Page 9 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
He chuckled. “Agnes, you know you are the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“You make me want to swear when you say ridiculous things like that.”
He chuckled again. “Noted. Dance with me and you can search the room from a better location.”
“Insufferable.”
“One of my finer qualities, I think.”
She allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor and wondered for the millionth time why Sullivan didn’t inspire anything in her more than friendship. Perhaps even brotherhood. He was handsome, dashing even with his tall athletic frame and smoldering brown eyes. But that wicked gleam he shot her did nothing more than amuse her.
Normally, she wouldn’t spend a moment even thinking about Lord Wakefield and his scandalous behavior. But she’d made a pact with her friends, and already two of them had followed through on their ends. Iris had confronted Lord Ashby about his pride and Harriet was having a devil of a time convincing Lord Davenport that his overspending was a sin worth considering. Tonight, she would broach the subject with Fletcher. Admittedly, his sin of choice was notably more sensitive than the others. It wasn’t precisely proper for her, as a lady, to discuss such matters at all, let alone with a gentleman. Still, it was time his lustful ways were reformed.
It was more than that, though. As much as she loathed to admit it, she looked forward to this dance the entire Season because it meant being in his arms. They would never be anything more than friends, or acquaintances, really. He worked with her brother and she’d always gotten the impression that they weren’t friends. In fact, she was certain that her brother loathed Fletcher.
Fletcher’s grandfather, the Duke of Harcourt, was still living, as was his father, the Marquess of Longley, which gave Fletcher the honorary title of the Earl of Wakefield. But his title came with no responsibility whatsoever, which was a disaster in the making, as it gave him nothing but time on his hands. Time and privilege combined could bring about the destruction of a gentleman.
Idle hands were the devil’s handiwork. It was something her grandmother had always said to her and it had stuck with Agnes since childhood. She, herself, rarely sat still, which, being a proper lady, was a challenge. She was expected to embroider and play the pianoforte. She wasn’t accomplished at either of those tasks, preferring that if she had to sit still, she’d rather do so with a book in her hand. Or with her weaponry designs.
“You’re never the chattiest of females. I suspect that is why I enjoy your company,” Sullivan said. “But you are unusually quiet tonight.” They left the dance floor. “Care to discuss?”
“Nothing to discuss,” Agnes said. “My thoughts are merely elsewhere.”
“You wound me, Agnes.”
“That is highly doubtful.”
“Miss Watkins,” that rich voice came from behind her. Chills scattered up her spine and she closed her eyes briefly as his deep baritone washed over her. Fletcher.
She spun to face him, and her breath caught. “You startled me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people in such a way.” His lovely hazel eyes framed by arched brows and that square jawline…being that handsome served no purpose.
Then he turned his gaze to Sullivan and nodded.
“Right then, I shall see you later, Agnes.” Sullivan kissed her hand, then walked away.
One side of Fletcher’s mouth quirked upward. “Are you certain that’s all it was?” His deep playful voice would distract her from the task at hand were she not careful.
If not his voice, certainly his beautiful face. Vigilance, she reminded herself. His cocky grin and hazel eyes spoke of nothing but absolute wickedness, and she had neither the desire nor the inclination for that. “Of course, what else would it be?”
“My devilish charm? My exceedingly handsome face?” He winked at her. Winked. At. Her.
She rolled her eyes. “You are a scoundrel.”
That won her his full smile, which nearly knocked all of the air from her lungs. Whereas some ladies experienced what they equated to butterflies flickering through their bellies at the sight of a handsome man, Agnes was certain hers was more a herd of elephants. But only Fletcher could rouse the sleeping beasts and set them loose. Did he have to be that bloody handsome?
Though she supposed this was why he had the reputation he did. One did not become known as the greatest lover in London without exuding charm.
“Bluebell,” he said warmly. “I see you’ve missed me.”
“Must you insist on calling me that ridiculous name?”
“Yes, I must. It makes no sense that you hate it so. It is all rather romantic, my equating your eyes with the precise shade of a lovely flower.”
She rolled said eyes heavenward. “There is no need for romance between the two of us.”
His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “More’s the pity.” He clicked his tongue. “It is that time.”
She furrowed her brow. “Time for what?”
