sylvie, would you be so kind as to take Grandfather back to his room. I believe it is time for his afternoon rest.”
The maid followed him in, then grabbed onto the wheeled chair to push the old man from the room.
