Page 27 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
Chapter Seven
Chris hadn’t known what he was asking of Fletcher when he’d requested he keep a close watch on Agnes. Yes, he’d endured unpleasant assignments before, but not like this. Chris knew of the night Fletcher had first met Agnes, but her brother had no idea that for the last three years Fletcher had done everything he could to forget about wanting Agnes. Every woman he’d touched since that night had been a poor substitute for the one woman he wanted, but knew he couldn’t have. And now he had to protect her, which demanded he be near her.
Temptation had never been so torturous.
Last night he’d held her close to him on that ballroom floor. Of course, he saw what every other man saw—her flawless beauty and her sinful curves. But he knew there was more to his Bluebell. She was the smartest woman he’d ever met, able to converse about nearly any subject, and now her brother confided in him that she was part of this covert group of ladies who have been single-handedly apprehending thieves from the streets of London. Damned if that wasn’t sexy.
Yet he wasn’t supposed to find that attractive. Or any part of her. At least he wasn’t supposed to act on that attraction. The fact that she felt the pull between them as well made the whole thing all the more challenging. She wanted him. He’d seen the desire in her eyes. Felt her pulse race in that soft spot on her wrist.
Moreover, he knew that her responsiveness was for him and him alone. He had watched her interactions with other men from afar for many years. He had never seen her look at another man the way she looked at him. Her attraction to him was heady stuff indeed.
But he was trained for these situations. Granted, normally his assignments called for him to flirt or seduce because that kind of charming nonsense came naturally to him. It was far easier to pretend to be someone like that than show people who he truly was.
Yet, he knew instinctively that Agnes would not be won over by manipulation and charm alone. She was too smart for that. If three years of loving her from afar taught him anything it was that she was immune to his nonsense.
No, with her he would have to be himself. Or as close to his real self as he dared.
Even he had his limits. He didn’t want to risk her—of all people—seeing the truth, that he was nothing more than the scared little boy who’d once stopped talking because his own grandfather had relentlessly teased him about a stutter.
With her, he would have to tread a fine line. He would have to be honest enough with her while still keeping the deepest, most shameful parts of himself hidden. A man with less training and experience might not be up to the task. Hell, if he was honest with himself, even he was worried. But keeping Agnes safe from whatever this unknown threat was, was worth the risk.
He knocked on the black door and waited for the butler to answer and gain him entrance.
“Master Christopher is not home,” the butler said.
“Yes, I’m actually here to see Miss Watkins,” Fletcher said.
If that was surprising news to the butler, he made no show of it. Instead, he merely nodded, took Fletcher’s overcoat, and then left him standing in the corridor.
Moments later, Lady Darby slid up to him. “Lord Wakefield, I’m told you’re here to see my daughter.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. Agnes had inherited much from her mother, but where Lady Darby was an outrageous flirt, Agnes was more controlled and serious.
Agnes also had eyes far more striking and unusual than her mother’s. Agnes’s were nearly ethereal, boasting a pure, bright cobalt color. The very same as the bluebells that had dotted the fields near his childhood estate. It was why he called her that silly name, because when he looked into her eyes, he thought of home.
He hadn’t been back there in years. His father still resided there. But Fletcher suspected the man chose to hide out in the lowlands rather than be here in London to continue to accept the vitriol from the duke.
Fletcher’s grandfather was nothing short of a mean son of a bitch. He never had anything nice to say to or about anyone. And his favorite pastime was berating the male children in his family. Fletcher had long since learned to ignore the man. At least for the most part.
“Come,” Agnes’s mother purred. She looped her arm into the crook of his elbow and led him into a parlor. Her other hand slid up his until she’d gripped tightly to his bicep. She gave it a firm squeeze. Then she stepped away from him and let her eyes travel the length of his form.
“I must say I’m rather pleased that my daughter has managed to grab the attention of such a handsome man.” Her eyes made a deliberate and slow perusal of his entire body.
He’d, of course, heard the rumors of her habitual promiscuity, but he’d never before been privy to any of her advances. Fending off Lady Darby was a challenge he had not anticipated.
“Agnes is bewitching,” he said unable to think of anything else to say. Even if he was not already enamored with Agnes, he’d have no interest in her mother.
Her mother chuckled. “That is surprising to hear.”
“Surprising to hear your daughter could attract me?” He frowned. “Certainly, it hasn’t escaped your attention that she is the most beautiful woman in all of England.” Aim. Strike. Target.
Lady Darby’s features immediately shifted from seductive to angry. Her jaw clenched and she nodded tightly. “Of course not. She favors me, looking upon her is like looking into a mirror.”
“From twenty years ago,” he added.
“Agnes shall be down shortly. I’ll send a tray of refreshments in here for the two of you.” She turned to go, then paused. “I’ll make certain you are afforded some privacy.” Then with a saucy wink, she left him alone.
He got the most unsettling feeling that her mother wouldn’t mind one bit if Fletcher had come fully intending to take her daughter’s virtue. The woman must not know her daughter at all. Agnes would never seduce him to trap him into marriage.
No, he’d protect her, but he’d shove his desire down until he choked on it before he hurt her. Because he’d be damned if he allowed Agnes to come to the same fate as his grandmother or mother. The men in his family were poisonous to women.
