Page 38 of The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
Chapter Eleven
The following afternoon Fletcher stood in the gardens of the Darby townhome waiting for Agnes to make her appearance. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here. This entire scenario of him pretending to court Agnes was a disaster in the making. What had he been thinking? Having to be so close to her, holding her in his arms while they danced, smelling her lovely scent: rose water and lavender.
Then he recalled her expression when Lord Brindell had whispered into her ear. Fletcher would be a liar if he said it wasn’t partly self-serving. He wanted the excuse to spend time with her. The excuse to hold her in his arms. He knew that he could never have her, but if even for a little while, he could pretend. He could imagine what it would be like if Agnes were his. Then when he was abroad working on his new assignment, he’d look upon her with fondness, but nothing more.
When she’d asked him if he were offering to marry her himself, he’d wanted to tell her yes. Hell, what he’d really wanted to do was scoop her up in his arms and drive straight to Scotland and elope with her. Then what would her brother have to say about things? But then Agnes herself had acknowledged that he’d be a terrible husband. He refused to put her in a marriage that would make her miserable.
Last night at the ball when she’d found him with Celeste, he’d had to fight every urge that demanded he pull her close to him and soothe her worries. She’d been jealous. Agnes didn’t even recognize that in herself, but he knew that was the truth.
He sure as hell felt it. Envy ate at him every time he saw her in the presence of another man. Sullivan, whom she’d disappeared into the gardens with for a time, and any of the others she’d danced with.
So, while he had no notion of what he planned to tell her today, he knew he needed to see her, try and reconcile whatever had happened between them the night before.
She stepped out into the gardens and gave a tentative smile as she approached, or perhaps that was closer to a grimace. Yes, that was most assuredly a grimace. She was still angry with him.
“Lord Brindell found me again,” she said, her tone tart.
Anger surged through Fletcher. “I’ll kill him.”
“No need for that. He actually apologized. Said he didn’t know what had come over him and he should never have tarnished my lovely ears with his crude words.” She gave him a curt nod. “Thank you for speaking to him.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists as they rested on his knees. “I know you’re still angry with me, Agnes, but trust me when I say there is nothing between Celeste and me.”
She watched him for a moment, her cerulean eyes peering into his very soul. “But she would like there to be?”
“Yes, she would. She has been trying to get me back in her bed for years.” He longed to tell her that Celeste had been an assignment and nothing more, but he could not divulge such things. “I gave you my word that I would not dally with any women while I’m courting you. I meant it.”
“All right. I believe you.”
“I saw you leave the ballroom with Glenbrook.” In truth, watching her leave the ballroom on that man’s arm had been one of the most difficult things Fletcher had ever seen. She might not believe that Glenbrook was interested in her, but his actions certainly said otherwise. Fletcher hated that. But his own desires were inconsequential when compared to Agnes’s safety. It seemed, though, that their plan to catch another man’s attention was working.
Again, the thought to grab her and take her to Scotland hit him. They could be married by the following night.
Then she could be in his bed. Desire, thick and heavy surged through him. He shifted on the bench to alleviate some pressure building in his trousers.
“I suppose everything went as it normally does. We walked in the gardens and talked.” She bit down on her lip and stared at the ground.
Something was wrong. “What happened?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, of course not.” She visibly swallowed. “I kissed him.”
He fought the urge to stand, grab her by the arms, and shake some sense into her. “What?” he asked carefully. He had no reason to be angry or jealous. Knowing that, though, and preventing the emotions from flooding through him were two very different things.
“It was foolish, I know.” She stood and paced the small stone path in front of the bench. “I needed to know.” She stopped and stared at him. “After our dance, I was feeling flushed and…” Her voice trailed off.
He nodded but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself yet.
“Then I was outside with Sullivan in this perfectly romantic spot and the moment presented itself. And you had said that scientists test their theories more than once.”
What he wanted to do was leave here and go find Sullivan and throttle the man. “So you kissed him, not the other way around?”
“Correct. It was so different,” she said.
She sat back down next to him, then turned her body to face him. In the process, her skirts brushed against his leg. None of this was aiding in him pretending to not be aroused.
“Kissing one person is always different from kissing another,” he said. “I don’t suppose it’s something that women often learn since it is considered inappropriate to go around kissing different men.”
“Indeed. I thought to try your theory on him since we are dear friends. We share affection toward each other, so if my original theory had been correct, then my kiss with Sullivan would have been…better.” Her cheeks brightened with a blush. “What is it that makes one kiss feel differently from another?”
