Page 33 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
Chapter Nine
The Mapleton ball was known for its opulence. Each year, Agnes delighted in seeing what Lady Mapleton had devised to outdo the spectacle of the previous year’s ball. Despite that, Agnes’s nerves were on edge. Tonight, Fletcher would court her. At least outwardly. She knew it was a risk. Not only could it fail to deter those unwanted suitors’ attentions, but she could also end up desiring Fletcher more than she already did.
The man was despicable. Charming and dashing and far too much of a scoundrel. He was everything she shouldn’t want. But damned if she didn’t. The way he made her feel was everything. With him, she could be herself, be the desirable woman that other men wanted. With Fletcher, she didn’t feel ashamed of her body. His heated glances only made her hot with desire, not embarrassed and ashamed.
All of that should have made her nervous, should have made her worry that it wouldn’t take much coaxing, and Agnes could become every bit the wanton that her mother was.
None of it made any sense, so for the most part, she shoved all of those thoughts and feelings down so that she didn’t think about any of them.
Harriet smiled from beside her. Her friend was likely right, but Agnes maintained that happiness wasn’t everything. She feared the desire that Fletcher evoked in her would awaken some sleeping monster hidden within her, and one day she’d wake up and realize she’d become her mother. That could not happen. She was far safer with no one rather than risk being with someone who made her feel lustful and wanton.
“The other benefit to this courtship,” Agnes whispered to Harriet, “is that I shall be close enough to him to continue helping him reform his lustful ways. He already agreed to not be with any other women while our charade is going on.”
Harriet nodded. “That is an excellent point.”
It seemed as if the moment Fletcher entered the room, she sensed his presence. It wasn’t a phenomenon she could explain, and in truth she didn’t want to give it much thought. Yet her eyes easily found him across the room. Her breath caught. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo within her chest. Fletcher was clothed, head to toe, in black. With the exception of the stark white cravat tied flawlessly at his throat. He looked dashing and sinful. She swallowed as she watched him. The ease with which he moved through the room never ceased to enthrall her.
Outside of the Ladies of Virtue, she didn’t think she ever felt that at ease in any situation. Even in her own family.
She idly watched Fletcher move his way from his side of the room to hers. He stopped frequently, chatting with men and women alike. The women, however, seem to always find reason to touch him—ahand on his arm, a brush of their shoulders, a tap with their fans. Agnes couldn’t blame them, she always had the urge to touch him, though she’d never given into that desire. From here the breadth of his shoulders begged for a touch. Her palms practically itched with the urge.
She was a goose for thinking it. It seemed unnecessary for him to be that attractive. Finally at her side, he picked up the dance card dangling from her wrist. He gave her a wicked smile.
“How many of these dances can I have, Miss Watkins?” he asked.
Why did that question leave her feeling breathless? She looked up into Fletcher’s gaze and tried not to notice the golden flecks in the greenish-blue of his eyes. “No more than three, unless you want to start rumors. In which case, my brother will likely kill you.”
He chuckled, and the rich sound seemed to pool in her belly like the warmest chocolate.
“We can start with just one,” Agnes said.
“Then let us begin.” He led her out onto the dance floor, his warm hand pressed against the small of her back.
God, he smelled good. Like the finest of leather and sandalwood and something uniquely Fletcher. She longed to lean forward and breathe him in, commit the scent to memory. But that was ridiculous. What had gotten into her? All of these thoughts of courtship and marriage had addled her brain and caused permanent damage.
“Are you sniffing me?” he asked, his voice low.
“Good heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I do such a thing?”
He chuckled.
Mortification pulsed through her and she wished, more than anything, to disappear. A nunnery was looking better and better by the moment. Why had her life dissolved into such a disaster? And she didn’t even have the distraction of her duties with the Ladies of Virtue. Instead, it was all marriage and courtship filling her brain and making her a ninny.
He was quiet for the first few measures of the waltz, but his eyes took her in. His gaze was as intimate as a caress and she felt her body respond as he moved over her form. Heat radiated from her cheeks and chest, and her nipples tightened. Perhaps it was too warm in the ballroom. Or perhaps her gown was too tight in the bodice, and the friction of the fabric rubbing against her skin had caused the reaction.
“Agnes, don’t you desire love and passion?”
“Love does not exist,” she said. “Passion certainly does, but that is obviously fleeting; otherwise, people wouldn’t have affairs. Or at the very least the affairs would endure.”
“A cynical belief for such a beautiful young woman.”
“I’m prefer to see myself as a pragmatist.” She watched him for a moment, then asked, “Were your parents happily married?”
His jaw tightened, and he swallowed. “I barely remember my mother. I was only a boy when she died. But I know my father loved her. Desperately. He hasn’t been a happy man since her death.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. “My parents are not in love. I’m not certain they ever were.”
“There are plenty of marriages in this town built on something other than love. It doesn’t mean that love is a myth.”
