Page 23 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
The two cranky ladies in front of them shifted, and one of them held a finger up to her lips to shush them.
Fletcher rolled his eyes.
“What is your favorite? Of his sonnets?” Agnes asked.
“Number eighty-seven,” he said.
Her lips parted. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that one. I should like to hear it.”
He leaned as near to her as he could to whisper into her ear. From this proximity he could smell her sweet floral scent. He closed his eyes and spoke the words.
“‘Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.
The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking,
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.’”
She inhaled sharply. Then from his close position, he saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. She turned slightly to face him, their lips scandalously close together. Her eyes searched his, then she directed her focus back to the woman at the front of the room.
Agnes’s gloved hands clenched the fabric at her knees while the woman finished her recitation. He rarely allowed himself the luxury of getting this close to her; she was too much of a temptation. Tonight, he was reminded why. Everything about her called to him. Her startling blue eyes, her full rosy lips, and her throaty laugh—when she allowed herself to indulge in such a thing. Her body—he shifted in the tiny chair at the mere thought of those luscious curves of hers—was made for sin.
The memory of those sinful curves pressed against him when they’d kissed the other day…damnation, he was getting hard at a stupid poetry reading.
Three additional readers stood and recited poems before the evening came to an end. Fletcher didn’t speak much to Agnes and her friends, but she allowed him to walk them to their carriage. He’d follow behind to ensure she made it home safely.
He couldn’t have her, he reminded himself. He’d lose his position with the Seven, and where would that leave him? It certainly wouldn’t aid in him deserving her. No one in his life had ever stayed. They’d all deserted him because he wasn’t worth loving.
…
It had been two nights since Agnes had seen Fletcher at the poetry reading. Two nights of longing and confusion. Ever since the passionate kiss they’d shared, Agnes had struggled to think of anything else save Fletcher’s mouth. Then he’d whispered that poem into her ears as if he’d intended the words for her. This was all distressing for a number of reasons. Least of all, it was affecting her weaponry design. Mostly, though, she was worried what it meant about her character. Was she destined to become a slave to her desires just like her mother?
Agnes took a measured breath to try and dispel the troubling thoughts. Currently, she stood with her fellow Ladies of Virtue members, Justine and Matilda, at the Paulson ball. Agnes could think of at least three other places she’d rather be—namely at home fixing the disaster that was her latest weaponized fan—but her mother had insisted on attending.
True to form, Lady Darby had deposited her daughter with her friends, then disappeared into the crowd. Attending balls with her mother had become easier since Agnes had made friends, because she no longer had to serve as a placeholder for her mother’s leftover gentlemen friends, as she preferred to call them.
“He’s certainly paying more attention to you as of late,” Justine said, nudging Agnes with her elbow.
