Barrett-NCHerNothing to Commend HerJo BarrettThe Wild Rose PressCopyright © 2010 by Jo BarrettRomance. 68151 words long. First published in 2010 enNoveltext/xmlRomance

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Nothing to Commend Her
by Jo Barrett
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Romance

The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com

Copyright ©2010 by Jo Barrett

First published in 2010

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

A sneak peek at Jo Barrett's next book...

Chapter One

* * * *

“I—am—leaving!”

“You're not going anywhere,” Magnus growled, as he turned, the scarred side of his face a pale contrast to the angry red flush of his skin.

But Agatha refused to be bullied. “It is apparent that you've no need of a companion, since we speak hardly a word during meals, nor do we engage in any semblance of a conversation afterward,” she said, her breathing quickened by her fury. “And you've made it painfully obvious you don't want me in your bed!”

She threw the shawl into her trunk and slammed the lid. “You couldn't even bring yourself to kiss me on our wedding day. Well, your mistress, or whoever this demon stalking me is, can bloody well have you!”

In two strides, he was in front of her, gripping her arms with such strength, a spark of fear gripped her as strongly as he did. Would he harm her, beat her?

Then she looked into his turbulent gray eyes. No, he was furious, but there was something else, something deeper, something that told her he would never raise his hand against her.

“There is no mistress,” he snarled.

Odd that she believed him, but she would not remain where she was of no use, where she wasn't wanted.

“And I was pushed,” she ground out.

“Then I'll assign you a bloody guard, but you are not leaving,” he demanded with a vigorous shake. “Do you hear me?”

She couldn't utter a word amid the chaotic emotions flashing across his face and in his eyes.

“You cannot leave me,” he said, his words broken and pain-filled. Then his lips crashed into hers.

Nothing to

Commend Her

by

Jo Barrett

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Nothing to Commend Her

COPYRIGHT (C) 2009 by Jo Barrett

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by R.J.Morris

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First English Tea Rose Edition, 2010

Print ISBN 1-60154-791-9

* * * *

Published in the United States of America

Chapter One

The dancers danced, the gossips gossiped, and the mothers mothered. , Agatha heaved a bored sigh. She hated social gatherings of the ton. She wouldn't have attended at all, if her cousin Hattie hadn't begged her to come along. Anyone with half a whit of sense knew she was firmly on the shelf at the age of twenty-five, and there she would remain. She'd never win a glance from a gentleman, much less a marriage proposal.

But to please her cousin—who was certain she could find Agatha the perfect man—she let herself be coerced into attending. Even Aunt Claudia knew Agatha had no prospects, but she allowed Hattie the fantasy that she would find her cousin a gentleman.

And the room was filled with them, all hunting for the current season's ideal lady. One who came with a hefty dowry, no doubt, and would make every man jealous that she was on his arm, and all that rot.

“Isn't he divine? He'd be perfect for you,” Hattie whispered low enough so others wouldn't hear.

So far she had pointed out more than half a dozen men in a similar fashion, and none of them appropriate. Well, all were very appropriate if she was one of the season's diamonds, which she was not. None of them would be the least bit interested, she was certain. Several were very handsome, Lord Crittenden for one, the gentleman for whom this celebration was for, but looks had never been first on Agatha's list—the list she no longer referenced. She'd always wanted a kind man like her father. Perhaps a scientist, or teacher, a man who would see her for what she was and love her still. But there was no such man amid the ton, in particular, not during the height of the season. She'd not missed Lord Crittenden's mother carefully choosing which young ladies he should dance with. A matchmaking mama at her finest.

“Don't you think so?” Hattie asked, determined not to let her ignore the comment.

“You have such a wonderful imagination. You should write fiction,” she said, withholding an indelicate snort, but it was the truth. Hattie, a cousin she loved dearly, was as fanciful as the day was long, but also beautiful and kind.

While Agatha, on the other hand, was a bluestocking, or more to the point, a scientist. She had a laboratory in which she spent many hours of her day, and if she wasn't working on an experiment, she had her nose planted in a book, none of which were the silly romantic tales popular with the ladies of the ton.

“He might take a look if you'd dispose of those awful spectacles,” Hattie snipped.

Agatha straightened the offending implement. “I need them.”

“You mean you hide behind them.”

Agatha blinked a moment at that, stunned her cousin had not only been so direct, but rather close to the mark. Yes, she did hide behind her spectacles, they were very useful in deterring unwanted attention, mostly from ogling men who, on the rare occasion, noticed she had a bosom. But she did need her spectacles to see. The world looked like bits of fuzzy colored glass without them, and being a woman who preferred fact to fiction, she hated not knowing what she was seeing down to the tiniest detail.

“You should get a proper maid who would do your hair in the latest fashion with some flowers or pearls,” her cousin groused, “and that dress hasn't the slightest bit of lace—”

“And is fine. If you'll excuse me, I'm going out for a breath of fresh air. It's suddenly very stifling in here.” Couldn't her cousin see that adding adornments to her hair wouldn't do any good? And she happened to prefer her dresses without lace and whatnot. It only got in the way of her work.

“Agatha, wait,” Hattie said, placing her hand on her arm. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lecture you. You know I just want to help.”

She sighed and patted her cousin's hand. “You want me to be happy.”

“Yes,” she said with a small smile.

“But what you don't understand is that I am happy. Now, I'm going outside for a moment, care to join me?”

She pinched her lips, holding back more lecture, Agatha was certain, but she wisely let the subject go. “Do you promise not to dig in the garden as you did last week at Lady Tipton's tea?”

A faint flush brushed Agatha's cheeks. “I'll do my best to refrain. But if Lady Tipton's gardener knew anything at all, he'd have known that roses require—”

“I know, I know. You've told me several times.” Hattie giggled and took her by the arm.

They strolled to the veranda and stood looking out over the gardens bathed in moonlight.

“Jonathan has asked for my hand,” Hattie said, her voice low.

Agatha's heart squeezed, why it did so she refused to consider. “I knew you favored him, but I hadn't thought it had gone that far.”

“He's going to speak with Papa tomorrow.”

“Ah, when you stumbled during the dance he'd asked you then.”

Her cousin laughed. “Yes, Professor, you have concluded correctly. As usual.”

“And this is the reason for your prodding tonight about my glasses, and dress, and so forth. You're happy, so everyone else has to be happy. And you also know that without you, I wouldn't attend a single one of these events.”

“Not as many, but you would still attend from time to time. You enjoy watching the people. You pick them apart in your mind, decipher their habits, their plans. And I'm certain you wish you could question Lord Crittenden about his tour abroad.”

Agatha chuckled. “Yes, I would, but his mother isn't about to let me get within ten feet of the man.” She sighed then took a deep cleansing breath. “And you're right, I suppose. I would attend a few gatherings, but not often and for no other reason than to examine the gardens and conservatories. And it's difficult to tear Papa away from his work, even though I find it ridiculous that I still require an escort at my age. Which, my dear cousin, is your dilemma. You won't be going about for the season, and you worry I'll sit at home for the duration.”

“I know you will, but once Jonathan and I are married and settled, we'll attend the various parties.”

“And drag me along? The proverbial fifth wheel? No thank you. My status as spinster bluestocking would never stand the strain,” she said with a laugh, although it pained her. The truth often hurt.

She wasn't really happy, she was comfortable with her life, but her father, her only other relative other than Hattie and Aunt Claudia, was getting on in years. One day he wouldn't be there anymore, and she'd be alone with nothing but her books and her experiments. Not a pleasant future, but she had no prospects. She had no money to speak of, a pitiful dowry, and with her dark looks, a complete opposite to the popular fair-haired ladies who had been the rage for more seasons than she could recall, she had nothing to commend her. She wasn't too tall, or too short, too fat, or too thin, she was just...plain.

Her mind, however, was another issue all together. Men didn't like women who could think for themselves, although many ladies did so without their knowledge. But Agatha was terrible at deception, and not very good at holding her tongue. If someone said something she disagreed with, she couldn't keep quite. After all, there was an opposing opinion to everything. She just had difficulty keeping hers to herself.

Then there were her studies. She loved gardening, but not in the realm most ladies did. At present she was working on fertilizer. She spent hours in her laboratory mixing and testing new combinations. No man would allow his wife such freedom, which always brought her full circle.

She wanted a man in her life, a husband, a companion, but she also wanted her work. The two were simply incompatible.

“Come let's go back inside. It's a bit chilly out here,” Hattie said, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Yes, and I need to find the ladies retiring room,” she lied, hating the choking sensation climbing her throat.

They separated once they'd reached her aunt's side, who was chatting with her friends over hemlines or some such thing, and Agatha went to find a respite from all the nattering.

She strolled through a long gallery, not bothering to stop and appreciate any of the paintings as she usually did, but moved on to the appointed retiring room.

Grateful the room was empty, she found a comfortable settee and dropped onto it. She took time to soak up the silence, knowing it to be short-lived. She did detest the parties, and tried to amuse herself by deciphering things about the guests, but she'd much rather be somewhere else, somewhere alone.

Not alone, her conscience prodded. You don't want to be alone, you're always alone,

With a groan, she rose and went to the basin and splashed some cool water on her face, hoping to ease her growing headache.

The door nearly burst open with a pack of giggling misses. They laughed and talked over one another so much it was difficult to understand a word, not that she was interested, but their animation was impossible to ignore.

Deciding it best to leave them to their silly gossip, she dabbed a dry cloth to her face then turned to go, but one horrid sentence stopped her in mid-step.

“Lord Leighton is a monster,” a tall, lovely girl spouted.

“I quite agree,” another responded.

“Doesn't the man know that no one wants to see his horrid face?”

“He frightens me,” one said with a visible shiver.

“I don't care if he is one of the richest Earls in London,” the tall one said. “All the money in the world wouldn't get me in that man's bed."abbed a dry cloth to her face and

They twittered at the comment.

“I can't believe your mother actually suggested you try to entice him,” one sputtered between giggles.

The girl spun around to face her friends, her lips in a grim tight line. “I don't give a whit what my mother says. He should've died in that fire, and saved us all from his horrid appearance.”

Agatha's back snapped so straight it popped. “That monster risked his life to save his wife,” she said, her voice tight. “How can you be so shallow and unfeeling? How can you be so—ugly—behind your beatific smiles? I pray each and every one of you gets the man you deserve, one just as shallow and heartless as you.” With that, she spun around and stormed from the room, slamming the door in her wake.

“Insufferable shrews,” she snarled. She couldn't begin to understand how anyone could be so cruel. The story had been told and retold so many times, Agatha wasn't sure how much truth was left to it, but she did know a few important facts. Lord Leighton had tried to save his wife of a few months from a devastating fire. He'd spent the last three years rebuilding, and had only recently come out of a self-imposed seclusion.

He was a hero, a man who'd risked all to save another human being. Yes, he was scarred, one side of his face was badly burned, and she'd understood that he'd been incapacitated for a very long time, meaning there were more serious injuries, more scars, but what did they matter? He was alive and seemed a perfectly capable man. Any woman would be lucky to have one such as him.

In her haste and anger, she didn't watch where she was marching, and crashed into a solid form as she took the corner into the long portrait gallery too quickly. Her glasses went flying.

“Oh my!”

Strong hands clamped onto her upper arms. “I apologize, I didn't look where I was going,” a deep voice said.

“No, it's my fault entirely.” She squinted at the large blurry shape before her. “I was in a bit of a temper.”

He released his grip and stepped back. She was fairly certain he executed a slight bow, which meant he was about to desert her.

“Oh, wait! Please,” she said, reaching out to his fuzzy image. “I need your help.”

He said nothing, and she had to assume he was looking at her with an odd expression on his face. Her request for help under such normal circumstances sounded ridiculous, but was no less true.

“I'm rather lost without my spectacles, you see,” she admitted, hating the small pinch of vanity in her chest. “And they seem to have gone missing when we collided.”

He cocked his head to the side, but remained silent, so she plodded onward. “If you'd be so kind as to look around for them? I'm afraid if I try to locate them, I'd have the misfortune of stepping on them, then I'd be in an even bigger fix.”

“I see. Yes—um—of course.” His hesitant response had her wondering what on earth the man could be thinking. Why would locating her spectacles be a problem?

“I'm sorry to keep you from the festivities,” she said, trying to ease the odd tension hovering in the room.

“I was taking a needed absence from them, if you must know,” he replied.

“So was I until those women—oh, um, any luck?”

“Those women?” he asked, rising to his full height, which she realized was quite towering.

“A few ladies said some things that upset me. It's nothing, really.”

“By the look on your face when you came around the corner, I'd say it was something,” he said, stepping closer.

She cupped her cheeks for a moment, trying to hide their high color. “Well, they made me quite angry.”

“May I ask what about?”

She grasped her hands before her, realizing her attempts to cool her heated face were futile. “Well they—I really shouldn't—it's just that they—” She growled softly. “They said horrendous things about someone. Things that I still can't believe a person would even think, much less say aloud.”

“About another lady, I presume,” he said, returning to his search.

“No, actually. About a gentleman, one who should be seen as a hero, not as a—oh, never mind. Have you any luck?”

He came toward her just as voices echoed nearby. It was the very group she'd just left in the retiring room, she was certain of it.

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “I truly hate to ask this, but would you kindly guide me to an alcove?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She huffed at the delay, there was no time to explain. “Hide me, please,” she said, grasping his arm and tugging him away from the entrance to the gallery, hoping she wouldn't trip over something.

With a quick glance to the adjoining hallway, he slipped his arm around her waist and nearly carried her to a nearby alcove, then quickly drew the curtain closed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“My pleasure,” he said, taking a place behind her. She could see the light seeping between the curtains and watched for movement.

“You didn't have to hide too, you know,” she said.

“Shh.” He placed a staying hand on her shoulder, sending a sweet spread of warmth down her spine. Or perhaps his nearness at her back did that. She couldn't be sure. It had been a very long time since a man had stood this close to her. No one had asked her to dance in years, and her father wasn't the sort of man who touched. An absent pat on the arm every now and then, but that was all.

The voices drew closer.

Magnus did not remove his hand from the lady's shoulder, although he should. Her warmth, her softness fed his soul. He'd not felt the like in a very long time. When they'd collided he was certain he appalled her. The look on her face and the way she squinted up at him had him stepping back.

He knew his appearance was a bit hard on the ladies. Even before the fire, his looks were nothing to expound on. Harsh and grim, he'd heard himself described. But it was merely her lack of glasses that caused her to peer at him so, leaving him quite relieved when she'd asked for his help. And yet he hated having to give her back her spectacles. How would she look at him when she could see clearly?

“Don't let it upset you, Tricia,” one girl said, pulling him from his ridiculous qualms. “Agatha Trumwell is nothing but a spinster with no prospects. She's only here because her cousin Hattie drags her along like a pet.”

The woman's entire body tensed at the comment, making him want to pull her back against his chest and ease her battered pride.

“Yes, she does have that puppy dog look,” one girl replied, creating a faint trembling in Miss Trumwell's body.

He gently squeezed her shoulder in silent support. Although her looks were not of the popular variety, he thought her rather attractive with her dark hair and even darker eyes. When she wasn't squinting, her eyes were quite lovely. Framed by long dark lashes, they swept up at the corner, creating a somewhat exotic affect. Quite enticing, in fact.

The ladies stopped and giggled at their poor joke.

“I cannot believe she had the nerve to listen in on our conversation,” another said.

One lady giggled. “Well, we weren't exactly quiet on the subject.”

“True, but we'd not solicited her opinion on Lord Leighton. She burst into the conversation and had the audacity to lecture us on our behavior,” she hissed.

Magnus’ stomach dropped as he released Miss Trumwell.

“Well, you have to realize, Tricia dear, the woman has, as Shelly said, no prospects. Any man would be a catch for her.”

The one named Tricia laughed. “Perhaps we should do all we can to bring The Monster and The Dog together?”

“Oh, what a match that would be!”

They strolled from the gallery chatting about how horrendous the offspring would be if either of the creatures could stand the sight of one another long enough to get the job done.

Magnus’ appearance, it seemed, was a good deal more difficult for the ladies to look upon than he'd realized. Of course his money, power, and physical size deterred any direct comments, but he'd no idea how detestable the ladies found him.

A heartfelt growl echoed in their enclosure, pulling his attention away from his roiling stomach.

“Dog, is it? Well, I'd like to sick a dog on that contemptible, shallow, horrid woman,” Miss Trumwell hissed, then threw open the draperies and stepped into the gallery. “But no dog in his right mind would even lift his leg to her skirts, much less take a bite of that despicable piece of refuse.”

Magnus nearly smiled at her vivid ranting, something he'd not done in a long time as the muscles in his cheek didn't work properly any longer, or more because he had little to smile about. Before or after the fire.

He stood amazed that her trembling hadn't been from the onset of tears but anger, and partly on his behalf. A surprise, to say the least. Didn't she find him as horrible as the others?

She spun to face him and pointed toward the direction the ladies had gone. “How can men be so blinded by their looks to not see the revolting beings they truly are? I will admit that I broke into their conversation, that I lectured them on their tasteless comments, but Lord Leighton has done nothing to them. How can they attack a man who tried to save the woman he loved?”

He had no response to that. Yes, he'd tried to save his wife, but not out of love. There was none in his heart, she'd killed the faintest glimmer a long time ago.

“Please, tell me that you see through their guile and charms. That a pretty face does not pardon them from their incomprehensible behavior,” she said, crossing her arms firmly beneath a rather nice bosom.

Magnus blinked a moment, wondering how his thoughts could have moved to such a place.

He cleared his throat and raised his gaze to her heated face, noting her full pouty lips, then quickly redirected his thoughts.

“A pretty face is well and good, but that is not where true beauty lies.” His wife had taught him that lesson quite well.

Those tempting lips pulled into a smile, wide and bright, filled with guileless warmth that touched him where even he dare not go.

He took her hand, noting the sudden intake of her breath, and kissed the back. “And you, Miss Trumwell, are beautiful,” he said, and slipped her spectacles into her trembling palm then exited the gallery. A few more moments in her presence and he'd make a fool of himself. Nor did he wish to embarrass the lady once she realized he was The Monster.

He wanted to remember her smile, her warmth, her true compassion, and the sweet scent that permeated the air around her. Rose water, perhaps? It lingered still, deep in his senses as he crossed the ballroom. He would take his leave of his old school chum, Crittenden, and make a hasty exit.

“You haven't asked me to dance, Magnus,” a soft voice from his past, his wife's past, made him stop and turn. “I'm hurt,” Beatrice Hayden said, her words were meant to be teasing, but her eyes held an uncomfortable intensity.

He'd not seen her since his wife's funeral. Her tears had been quite vocal, as his wife had been her best friend. But he found it odd that she would wish to dance with him. The woman loathed him, or so it seemed whenever he was about during one of her visits to Bridley Hall.

He gave a faint nod of his head, determined to avoid any sort of scene. “I apologize for the oversight, Miss Hayden. I had no idea you were here.”

She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “You used to call me Beatrice.”

“Very well, Beatrice,” he said with a nod, then took her hand and led her to the floor, feeling every eye in the room upon them.

Nonsense, he reasoned, the incident in the gallery had unnerved him, that was all. But his gaze caught on Miss Trumwell as she took her place beside her cousin, her glasses perched atop her pert little nose. As he took Beatrice's hand and placed his other at her waist, he found he wanted nothing more than to replace the false beauty in his arms with one spinsterish female.

Shaking the notion from his thoughts, he stepped into the waltz, resorting to counting the steps in his head to keep from gazing at the unusual woman in the back of the room.

“Why do I feel I haven't your full attention?” Beatrice asked, her gaze lingering on his scars before meeting his eyes.

“My apologies. I have much on my mind this evening.”

“You work too hard, Magnus. You should find the time to relax and put things in their proper perspective,” she said, but he hardly heard her.

A fair head leaned close to Miss Trumwell's, bringing a bright smile to her face, and once again, he nearly smiled himself.

“There are many lovely ladies here this evening,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps it's time for you to choose a new wife.”

Miss Trumwell's gaze caught his as the word wife rang in his ears. Her head tipped to the side as she looked at him, her inspection from behind her spectacles was somewhat discomforting, and not because of his scars, but because he feared she knew it had been he in the gallery. And yet he had to ask himself, what did it matter? They'd never been properly introduced, and would likely never meet again, for he had no intention of ever attending another public gathering for as long as he lived.

The music stopped, and he escorted Beatrice back to the fringes of the dance floor.

“I'm sorry that seeing me has upset you, Magnus,” Beatrice said, her smile a bit too like a satisfied cat.

“On the contrary. It was a pleasure, but I've business I must attend to. If you will excuse me,” he said with a bow, and disappeared amid the milling ton, desperate to leave. He had to get out before he crossed the room and took Miss Trumwell's hand and led her to the dance floor. That would surely start the harpies to chattering, not to mention the laughter at his and Miss Trumwell's expense on the part of the distasteful group of young misses they'd overheard in the gallery.

With enough haste to cause a bit of a stir, he exited the ballroom, leaving a wake of gawkers behind him.

“Good heavens,” Agatha whispered on a breath. It had been him, the entire time, it had been Lord Leighton. Oh, she wanted to disappear into the wall like the wallflower she was.

“What is it? You're as pale as a ghost.”

“Oh, Hattie,” she groaned, covering her flaming face with her hands. “I am such a fool.”

She giggled. “Did you go tromping through Lord Crittenden's garden?”

Agatha turned her back to the room, people were beginning to notice her state. “The man I told you about, the one in the gallery—” she whispered.

Hattie leaned close. “What of him, other than it's obvious you like him?” She reached for Agatha's hands, now clamped tightly before her. “Oh Agatha, what did you do? What haven't you told me?”

She shook her head, hating the pounding that answered her movement. “It was him. Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby.”

“Oh no.” Hattie squeezed her hands. “How do you know? Are you certain?”

Agatha nodded, despising the tears of anger and embarrassment climbing her throat. “He was dancing with a woman, and yet he was—he was staring at me.”

Hattie chuckled half-heartedly. “That isn't proof. And how can you be sure he was staring at you. The room is filled to overflowing.”

She glanced at her cousin. “I'm not completely blind without my spectacles. Even I could not mistake his height, the color of his clothes or the shading of his hair. He's the tallest, the darkest, and the best dressed among them. It also explains why he practically fled from the gallery after returning my glasses without introducing himself. And he was staring. Men do not stare at me.”

“Well,” Hattie replied with a heavy breath. “There's nothing to do about it, then. He has left, so you've no need to worry about crossing paths. He is likely just as embarrassed as you,” she said with a squeeze of her hand.

“Yes. Yes, you're right, but—”

“But you like him and now you feel the man you've chosen will never be able to face you again.”

Setting her jaw, Agatha turned back to the room. “Don't be ridiculous. He was a gentleman, one that didn't deserve such humiliation. That is all.”

Hattie laughed. “You are such a poor liar, cousin.”

Agatha swallowed her sorrow, hating how right she was. She liked the man in the gallery quite a bit. His kindness, his understanding—his attention. She hated admitting that to have a man play her champion, although in silence, had been a wonderful feeling. His strong hand on her shoulder, the subtle squeeze as the women spouted their horrid words, the simple warmth at her back. She'd wanted to lean against him, be held and touched in ways she'd never experienced. But to discover it had been Lord Leighton himself, what humiliation! It wasn't any wonder he left as he did.

Her gaze drifted to the doorway where he'd disappeared from view—from her life.

“I've completely lost my senses,” she muttered to herself. She didn't know the man, they'd never been introduced. She only knew of him and the tragedy of his past. Still, she thought, he would remain forever in her mind.

“You're not leaving,” Lord Crittenden said, snagging Magnus by the arm as he hurried toward the door.

He took a solid breath and looked to his friend. “I am. I'd intended to say good night, but was detoured.”

Crittenden, a man who'd known him since he was in short pants, saw through his lie, he knew it by the look on his face. But his friend didn't mention it. He chose a more direct means of keeping him at the ball...guilt.

“You cannot leave me alone! Mother will serve me up on a platter before the night is through,” Crittenden said. “And after all the churlish, distasteful curses you put on my head while I helped you through your first weeks of recovery.”

Magnus held back his grin at the overdone drama before him, but he did have a point. He'd been an unpleasant fellow for months, and Crittenden was the only one he'd allowed near him, other than his butler and valet. Any and all social calls, the nosy gossips, had been turned away at the door.

“Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Crittenden? She's not going to announce an engagement tonight,” Magnus said.

His friend's eyes danced from side to side, as if he was being watched, and he was, truth to tell.

“She'll do anything to get me married off,” he whispered harshly. “I'd leave with you, if I thought I stood a chance of getting past the footmen. That dragon has them on a tight leash this eve.”

A low rumbling chuckle, small but evident, sounded in Magnus throat. He'd missed his school chum these last few years. Crittenden always knew how to lighten the mood no matter the situation, which was why he'd allowed his presence during his initial recuperation.

Clasping his friend's shoulder, he said, “Your mother is an exceptionally good woman. She's one of the finest of her station.”

“Egad, don't tell me you've defected.”

With a small grin he shook his head. “No, never that. Perhaps since you cannot escape the grounds, we could find a more private spot. That will at least give you a respite from your status as the prime catch of the season.”

“Excellent suggestion! My study, and we need to be quick about it before she finds me.”

As they made their escape, Lady Crittenden appeared from the far side of the hall. Ignoring her obvious attempts to capture Crittenden's attention, for a lady would never shout in polite company, they hurried from the hall and locked themselves in his study.

A wide smile and boisterous chuckle burst from Crittenden's mouth, and Magnus felt the warmth of friendship ease the evening's torment. But what exactly bothered him? Was it those horrid women and their tasteless jokes, was it Beatrice and her irritating mean, or was it the spinsterish woman he couldn't seem to get out of his mind?

“That was enjoyable. Almost like when we were lads, eh? Running from a nanny or other for having done some dreadful thing,” Crittenden said, and poured them both a brandy. “But we can't go back, I suppose.” He took a seat with a heavy sigh by the fire.

“No. We cannot.” Magnus joined him, though his thoughts kept straying back to her. “What do you know of Agatha Trumwell?”

“Where the devil did that come from?” He waved it off before Magnus could begin a reply. “I believe her mother is dead, and that she currently resides with her father. She's considered quite the bluestocking, I'm told.” He sipped his drink. “Why do you ask?”

He sat back with false composure. “Some ladies said something about her and it made me curious.”

“I see. And have you met the lady in question?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“She's not the type, old boy.” With that, Crittenden relaxed in his chair and took a long draft of his brandy. “She's too virginal to be interested in a quick tumble.”

He shook his head. “Not what I had in mind, I assure you.”

“This grows more curious by the moment,” his friend muttered, leaning forward to rest his arms on his legs.

Magnus shook his head. “Nonsense.”

A low chuckled escaped his friend's lips. “By God, you're looking for a new wife.”

He clenched his teeth at the remark and remained silent. Although Crittenden hadn't meant it to be a snipe it felt like one.

“Deuced odd choice, if you ask me,” his friend said.

“Why odd?” He should have stopped himself before posing the question. It would only draw more interest to the topic, a topic he wasn't sure he wished to pursue at present.

“Well, old boy, she's not exactly fresh pickin's, is she? No, I suppose if I had to choose, and mind you, I've no desire or intention of doing anything of the sort, I'd choose one of the younger ones. They're rather affable, if you can get past their silly need to discuss fashion and such.”

“You'd choose a woman with nothing on her mind but the latest on dit?” His throat rumbled with a chuckle. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate an intelligent female as your lifelong companion.”

“If I wanted a life long companion, I suppose that would be something to consider, but they're never pretty enough.”

“Lord, you're a shallow fellow,” Magnus replied with a crooked smile.

“Well, can I help it if I want to enjoy looking at my wife?”

“Did someone say wife?” a female voice asked.

Crittenden sank in his chair and clasped his forehead. “I'm sure you're mistaken, Mother.”

Magnus set his glass aside and rose as Lady Crittenden drew up beside her son. Obviously there were no doors in this house that she could not open.

“I have excellent hearing, George. So tell me,” she said, clasping her hands before her with a bright smile. “Who's the lucky girl?”

“There is no girl.” He looked to Magnus, his gaze pleading. “Tell her.”

“I am afraid he's telling the truth. We were speculating on what we might like in a wife, but haven't discussed anyone in particular,” he lied.

“Oh, come now. You must have some idea which lady is to be your wife?” She moved to stand before her son, her gaze quite pointed and direct. Crittenden was done for, if he didn't think fast.

“One woman was named, but she's not for me, she's for Magnus,” he said.

“Oh?” Lady Crittenden looked to Magnus, and he felt the need to hide. “Are you thinking of marrying again, dear? I do hope so. I hate thinking of you at Bridley Hall all alone.”

Lady Crittenden, a woman whom he greatly admired, had a tendency to treat him like an extra son since he'd stayed at Haverton House in his youth many Christmases past. And on most occasions he appreciated her attentions, and had formed an affection for her. She was kind and considerate, and she loved her son. He wished often that his own mother had been like her, but in this instance, he wanted her out of his plans and out of his business, whatever it entailed.

“I've not yet decided, my lady,” he said, taking up his glass and finishing his brandy in one large gulp.

“Closed mouthed, the both of you,” she said with a huff. “At least give me the lady's name, Magnus. I may know her and can help you make your decision.”

He glanced at Crittenden who sat grinning like a thief, praying he'd keep his mouth shut, but diversion was a favorite tactic of his friend's.

“Her name,” Crittenden said, ignoring Magnus subtle shake of his head, “is Miss Agatha Trumwell.”

Lady Crittenden's brows rose. “Really? How interesting.”

“As I said, I have made no decisions in any way about marriage or my immediate future,” he hurried to say.

“She's an unusual choice, not as young as I would think you'd prefer, but interesting. Yes.” She tapped her chin with the tip of her fan as she strolled toward the door. “Very interesting,” she murmured, and slipped out of the room.

“You bloody fiend,” Magnus grumbled.

Crittenden stood and slapped him on the back with a hearty chortle. “Better you than me, old boy. Better you than me.”

With a roll of his eyes, Magnus made his escape from the ball before Lady Crittenden could make any arrangements on his behalf.

Yet later, sitting in the comfortable darkness of his carriage as it made for his townhouse, he couldn't stop seeing full, pouty, kissable lips and a pair of large brown eyes, filled with compassion and conviction, blinking up at him.

* * * *

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Two

“Beg pardon, miss,” the maid said. “But you're father wishes to speak with you in the library.”

Agatha lifted her head from her notes spread across her worktable with a sigh. Still no progress. Something was off in her calculations. Perhaps she should write to her friend in America for his opinion.

Naturally, the man had no inkling she was a woman, but he'd been ever helpful in supplying her with nitrophosphate, a difficult substance to acquire, as well as interesting facts from his own experiments in its use. He'd become an invaluable asset. It was a pity she had to fabricate a lie to converse.

“Tell him, I'll be along in a moment. I need to clean up a bit.”

Her father, although quite supportive in her experiments with fertilizer, didn't care for her to bring the various odors through the house. There was no avoiding it, manure was a prime ingredient.

Still pondering her latest failure, she removed her smock and washed up as best she could at the basin in the corner of the greenhouse. It wasn't a large structure, but it provided ample room in which to work. Many of her specimens, however, were outside. What good was experimenting in a perfect environment when her ultimate goal was to increase crop production, not cultivate flowers? Although she enjoyed flower gardening, it was not her primary focus. If anything, it provided a respite from her work, when she felt the need to step back.

“Perhaps that is what I need to do today? The rose garden could do with some attention,” she said to herself, as she made her way to her father's study.

But she knew it would only be a temporary distraction. The real problem was her lack of focus, for she couldn't stop thinking about Lord Crittenden's ball.

“You wanted to see me, Papa?”

“Yes, my dear. Close the door and sit down.”

She noted the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. They seemed more prevalent today for some reason. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said, but rubbed his jaw, as was his way when he was concerned about something. He gazed at her solemnly for nearly a full minute. That she was used to. He worried over her future as did she, but they never spoke of it.

“Papa, you may as well say whatever it is that's on your mind. No matter what it is, I shall weather it, I assure you,” she said with a small smile.

He chuckled, and said, “You are so like your mother.” He leaned forward and lifted a letter from his desk. “I have had an offer for your hand.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he peered at her over his spectacles.

“I beg your pardon,” she managed to squeak out.

“A gentleman wishes to marry you, my dear,” he said, waiving the missive in the air then laid it down. Her eyes followed its movement as if it were a living thing. “What are your feelings on this matter?”

She blinked a moment or two then lifted her gaze to his. Her mouth opened, her lips formed words, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat and attempted again. “Who has asked for—who could possibly want—”

“I see, so you've no knowledge of this. Interesting. But not to labor the point, the gentleman in question is Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby.” He stroked his jaw as she stared with her mouth hanging open. “I wasn't aware you knew the man.”

She shook her head. “N-n-no. We've never—that is to say we've never been formally introduced.”

He sat back with a frown. “Then I find it rather odd that he would ask for your hand, with or without your knowledge.” He lifted the letter again. “And with strict instructions that the marriage take place post-haste at his estate.”

Her eyes widened at that. “Papa, nothing inappropriate has occurred between Lord Leighton and myself. Between myself or any man, for that matter.”

“I see. And his unusual proposal?”

That night replayed itself in her mind. “Oh dear. Something did happen the other evening at Lord Crittenden's ball, between myself and some of the other ladies. A rather heated—discussion.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh, dislodging his spectacles. “And I take it this discussion involved Lord Leighton.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Papa, I would not be surprised if these, um, ladies took it upon themselves to play a rather nasty prank.”

The pain of that fact hurt more deeply than she'd ever imagined. It was the only logical conclusion. They were trying to foster some horrid joke on The Monster and The Dog. Lord Leighton wouldn't wish to marry her of all people.

Her father re-adjusted his glasses and studied the letter before him. “A prank, you say? That must have been one devil of a discussion.” Lifting his gaze to her, he said, “But I'm afraid this isn't a prank, Agatha.”

Her heart bounced around inside her chest. “No?” she croaked.

“I received an unexpected note from Lady Crittenden a few days ago,” he said with an awkward chuckle and shake of his head. “She suggested Lord Leighton was likely to make such an overture, and to consider him without any past prejudices. Of course, I replied that I considered him an admirable fellow. But until now,” he said, waving the letter, “I'd not seriously considered it as plausible. I thought Lady Crittenden had her gossip mixed up, or some such thing.”

He sat back in his chair. “But if you don't wish to marry the man, Agatha, you simply need say nay. I will not force you. Yet you should think on it, my dear. You've not had any serious offers for some time. I doubt you shall ever receive one from so esteemed a gentleman again.”

She knew he really meant she would never receive another offer ever again, but was too kind to say so. And as to serious offers, she'd never received one in her life. There had been the occasional interest of some older gentleman looking for a young stout lady to take over the raising of his brood, but her father knew better than to approach her with those.

He despised the fact that she knew how to curse, and quite well. She'd learned from the best gardeners in the area. So he avoided situations in which her ire would be so high that she'd resort to foul language. But marry Lord Leighton? It wasn't some cruel joke perpetrated by those horrid girls?

“Well, Agatha? What is your decision? I know you aren't one to tarry over such things,” he said.

“No.” She wasn't one to tarry, not when her heart was involved. Or would be.

His brow furrowed. “I see,” he said with a sigh. “Then I shall let the gentleman down as nicely as possible.”

“Yes. I mean no.” She giggled at her incoherence, it was so unlike her. “I mean, I shall accept.”

His brows rose. “Are you sure, my dear?”

She stood on shaky legs. “Yes, quite sure.” She moved to the door, curious as to how she managed it. Her heart was pounding so hard beneath her breast she felt certain she was going to faint, which she never did.

“Well then. I shall respond immediately. But Agatha...”

She looked to her father, her damp palm on the doorknob.

“I will miss you, my dear.”

She smiled, her throat tight. “And I shall miss you, Papa.”

“I cannot believe you are getting married before me,” Hattie said with a giggle.

Agatha clutched her cousin's hand. “Neither can I.”

The coach rattled on, closer to their destination. Within the hour she would be Lady Leighton, wife to the fifth Earl of Pensby. How could her life have taken such an unexpected turn in so short a time?

“I still say this is too sudden,” her aunt fussed, but with a smile. “Your father should have insisted on a minimum of three months of courting before packing you off to Yorkshire.”

“Obviously the man was so smitten with Agatha, he couldn't bear to wait,” Hattie said.

Agatha chuckled, but it came out as more of a choking sound. He'd not wanted to wait for any number of reasons, but she felt sure that smitten wasn't one of them, which left the question as to why he had chosen her.

The night in the long gallery had been the only night they'd ever spoken. There'd been no courting at all. Her father had said that he'd returned to his estate immediately after the Crittenden ball, but should he not have come to call at least once, or perhaps dine with her and her father one evening?

“The banns were read, Mama,” Hattie said, drawing Agatha from her thoughts.

“Yes, but I don't see what's all the rush. I would've loved to help you plan the wedding dear.”

“Oh, but you have, Aunt. My gown, my trousseau, the flowers.”

“Oh posh. That isn't hardly planning. Why, Lord Leighton took it upon himself to select and approve, mind you, the entire guest list as well as the menu for the wedding breakfast,” she huffed.

“I'm sure he was merely trying to precipitate things, Aunt,” she said with a forced smile. Was she about to marry a controlling man?

The carriage rattled to a stop and her father appeared beside the door to assist her. “You look lovely, my dear.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

He patted her hand as he guided her into the church and her waiting fiance. Shaking with excitement and dread, she walked to the front of the small parish to stand by her husband to be. Even scarred, he brought a sigh of admiration from her.

She knew, in that moment, that she'd not made a mistake. Although looks had not been on her list, having never been tempted by a man before, lusty thoughts had been her companion since they'd met, and now she was about to marry him. She knew desire wasn't enough to sustain a relationship, and she knew nothing of his views on politics, science, or women in general, still concerned about what her aunt had said in the carriage, but somehow he seemed, for lack of a better word, right for her. It had to be the most illogical, irrational thought she'd ever had.

Her father kissed her cheek and stepped away, leaving her to stand beside Lord Leighton. She risked a glance at him as the service began, his unmarred features toward her. Straight dark hair, nearly blue-black in the dim light, just touched his collar and framed his strong jaw. A quiet intelligence hovered around his sharp features.

But how would he react when he learned of her work? He already knew, no doubt, of her tendencies to say what was on her mind. That night at the ball had been a clear demonstration.

Thinking on it as the priest before her continued the service, oblivious to her wandering thoughts, she began to understand. His need for a quick wedding at his estate instead of in London, the small gathering as opposed to hundreds, it all made perfect sense.

The Monster and The Dog, she thought. Gossip amid the ton was brutal. No doubt he wished to avoid it as much as possible. He too had heard those ladies horrendous gibes and wanted to avoid them and their kind. Just as well, she didn't care for grand fusses anyway. They seemed so unnecessary.

A throat cleared, jarring her from her thoughts.

“I do,” she said quickly, her face burning with embarrassment. She could feel the groom's intense stare.

A moment later, he said the same and took her hand and slipped on a ring. She gasped at his touch, the sudden shock of awareness racing through her body. Why did she have such a reaction to him? He wasn't handsome like Lord Crittenden, fair-haired and boyishly charming, but there was a bearing about this man, an intensity that spoke to her very soul.

He released her as soon as the deed was done, leaving her thoughts to run wild. Would he regret his choice? Perhaps he'd offered for the wrong hand. Perhaps—

She met his gaze, there was no love there, not that she expected any, but there was no malice either. Only an odd emptiness she felt a need to fill.

How very strange and very wistful of me. Not at all like her. Nor was the intense longing, the heightened expectancy of his kiss.

Her very first kiss.

She wanted to lift up on her toes and meet his lips as he lowered his head, but it would be uncouth of her to do so, therefore she waited, eyes closed for the first kiss of her life.

The cool brush of his mouth against her forehead sucked the air from her lungs.

He doesn't want me.

That truth turned her legs to water, and she stumbled along by his side out the church door. He assisted her into his carriage amid the boisterous well-wishers and followed to sit across from her instead of alongside. A final blow to her pride—and her heart.

They rode in silence to Bridley Hall and the wedding breakfast that awaited them there. She wanted to cry, but could not, she wanted to shout out her frustration, but would not, so she sat silently and stared out the window at the cold ocean rolling beyond the cliff's edge. Marriage to Lord Leighton was not going to be what she'd imagined.

Magnus watched her gaze at the scenery, thankful she'd finally stopped trembling. Perhaps, with luck and time, she would learn not to fear him. He'd held much hope after their odd meeting. Here, he'd thought, was a woman who was no weakling, one who spoke her mind, defended her opinions, and teased his senses.

But she was afraid of him. No doubt her father had badgered her into the agreement to marry. It was even likely Lady Crittenden had paid her a call to convince her.

However it happened, there was no turning back now. They were wed before God and man, and nothing could change that. He sighed and turned his attention out the window, unable to bear the look of despondence upon her lovely face.

Lovely, he thought with a silent sniff. Crittenden had thought him balmy marrying again. He'd not ventured so far as to say she was unattractive, but she was nothing like the beauties the season had to offer, which was the very reason she intrigued him. That and her spirit.

He cast her a glance and recalled how she looked without her spectacles, her temper high. A sight, he surmised, very few ever witnessed. Her eyes were her loveliest feature. They pulled him in, held him in their dark depths. But when he'd seen his reflection in her spectacles as the service ended, he regretted his actions. How dare he be so impudent to think he could gain her favor? He was The Monster.

The carriage lurched to a halt. He stepped out and extended his hand to her. She took it and allowed him to assist her down. He noted that her trembling did not return with his touch, and held on to his first hope, although he knew it nothing more than desperation.

He released her hand and bade her precede him into the house. His staff stood along the walls of the hall as they entered.

“May I present my lady wife,” he said, his voice calm and in control, although his gut clenched.

After a few minor introductions, the guests arrived and the wedding breakfast commenced. He prayed it would not drag on too long. He had business to tend to, and his new wife undoubtedly would like to retire from her ordeal. Remove herself from his presence as quick as may be.

No sooner did he have the thought, did she lean toward him at the table.

“Would it be too much to ask that we take our leave soon?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

Magnus clenched his jaw against her scent filling his nostrils. Like a wolf scenting its mate. What had possessed him to think he could live in the same house as she and not want to take her to his bed? He'd never intended to, knowing full well the rejection he would receive. He'd only wished for a companion, one who'd not flinch at the sight of him. A pleasing face he could look upon from across the table, someone of some intelligence that he could converse with. He held no hopes for an heir or family.

“If we do, it will cause a bit of a commotion, I'm afraid,” he replied.

“Yes, of course you're right,” she said with a sigh.

He looked at her, noting the deep crease in her forehead. “Are you not well? Is that why you wish to leave?”

She turned and opened her mouth, then clicked it closed. “No, I'm fine,” she said, looking back to their guests seated at the table, as she adjusted her spectacles. “I'm just not comfortable with being on display.”

“It will be over soon,” he said, taking her hand beneath the table. He didn't know what possessed him to do such a thing, as she sucked in a breath at the contact.

With a resigned sigh, he removed his hand and returned it to his thigh where he dug his fingers into his flesh. To be wed to her, and not be able to touch her. To want her, and not be able to bed her. He had surely lost his mind. He should've left well enough alone, lived alone, and never sought another's comfort, it was an effort in futility.

“You know, Agatha,” a friend of Agatha's cousin said, drawing his attention. “I never thought you'd be so lucky.” A flash of pride shot through him, only to die at the lady's next words. “I mean, at your age, I'm sure you'd given up all hope of a good match. And now here you are, wed to an Earl. Why it's practically a miracle,” she said with a twittering laugh.

Ah, yes. Money and a title. That was the good match, not the man himself. But once Magnus got past his own self-centered thoughts, he realized that the woman had just insulted his new bride.

His hands balled into fists against his legs as he clenched his teeth together, holding back his temper. He'd hoped to avoid such comments with a speedy wedding at his estate away from the ton. But he'd not expected taunts in his own house toward his bride from a supposed friend of the family.

“Yes, a miracle,” Agatha said, her voice a bit tight. “And who knows, you might just be as lucky yourself one day, Eunice.”

The edge of his mouth twitched at his wife's returned slight. The woman he'd met in Crittenden's portrait gallery, a night that seemed so long ago, indeed, sat beside him at the table.

She glanced at him, catching him looking at her with what he knew had to be pride in his eyes. For that is what he felt.

“Well met,” he said lowly.

She smiled, a blush stealing over her cheeks.

“To the happy couple,” someone called out.

“Let's hope this one proves better than the last,” a familiar voice said amid the cheers of agreement.

Magnus pulled his gaze from his wife to find Beatrice Hayden lifting a glass to her lips, an unnerving glimmer in her eye.

Why was she here, what interest in his life could she possibly have? And how the devil had she managed to get on the guest list? If she even had. Likely, she strolled through the doors of her own accord, his staff not thinking her presence odd since she'd visited his late wife many times.

Heat burned beneath his collar, but he would hold his tongue. The entire event was awkward, he need not add to it and embarrass his new wife by losing his accursed temper.

A hand, soft and tentative, stole over his clenched fist atop his leg. His gaze snapped to Agatha and her sweet smile, dissipating his anger. He slowly turned his hand over and her fingers entwined with his. For a moment he knew peace and comfort as his blood slowed its maddening rush through his body. She believed he loved his dead wife, and although it wasn't true, he could not ignore her sincere compassion. Compassion for him.

“I think it's time to retire, my lord,” she said.

“Yes, I believe you are correct.” He stood, his new wife's hand still linked with his. “Ladies and gentleman, we thank you for your well wishes. Now, if you will excuse us, we take our leave of you.”

With a few chortles, a bawdy comment here and there, and more good tidings cast their way, Magnus pulled Agatha alongside him toward the stairs. She paused for a moment by her father and pecked him on the cheek. The old man's eyes grew damp, and Magnus knew a moment of jealousy.

While he'd known no affection from either his father or his mother at anytime, it was apparent the old man loved her as she loved him.

He reconsidered his theory of why she'd accepted his proposal. Her father didn't appear to be the badgering type, but the love and devotion in her eyes as she hugged the old gentleman could easily be the reason she'd agreed. She wanted to please her father, she cared for him that much.

The bitter taste of dying hope lingered on his tongue as he escorted her up the stairs to what their guests would assume was a honeymoon of a sort. He had no plans for a trip abroad or otherwise, and had made that quite clear in his missive to her father when he'd offered for her hand. He had an estate to run, and no desire to go gallivanting across the countryside to be ogled at.

He dropped his hold on her once they were out of sight of their guests. Although she'd placed her hand in his, it was out of compassion, and he doubted she would wish to do so on regular occasions for any other reason.

They stopped before her door. “I hope your rooms are agreeable,” he said.

“Yes, they're exquisite. Thank you.”

“Well, then. I bid you good day, madam.” He gave a small bow then strode down the hall to his rooms, pushing the fact that they joined hers from his mind.

“My lord, I—”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, surprised one again at how lovely she looked in her wedding dress. One he ached to divest her of. How had anyone not seen her simple beauty, her quiet elegance? How had she blended into the woodwork without any acknowledgement of her existence for so long?

“Did you need something?” he asked, sounding more the fool. Of course she needed something, a man worthy of her.

And that man was not him.

Agatha felt like an idiot standing there blinking owlishly at her new husband, her mouth opening and closing like a codfish.

Heavens, what have I done? This man wants nothing to do with me. And why would he?

She cleared her throat and tipped up her chin. “No. Good day.” She fumbled with the handle a moment before gaining entrance to her rooms and dashed inside. She couldn't bear the look on this face at her ridiculous display, for she knew, without a doubt, that she'd looked on him with adoring eyes.

Her heart hammered against her breast as she pressed her back to the closed door. “You are such an arse, Agatha,” she grumbled.

Where had the silly, foolish girl come from? How could she have forgotten that she wasn't wanted, that any man of Lord Leighton's stature would not want a plain wallflower for a wife?

“But I am his wife,” she muttered, moving to the window. Looking to the few trees in the distance, she focused on the subtle sway of the branches, imagining the ocean's breeze against her skin. Her heart calmed as her mind worked on the puzzle of her husband.

He doesn't feel anything for her, that much was painfully obvious yet logical. After all, they'd barely spoken more than a few words to one another. They were strangers.

“Then why choose me for a wife? Why choose a wife at all?” The empty room gave forth no answers, but she could not let go of the conundrum.

She sat on the window seat, her thoughts turning, working, ciphering for nearly an hour before the clatter of carriages brought her attention to the drive. The guests were leaving, and with that she smiled. She would take a long walk toward the cliffs and feel the sea air against her skin.

Her years in London in her father's townhouse had been good ones, but she'd always felt constricted. She couldn't go on a simple walk in the park without an escort or maid with her. Nor had she cared for the forced gentility whenever she met with a passing acquaintance. She craved freedom from such stifling proprieties, in her work and in her day-to-day life.

The stream of guests slowed, and she contemplated venturing out, doubting she would be seen by the few remaining. Yet before she could move to don her cloak, Miss Hayden lifted her head and stared directly at her. With a twisted grin, she nodded slightly, then turned to climb into her carriage.

“How strange,” Agatha murmured. A slight earlier at the breakfast and now a nod of what, challenge? “Very strange indeed,” she said, watching the coach clatter down the lane.

With a pensive frown, she pulled on her cloak and headed down the hall to the servant stairs. Within moments, she was free of the house, and relished the feel of the wind pulling at her hairpins, daring her to let it down as she followed a well-worn footpath toward the cliffs.

“Perhaps this marriage has something to offer after all,” she said, her voice lost to the wind.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Three

* * * *

Agatha's jubilation waned as evening came. Her husband had taken his meal in his study with orders not to be disturbed, leaving her to eat a sparing meal alone in her rooms. She knew he would not be coming to her bed that night. These were not the actions of a man bent on seduction. No, these were the actions of a man who wished to not be bothered—in any way, especially by a virginal wife.

She set her book and glasses aside then pinched the bridge of her nose. Fatigue weighed heavily on her, in body and spirit. Gazing into the dancing flames in the hearth, she reconciled herself to her new life. She'd wanted freedom, she'd wanted privacy, and now she had it tenfold.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she whispered with an uneven chuckle. “But,” she said, rising from the settee, “I will be able to work without interruption.” Since her husband had no use for her, cared not to be in her presence unless necessitated by society, she would be free to continue her experiments.

A small, fleeting smile drifted over her lips. She had a mission, a new goal, to find an appropriate location for her work. Then her crates would need to be unpacked, and her laboratory set to rights.

“I shall be far too busy to bother myself with a husband's attentions,” she said with single-minded determination. Her fanciful girlish notions had to go. She would drive them out with honest work, and exacting experiments.

Magnus listened like a child with his ear pressed to the connecting door as she readied herself for bed. It was madness, pure and simple. Whatever possessed him to marry again? Had Elizabeth not taught him well enough?

Her candid abhorrence for him, her one and only acceptance of him in her bed on their wedding night that ended with her cursing at him from the top of her lungs, that he was a beast, a monster, long before the scars, should have taught him well enough.

His former wife, once the diamond of the ton, could not stand the sight of him. She'd played him well, had lured him in with her coy smiles and golden locks. But once wed, he'd seen her true nature, a more horrid shrew he'd never met. He'd known she'd married him for his rank and holdings in the beginning, but he'd hoped, however foolishly, that they could share in some comfort, some familiarity, have a family, but it was not to be.

He tried, oh how he'd tried to be what she wanted. He almost begged her at one point, but in the end he knew she would never see him as anything more than a means to an end, a necessary evil in her life. Money and titles were all that mattered to her.

Pressing his forehead to the door, he let out a long unsteady breath. Now here he was yet again, faced with a woman who could not possibly want him. He'd condemned his new bride to a life with him, a man who could give her nothing. Even his home could not soften the sentence. Bridley Hall was a cold house, sitting near the cliffs by the ocean, the wind whipping at it with constant vigilance, stealing all warmth.

Love never survived in this house, he thought, pulling away from the door.

His father and mother were bitter combatants until the end. As an only son with few friends and distant relations he'd met fewer times than he could recall, George Crittenden was the only one left from his past.

Crittenden's long absence from England, and Magnus’ years of isolation after Elizabeth's death had left him alone. And in that loneliness he'd harbored one dream, one he should have left well enough alone.

To have someone love him.

He peered out the window, into the darkness, cursing himself and the wrong he'd done Agatha.

“You were right, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “I am a monster.”

Agatha gathered her determination around her like a shawl, and descended the stairs to breakfast. She was a bit taken aback at the sight of Magnus sitting at the head of the table. She'd assumed he would continue to avoid her. Although sure it would do little good, she pasted on a bright smile. “Good morning.”

She didn't wait for a response, and turned to the sideboard and began filling her plate with various items.

“Good morning,” he said, his low timbre bringing a jolt to her pulse.

She steadied it with a few even breaths then took a place beside him, never looking at his face. A footman filled her cup with tea and she nodded her thanks.

She felt Magnus watching her from behind his papers, his regard was unmistakable as she sipped her tea. There was a leashed tension to it, why she could not fathom, but reasoned it to be forced resolve, or perhaps even tolerance.

Placing her cup back in the saucer, she took up her fork and began to eat, although her appetite had fled at the sight of him.

Nerves are a puzzling thing, she thought. They could create or diminish hunger.

“Did you—sleep well?” he asked.

His odd tone pulled her gaze to his. Did she unnerve the man?

She shook off the silly notion, and quickly deduced that his discomfort rose from the unusual day prior. She knew, as he did, that things had not gone as expected the day—or night—before.

“Yes, I slept quite well, thank you.”

He nodded then refocused his attentions on his papers. She watched him from beneath her lashes, fascinated by his sudden case of nerves, equally fascinated by their departure. It was as if a curtain had been drawn, closing out the morning sun. Strange that she would prefer his nervousness to steady calm. It made him more human, she supposed.

“I hate to disturb your reading, but could I speak with you for a moment?” she asked.

His gaze flicked above the newssheet then returned to the page. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath, settling her irritation to a steady hum at his abject inattention. “I would like to know what my duties are.” Since she obviously wasn't to perform her wifely duties she wanted to know what he did want of her. Why on earth had he married her if he didn't want a wife?

He set the paper aside, his brow furrowed. “You are Lady Leighton.”

“Um, yes, but what is it I am to do here?”

He sat back in his seat and scowled at her. “Do as you wish, madam, sew, paint, manage the household, do whatever it is ladies do.” Snapping the paper open, he disappeared behind it.

She opened her mouth to make a sharp retort, but managed, only just, to retrieve it in time. Infuriating him was not something she wished to do, then again any reaction would've been welcome other than his utter disregard.

“Once a wallflower, forever a wallflower,” she muttered, then bit her tongue for saying it aloud.

He lowered his paper. “Is there something else you wish to discuss?”

“I apologize, my thoughts went wandering. But—” she hesitated, and he paused before lifting the newssheet.

“I was wondering if—I thought it might be—that is—” A muttered oath slipped from her lips. Why did she feel so terribly tongue-tied around the man?

He folded his paper and set it aside and looked at her with one lone brow raised. Apparently he hadn't missed her curse.

Ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks, she sat up straight and returned his regard. “I thought it might be beneficial if you were to show me the estate.”

There she'd voiced the idea, but was almost certain he would say no. After all, the man hadn't come to her bed, had treated her more like an unwanted guest than a wife, so why should he wish to spend any time with her?

His brows rose, disbelief evident on his face. “You mean you wish for me to escort you on an outing—some sort of—picnic?”

“Although a picnic would be pleasant, I am mostly interested in the estate itself. The people, the crops, and so forth.”

Magnus sat back and blinked—confusion, hope, and numerous other emotions swirled around his brain. She wished to be in his company, and after his snipe not a few minutes prior, words he wished he could retrieve, but he'd look more the fool for apologizing now.

“If you'd rather not, I understand,” she said. “Perhaps one of the servants, the head gardener for instance, could show me the grounds. Then you wouldn't be inconvenienced.”

“No, I often ride out after breakfast,” he said absently.

She looked up from her barely touched food. “Then you wouldn't mind if I joined you?”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, I wouldn't mind.”

Her eyes warmed and she smiled wide and bright, that same smile he'd seen so many weeks ago.

“Splendid,” she said. “I shall hurry and change.” She left the dining room while Magnus sat stunned. Could he be misinterpreting her feelings toward him?

He rose with a shake of his head. No, she would not wish for his touch, but perchance they would be able to sustain some sort of companionship after all, which was all he had dared hope for in the beginning.

Minutes later, she appeared in the hall in a simple riding habit, carrying a small satchel. He opened his mouth to inquire about its purpose, but decided to remain silent on the subject. Quizzing her was not the way to begin, and yet he wanted to know everything about her. He cursed himself for not courting her properly, learning about her likes and dislikes, but that was in the past.

He strode out the door behind her and climbed into the saddle. Mr. Skylar assisted her onto her horse and with a nod she fell in beside him as they made their way down the lane. Her gaze was on him, he could feel it, and was thankful she rode along his left side, his scars facing away from her.

She took a deep breath, and said, “It's a lovely day.”

He looked at her and nodded, then could not look away. The sunlight danced in her hair tied in a neat bun at the base of her neck, showing streaks of dark amber. Her cheeks pinkened from his stare and he forced himself to look back to the road.

“Please tell me about the estate—unless you wish to ride in silence,” she added quickly.

Taking a steadying breath, he vowed not to look at her as he spoke. She would only distract his thoughts, and then he'd likely say something he'd regret. Like how desperately he wished to kiss her full rosy lips.

He cleared his throat. “It's a rather large estate,” he began, then listed the holdings, the people, the crops, as if he were explaining it all to a new estate manager, which he did not have. He preferred to handle things firsthand without interference. Once he completed his dissertation, he looked over to see her smiling.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, somewhat puzzled as to why she would thank him for his long boring oration, but for whatever reason, she seemed pleased, and that pleased him.

“I'd like to walk for a bit,” she said. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He dismounted and moved to assist her from her horse, but she easily slid down. He tried not to take her actions as a slight, she did seem to be a bit of an independent sort, yet it rankled just the same. He took the reins of their mounts and they began to walk, the horses lumbering along behind them.

She pulled a notebook from her bag and scratched something inside, but he refrained from asking what she was writing. If she wanted to tell him, he had no doubt she would. She voiced her opinions when she liked, he'd had firsthand experience of that at Crittenden's ball. And yet, she'd kept quiet for the majority of their ride and was a bit tentative at breakfast. Perhaps his snipe at her regarding her duties had stolen her tongue. If only he could retract his words, but her question had struck him deeply. Innocent though it was, he knew why she'd asked about her duties. They were not a typical pair in a typical marriage, not even by the ton's standards.

She bent to the ground and dug at the dirt.

He moved closer. “Did you lose something?”

“Oh, no. I was just—curious,” she said, her face warming.

“About dirt.”

“Um, yes. It's, um, rather dry. We've not had much rain in the area.” She rose, putting her notebook away, and dusted off her hands. “I enjoy gardening and was, um, curious as to the condition of the soil.”

“I see,” he said, but in truth did not. The soil in the fields would be vastly different than the enriched soil in the gardens near the house. But so as not to hurt her feelings, he didn't mention it.

They returned to their horses and she allowed him to give her a hand up without recoiling, but he'd noted her shaking. There was no doubt she was still afraid of him, but at least she was attempting to endure his presence. He was grateful for that, and yet hated himself for putting her in such an uncomfortable position in the first place.

He directed them toward one of the crofts, and a family who'd had rough goings. Although the children were afraid of him, Alvin Spry and his wife were congenial.

“Who lives here?” she asked as they came to a stop in the small yard.

“The Sprys.” He dismounted and said, “I'll not be but a moment.”

“Might I join you? I'd like to meet the people who work the land.”

“I'm afraid Mrs. Spry will not be up to receiving visitors. She has been ill of late. She lost a babe some weeks ago.”

“Oh, the poor dear. In that case, I insist.” She turned to slide from her mount and this time he caught her about the waist.

The shock on her face had him pulling back quickly. “You shouldn't jump down like that. You're liable to twist your ankle,” he grumbled.

“I am not fragile, my lord.”

He noted the flush of her cheeks and the faint trembling of her hand as she adjusted her spectacles, and sighed. He shouldn't have touched her.

She glanced away and tugged firmly on her gloves, her lips pulled tight. “I am rather—sturdy and have perfectly good ankles.”

He wasn't quite sure if the remark was meant to keep him from assisting her again, or merely a bit of female modesty. Although she was not fragile, she was a woman with succulent curves he longed to explore.

“I would never describe you as sturdy,” he said.

“Why not? It is the truth, after all.”

“Not my truth.”

She lifted her gaze to his and his heart lurched at the hopeful warmth pouring from the depths of her eyes.

Daft. He had to be if he believed that is what he saw. He spun on his heels and strode toward the cottage before he acted on his imaginings and did the unthinkable.

Like kiss her.

Alvin Spry opened the door before he could knock. The older gentleman's features were worn, but more with worry over his wife than the years of hard work. Magnus noted the children huddled across the small cottage, as far from his as could be. They'd no doubt watched him arrive through the window.

“How is your wife?” Magnus asked without preamble.

“Not much better, your lordship, but I thank you for asking.”

Agatha appeared at his elbow. “My wife, Mr. Spry, Lady Leighton.”

“Good morning, your ladyship.”

Magnus noted her gaze dart around the small cottage. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Spry. I understand your wife is in poor health.”

“Yes, your ladyship. She lost a babe a few weeks past.” The man blinked away the sudden damp from his eyes.

Agatha reached out to clasp Spry by the arm. “I am truly sorry for your loss. If you would allow me, I would like to help.”

“Help, your ladyship?”

She glanced up at Magnus and made some sort of decision, he could see it in her eyes.

She jerked off her gloves and crossed into the house, a determined stride in her step. “Help, Mr. Spry. To begin with, this house needs a good scrubbing from top to bottom. And you lot,” she said, grinning at the children easing out of the corner. “You each look to me like you could use a bath.”

All four pairs of eyes widened in terror and Agatha giggled. “And directly after, a large slice of cake. No bath, no cake.”

“But your ladyship—” Mr. Spry said, his voice barely a squeak.

She clasped her hands together and looked about the room. “Now children, we shall need brushes, rags, and a bucket of soapy water to start with.”

Magnus blinked for several seconds before realizing what a unique woman he'd married. She was kind, caring, and considerate. And yet she would never abide his touch.

Forcing his ever present problem from his mind, he signaled at the oldest of the children. “You there.”

The boy snapped up straight, fear in his eyes, but determined to not show any sign of weakness in front of his father or siblings.

“Go to the house and tell Cook to send a few maids to assist Lady Leighton,” Magnus ordered.

Agatha spun and looked at him, her gaze searching.

The boy scrambled to the door and Magnus caught him by the arm. “And a large basket of food...including cake,” he added.

A slow grin spread over the lad's face then he darted out the door, his fear gone.

Magnus met Agatha's smile with a small grin.

“Well,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “If you gentlemen will assist us in removing the furniture so we may scrub down the floors, it would be a great help.

“Your lordship, I cannot allow you and Lady Leighton to do such a thing. The children and I'll manage,” Mr. Spry said, hurrying to help one of the boys move a chair to the far corner.

“Nonsense,” Agatha said, and hefted a footstool. “All of us working will have this room cleared in no time.”

Magnus choked back his chuckle. “I'm afraid the lady has her mind set, Spry.”

“But your lordship—”

He moved to step in Agatha's way and took the footstool from her hands. “However, she will leave the heavy lifting to the men.” She looked up at him as he took the burden, their fingers brushing.

“If you insist, my lord,” she said.

He nodded and turned away with the stool, relieved she'd not flinched in front of the children. He set the stool aside then began removing his coat.

Hands, somewhat tentative, eased his jacket down his arms and he almost leapt away in surprise. His wife's tremulous smile and look of adoration nearly brought him to his knees.

She spun away and went to hang his coat on a peg by the door. The smallest child, not yet five, appeared at his feet, pulling his gaze from his wife's retreating form. He looked down at the tawny haired girl with smudges on her face.

Her little hand lifted up and pointed at his scarred face. “Does it hurt?”

The house fell silent, all movement stopped.

“Gracie,” Spry hissed.

“No, it's all right,” Magnus said, and held up his hand at the father's rush to snatch her back and scold her.

Magnus crouched down at the child's level. “It doesn't hurt now, but it did when it happened.”

Her face puckered into a frown. “Your mommy's kisses didn't make it feel better? My mommy's always do.”

“No, I'm afraid I don't have a mommy.”

“If it hurts again, then maybe her kisses can make it better,” she said, pointing at Agatha, who'd fallen still.

He looked at his wife. “I've no doubt they would.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong thing to say, for her eyes widened and she blushed bright red, appalled and frightened that he might actually request a kiss from her.

A small dirty hand touched his scarred cheek, and he slowly turned his head, a lump in his throat. No one had touched him, touched his face in years.

“I'm glad it doesn't hurt anymore,” the child said.

Magnus grinned at the child. “So am I,” he choked out, then cleared his throat. “Now, what say we get to work?”

She smiled with a vigorous nod, then skipped across the cottage to help her sister roll up a rug.

He rose to his feet, thankful the room had returned to its hectic bustle, and turned to find Agatha staring at him. The blush gone, her eyes no longer wide but filled with an emotion he could not name.

The maids arrived, breaking the tense connection, leaving him more perplexed by her than ever. He didn't wish to dwell on her reaction, afraid it would feed his hopes far too much, and turned to move more of the furnishings.

With a word here and there, they managed to clear the floor to Agatha's satisfaction. He and Spry were then shooed out the door as the women took over the chore of cleaning the house and its occupants.

Nearly an hour later, Agatha emerged from the cottage with a clean Gracie on her heels. She squatted down and hugged the child and received a peck on the cheek in return. Gracie darted back into the house, and with a bright smile Agatha strolled to her horse.

“I've instructed Mary and Dorcas to stay a while longer, Mr. Spry. They're not to return until everyone is fed and all is set to rights.”

“Thank you, your ladyship.”

“You're quite welcome, and one of them shall return each day to assist with the children until Mrs. Spry is once again on her feet.”

“Oh, but your ladyship, I can't ask you to—”

“Nonsense. Mrs. Spry needs to heal and that cannot possibly be accomplished by worrying over her family's welfare.” She tugged on her gloves and gave Spry a firm look.

“No, your ladyship,” he said with a worried frown.

She smiled softly at the man. “All will be well. I spoke to her, and I believe she is in better spirits now. Just give her some time.”

“Thank you, your ladyship. Thank you,” he said, his eyes watery.

She gave the man a pat on the arm and turned to her husband. “Shall we return home, my lord? I have kept you from your business quite long enough, I believe.”

He nodded and she stepped closer for him to assist her onto her horse. Taking her by the waist, he paused only a moment before lifting her up onto her horse.

What fool had ever given her the idea she was sturdy? Capable, intelligent...womanly, but never sturdy, and yet still afraid of him, as she trembled beneath his touch.

They remained silent as they rode. What more was there to say? She tolerated his touch, and although she did so valiantly, he detested the fact that she feared him so.

Upon their arrival back at the house, Skylar helped her down from her horse, as he'd purposely managed to linger overlong atop his own. With a brisk thank you for the ride, she disappeared into the house.

Grumbling at his fate, he went to his study and concentrated on his work—after vowing to keep out of her way and let her live this life he'd imposed upon her in whatever manner she wished.

One that excluded him.

Agatha was bemused to say the least. They'd started out well, she thought, getting to know one another during their ride about the estate, but something changed after their visit to the Sprys. He'd fallen silent on the ride back, and she'd not seen him since. He took luncheon in his study with orders to be left alone, and again that night at dinner. Had she said or done something so disagreeable that he wished her out of his sight?

He'd explained and expounded on the estate during their ride as if he were speaking to another man, and she'd adored him for it. And at the Spry's cottage she'd seen glimpses of the gentleman she'd met at Lord Crittenden's ball. A kind and caring man, but what had changed? Why was he now avoiding her?

She supposed it could have been her odd behavior, digging in the dirt and scratching notes. But how else was she to get a few samples of the fields without getting her hands dirty? At least she'd managed to hide her sample away without him noticing. Or perhaps her tendency to take charge, as she did at the cottage was an embarrassment to him.

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

They'd started off well, then she'd ruined it by not behaving like a proper lady, moving furniture, scrubbing floors. She held her heated cheeks and groaned down at her breakfast plate. When would she ever learn to hold her tongue and behave as a lady should?

She straightened in her chair and sighed. But the way he'd looked at her when Gracie spoke of kisses, had that not been the look of a man attracted to her in some small way?

After picking at her plate, she gave up on feeding her body and went to feed her mind. The puzzle of her marriage would win her nothing but a headache.

Almost two weeks passed, and although Magnus had finally returned to the dining table, there was barely a word spoken. At least he could bear the sight of her once more, and while the stony silence hurt, Agatha refused to prod him for any attention. Regardless of how badly she wished he would talk to her, touch her...kiss her. His comment to Gracie echoed in her ears night after night. Did he or did he not wish to kiss her?

“Blasted puzzle,” she grumbled around a nibble of her dinner.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Oh, um, nothing.”

He returned to his dinner, but she caught him watching her several times. Should she speak, try and start some sort of conversation?

This is absolutely ridiculous! Her fork clattered to her plate. If he wants silence, he can bloody well eat alone!

“I've word that Mrs. Spry is up and about once again, and no longer needs any assistance,” she said, not daring to look at him, but from the corner of her eye she saw his hand still, his glass poised half-way to his mouth.

“That is good news.”

She heard the hesitance in his voice, but once she met his gaze she noted his eyes held no annoyance.

Determined to forge ahead, she said, “Yes, it is. Of course, I suspect, you were already aware, since you take your morning rides about the estate.”

“Um, yes, Spry had mentioned her improvement. He—”

“Yes?”

“He thanked me—you again for your assistance.”

She nibbled the edge of her lip and dared ask what had been plaguing her for days. “Are you still terribly disappointed in my behavior then? She has improved, and I could not, in good conscience, sit idly by and do nothing.”

“Disappointed?” He set his glass down, his brow furrowed.

“I know a lady doesn't normally move furniture or scrub floors...” she trailed off at his bemused stare as he sat back and studied her.

“You think that I was displeased by your actions?”

She nodded vaguely. “Weren't you?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head as if to dispel a thought before focusing on her once again. “Your behavior at the Spry's was above reproach. Truth to tell, it was I who behaved poorly.”

“But—”

He shook his head. “No, I should have realized that Spry needed assistance. I should have done more than merely inquire about his wife's health.”

“Oh, well, I suppose men don't see things the way women do.”

He grinned with a soft chuckle, and although it was crooked due to his scars, it made her smile.

“An understatement, madam.”

With no other topics to discuss, they finished their dinner in relative silence, but Agatha felt a distinct difference in the very air of the room. They'd made positive progress, not much, but every inch forward was an improvement.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

“Where ye be wantin’ this, yer ladyship?” Mr. Roberts, the gardener, asked a barrow full of manure in his grip.

Shaking off the previous night's unusual dinner conversation, Agatha stepped out of the little potting shed. “Next to the pile I've marked ‘A', Mr. Roberts.”

She'd managed to secretly set up her laboratory, and had been quite content to spend her days working on her experiments, as her husband had no need of her otherwise. And yet last night at dinner had been a beginning, of a sort, and had her hoping beyond hope that she would one day be able to tell him about her work.

She followed Mr. Roberts around to the back of the shed, another sign in her hand labeled ‘B'. She'd made a good deal of progress in her work, considering she had to start from scratch due to the fact that manure in the countryside was vastly different than that of what she'd accrued in the city. Not to the naked eye, of course, but to the trained eye of a scientist. Free grazing livestock versus stabled pleasure horses produced a different affect, one she hoped would bring her closer to her goal. And of course, she had to start with new seedlings.

“I don't begin ta understand yer work, ma'am, but I have ta say, by the looks of them plants, ye know what yer about,” Mr. Roberts said.

The wheat and corn, crops commonly grown on the estate, were her test subjects, and even she had to admit all were showing signs of improvement over the specimens she'd not used her latest formula on.

“Why thank you, Mr. Roberts. I will admit they're coming along nicely, better than I'd hoped for in so short a period.”

Magnus watched from a secluded spot amid the bordering gardens as her face lit up with a beaming smile. He wanted to share in their conversation, to learn more about his wife's work, but kept his distance.

He'd learned directly from Roberts what she was doing. The man was near to beside himself with anxiety. A proper miss working with manure was wrong. Plain and simple.

Magnus had held in his chuckle at his gardener's discomfort, but made it clear that his wife was to do as she pleased. But the conversation had sparked his curiosity, and for more than a week, he had watched, listened, and learned more about Agatha than he'd ever imagined.

He now knew why she'd wanted to tour the estate and why she'd dug in the dirt and taken notes. His wife was a scientist. He knew her to be intelligent, but this far exceeded his expectations, and he reveled in it. No simpering miss, no incessant shopping, or parties, she wanted none of that.

Sadly, she wanted none of him as well, but a grin stole over his lips as he recalled dinner the night before. He could hardly believe she thought him upset with her behavior. On the contrary he couldn't be more proud to call her his wife, he thought, and turned away to make for his study. If only he could claim her as such.

At least he'd granted her one thing in this new life, the freedom to work on her experiments. The sheer joy in her eyes as she spoke with Roberts pained him and pleasured him. He wished she could look on him like that.

And yet she had smiled at him at dinner the previous night. But the nagging question of whether or not it had been forced for his benefit, had kept him from dining with her at breakfast or lunch.

Settled behind his desk, he opened his ledger and studied the numbers, attempting to drive his wife and her damnable smile from his thoughts.

Barstoke appeared with the day's post. In a vein attempt to accomplish something in the course of his day other than think on his marriage, he flipped through the various letters until one in particular caught his attention. It was addressed to Agatha, forwarded from her father's townhouse in London, from one K. Reynolds of America.

As much as he wished to open the letter, he set it aside and continued with the remaining correspondence. Agatha's letter, however, stayed on his mind for the rest of the afternoon.

Did she have a lover?

Nonsense, she was innocent, her behavior was exemplary, not to mention she didn't seem the type. But the small sense of satisfaction with his reasoning didn't allay the jealousy eating as his soul.

Head pounding, he slammed the ledger closed. Dinner would be served within the half hour, he surmised, glancing at the mantel clock, and made his way to the small drawing room for a libation, knowing full well she rested there in the evenings, but had never intruded on her privacy. He'd always remained in his study with his ledgers until dinner was announced. But tonight, he would break his self-imposed rule, if for no other reason than he simply wished to look at her, and to deliver her mail personally so he might gauge her reaction.

He walked down the hall and across threshold into the drawing room only to find it empty. Pondering her absence, he poured himself a drink, and waited, albeit not patiently, for her to arrive, but she never came.

At the announcement of dinner, he asked of the butler, “I take it Lady Leighton is dining in her rooms this evening.”

“No my lord.” He looked about the room, his brow faintly furrowed. “I'd assumed she was here.”

“Send for her,” Magnus said, and finished off his brandy as Barstoke disappeared.

Tess, her maid, appeared a few moments later. Her worried frown, the tight fists she had on her apron, set off an alarm inside him.

“She's not in her room, my lord. She never came back from her walk.”

“Her walk?”

Tess swallowed with a nod. “Yes, my lord. She takes a stroll every evening after she changes from—that is—”

“I know of her work in the shed,” he said, waving off her stammering. “Where does she walk?”

“Along the cliffs, sir.”

He shot a glance toward the window and the increasing rain. “And you're sure she didn't return?”

Tess nodded as Barstoke appeared. “She's not been seen for some time, my lord,” he said. “I took the liberty of questioning the servants after finding Tess in her ladyship's rooms alone.”

“Fetch lanterns, blankets.” He barreled toward the door, a muttered prayer on his lips. “God, please let her be safe.”

He raced toward the cliffs, following the old path he'd walked as a child. Rivulets of rain seeped between his neck and collar, but he paid it no heed, his only thought on his missing wife.

Her fingers were growing quite numb where she clutched the vine, and her legs weak, but Agatha refused to give up. She would not die this way.

Her throat raw, she looked to the black sky above her, the rain pelting her wind-burned cheeks, and called out once more.

“Help!”

The soggy ground shifted beneath her feet, and with a gasp she pressed herself more firmly to the craggy wall. She cast a sidelong glance at the crashing waves below and prayed once more.

“Please, God. I've so much more I wish to do in this life.” A sound, faint to her ears but growing steadily, gave her hope. “Here! I'm here!”

“Agatha!”

A light appeared above her at the edge of the muddy cliff followed by her husband's face. His scars, although more prominent in the glow of the lantern beside him, was surely the most beautiful face she had ever seen.

“My God,” he rasped, and shoved the lantern to Mr. Roberts then fell to his stomach, his arms outstretched toward her. “Take my hand!”

She eased one hand from the vine and reached for him, but he was too far away. Tipping up on her toes, she stretched further and the ground gave way near her right foot.

“No!” he roared.

She swallowed her scream and grappled for a better hold on the vine. The ground ceased to crumble beneath her, and she took several shallow breaths.

“Hold on, Agatha. Hold on.”

“What does it look like I'm doing,” she snarled.

He stood and stripped off his coat then lay down at the edge. “I want you to take hold of the coat, and I'll pull you up.”

“It'll rip!”

“It will hold!”

“I'm not about to trust my life to your bloody tailor!”

“Then trust me.” His voice raw and pleading, tightened the band around her heart. “Please, Agatha.”

She swallowed her fear and reached for his coat.

“That's it, now the other hand,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the coat as the ground fell away from beneath her feet. “Magnus!”

“I've got you!”

He pulled as she held on with the last of her strength. The mud and rocks scrapped against her damp skin, but she was moving upward, and would gladly take any beating to arrive atop the cliff in one piece.

Strong, warm hands grasped her beneath the arms and hoisted her over the edge. Together, they rolled across the wet grass away from the cliff, Magnus’ arms wrapped around her.

“I've got you,” he murmured against her forehead as he sat up. “I've got you.”

A blanket settled over her, but she couldn't leave the warm haven of his body, not yet.

“I'll have a bath readied, my lord,” Tess said.

The sound of whispering voices met her ears, forcing her eyes to open. “Thank you. All of you.” She trembled and huddled closer to her husband.

“Come, we need to get you inside,” Magnus said.

She started to climb from his lap, her heart still pounding, but from what? Her near brush with death or from her husband's strong embrace?

She shook her head, too tired to puzzle it out and nearly fell over as she attempted to stand. Magnus scooped her up into his arms, and she was lost to the feel of him once more.

“I should've warned you the cliffs were unstable,” he grumbled.

With a weary sigh, she tucked her head beneath his chin. “It was obvious.”

He chuckled, a harsh biting sound. “If it was so obvious, then why did you venture too close?”

“I didn't, I was pushed.”

He paused in mid-stride. “What did you say?”

She looked up into his stern features, the lamplight casting his scars in shadow. “I was pushed.”

He stood staring at her, his mouth scant inches from hers, but she knew kisses were not on his mind. Her blatant declaration had him baffled, as it did her, but it was a fact. She had been pushed.

She nestled her head beneath his chin once more, indulging in the few moments she had in his arms. No wonder women swooned so often. The feeling of security, of strength, and dare she hope, caring wrapped around her heart like the blanket she wore.

“Nonsense,” he grumbled, and resumed his steady stride to the house.

If it had been she on the other end of her statement, she'd say the same, so she couldn't fault him in that. It was rather ludicrous when studied from a logical perspective. Why would anyone want to kill her? What would they have to gain from her death?

Did Magnus have a mistress? Was she trying to rid him of his wife so she could have him for herself?

No, that made no sense. If he'd wanted his mistress, and the feeling mutual, he'd need only to have asked for her hand. Instead, he'd asked for Agatha's. But someone had pushed her. Of course, there was always the possibility that his mistress was of a lower class, a woman he could not marry.

She glanced at the strong cut of his jaw, wondering if he loved this person who wanted her dead. A chill stole down her spine.

Agatha shivered again, and Magnus tightened his hold. At least she wasn't struggling to get away from him, she seemed almost content in his arms.

He shoved the absurd thought from his mind as he traversed the ground and made his way to the house. Upon reaching her room, he gently lowered her to the settee, not daring to go near the bed, and instructed Tess to tend her.

Her large brown eyes, peering at him through her rain-spattered spectacles would follow him into his dreams. Vulnerable, frightened, and yet determined to be strong. It was all there in those hypnotic eyes. He had to turn away before he said or did something he'd regret.

He paused and left her letter on her writing desk, then went to his rooms, using their connecting door for the first and likely only time he ever would, and quickly changed into some dry clothes.

Once dry, he ignored the urge to check on her and made for his study. Barstoke brought in a small dinner tray, but he couldn't find the desire to touch the food, and instead, paced the room like a caged cat, his mind a torrent of thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

She'd felt so right in his arms. He'd wanted to carry her straight to his bed and make slow sweet love to her. Warm her trembling body with his, ease her scrapes and bruises with his lips, and fall asleep wrapped in her sweetness.

He paused and stared into the flickering flames, and for the first time in years, he saw not his dead wife and her accusing glare, but Agatha's sweet smile. She had saved him, driven out his ghosts, and he felt the monster all the more for it. He could not give her what she deserved, nor would she want it from him. Her work was her one true passion. That he would grant her, all the freedom she needed to do what pleased her most...while he died inside for wanting her.

Barstoke appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Lady Leighton wishes to speak with you, if you please.”

“Tell her I'll be there shortly,” he ground out. He'd hoped to be saved from more torture, but as was his wife's nature, he was learning, she was resilient. She'd obviously come to her senses about the happenings by the cliff and wished to change her claim of being pushed.

He climbed the stairs, his feet leaden. Seeing her fresh from her bath with damp tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face would test his resolve beyond measure.

His brow furrowed as he reached her door. Perhaps she wouldn't look as fetching as he imagined. She had suffered a terrible fright that evening, and would likely be tucked away in bed beneath piles of covers, a nightcap upon her head, looking as prim and proper as a nun. With renewed courage, he twisted the knob and entered.

The vision that greeted him was not like he'd imagined, nor did she resemble a nun. Perched at the edge of the settee, her steady hands pouring a cup of tea with firelight framing her in a warm glow, she appeared more an angel. Her dark hair hung down her back, glistening with the few remaining drops of moisture from her bath. Her robe displayed each delectable curve of her body. No corsets or stays, no female frippery, only simple cream-colored silk trimmed with lace.

She lifted her head and smiled softly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

He nodded, words having escaped him, and made his way to a chair opposite her. She poured him a cup then sipped her tea. He watched her throat as she swallowed. Such pale skin, delicate and soft to be sure. He ached to follow the curve of her neck with his lips and linger at the hollow at the base, to taste her, relish her, breathe her in. To feel the racing flutter of her pulse beneath her skin as he explored her body and rid his mind of the harshness of his reality.

“I know you're fatigued from the evening's events, but I would like to discuss the possibilities regarding this attack,” she said, pulling him from his painful thoughts.

“Attack. I see.” But he didn't. Then again, she was forever surprising him.

Her gaze shot to his. “Yes, attack. I was pushed, although it's quite obvious you don't believe me.”

“I will admit, I find the idea implausible.”

She sighed. “As would I, in your position. However, the fact remains that it did happen, and I've given it some serious thought.”

He sipped his tea thinking, however unlikely, that it might soothe his nerves. “And what have you concluded?”

“Do you, perchance, have a mistress?”

He hacked and coughed, choking on her comment more than the tea. “What the devil possessed you to ask such a thing?” He plunked his cup and saucer down.

She took a sip, her cup and saucer steady. “Well, it's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Someone wants me dead, and it can gain him or her nothing. Which leaves only two possibilities. Jealousy or revenge. And since I've never done anything to cause anyone to want revenge on my person, I have to assume it has to do with jealousy and you.”

He blinked a moment, then his brow furrowed as he steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Damned if that doesn't make sense.” He shook his head. “However, I have no mistress.”

Agatha hid her smile behind her cup at his declaration. She'd hoped he didn't, but since he did not come to her bed, she feared otherwise. “Well then, I'm at a loss as to what this person wants.”

“I'm still not inclined to believe any of this.”

She huffed and set her cup on the table. “You think I'm delusional, is that it?”

“I think that you were confused. It grew dark early with the storm, you became disoriented and lost your footing.”

“Ridiculous,” she fumed, jumping to her feet and moved to the window. “I knew exactly where I was going, and my feet were quite firmly on the path.” She turned and glared at him. “I—was—pushed.”

“And I say you were confused.” He rose and strode to the door. “Now if you are quite done with your hysterics for the evening, I bid you goodnight.”

Disappointment filled her as he closed the door behind him. She glanced at her robe, the silk she'd chosen so carefully for her wedding night. She'd tried to look appealing, brushed out her damp hair, scrubbed her face until her cheeks were rosy, hoping she looked at least a little enticing.

After the way he'd held her by the cliffs, his tender handling of her as he carried her to her room, she'd dared to hope, but there'd been not a sign of interest. Not only did he not want her, he thought her a harebrained, idiotic female.

“Stupid man,” she grumbled, and went to bed. She would speak with him again in the morning. He would listen and he would believe her.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

Magnus slept not a moment the entire night.

“A mistress,” he grumbled. As if any would have him. His one bungled attempt had resulted in complete failure. The ladies of the ton thought him hideous, yet they'd never seen the rest of him. There was the true horror.

His right arm scarred from shoulder to hand, the palm and several fingers bore distinct ridges, and he couldn't spread all of his fingers wide. The scars limited their movement. But he'd worked from the moment he'd regained consciousness to force them to obey, as he did his right leg. He refused to be an invalid. It had taken him years to control the desire to limp, and on occasion when most fatigued, it was uncontrollable. His right side bore many more scars, but he'd been lucky his hip hadn't been shattered when a beam fell atop him.

And yet, none of his efforts mattered in the end. He was grateful his hard work had returned him his physical freedom, but no amount of diligence, medical or otherwise, could remove the mangled skin that covered a third of his body.

He'd witnessed the repulsion once on a woman's face, one he'd thought capable and willing to be his mistress, and once was quite enough. That was all he needed to know that no lady would lie with him in his bed, and he had no desire to pay for such a service. He was not his father, with his frequent trips to a brothel. The idea sickened him.

He swore beneath his breath and tossed the morning mail to the table. Then why had he married again? What had possessed him to do something so completely insane?

Because you saw something different in Agatha's eyes.

“I imagined it,” he groused, and stalked from his untouched breakfast, determined to avoid her at all costs.

Agatha fumed. All day she'd tried to meet with Magnus, but he was either busy with Mr. Roberts, or his solicitor, or out in the fields. She'd not even been able to find solace in her experiments. With her thoughts on him and the attack the night before, she couldn't concentrate and found herself jumping at ever little sound.

When Barstoke announced that his lordship would be detained in the village and would not be joining her for dinner, it had been the last straw.

“No mistress. Ha!” She stormed into her rooms, furious that he would lie to her. He was likely at the tavern with some bawdy thing on his lap.

Bitterness crept in like a wraith. If her safety was of no concern to him, if he'd rather spend his time with some accursed light-skirt, then she would have to take matters into her own hands.

The following morning, her decision having not wavered during the long lonely hours of the night, she leapt from bed and called for Tess.

The maid's head popped out of the dressing room.

“Send for my trunk,” she commanded.

“Yes, my lady.” She curtsied and rushed out the door to do as she bid.

“I'll not stay where I'm not wanted,” Agatha muttered.

She yanked a dress from the armoire, one that was plain and practical, and required no assistance in donning. Within minutes, she was fastening the last of the buttons.

Tess arrived with two servants, just as she finished pinning up her hair in a simple bun. “Right there is fine, thank you,” Agatha said, with a nod toward the foot of the bed.

The men left, and she flipped open the lid. “Tess, tell Mr. Skylar to have the carriage brought around. I'm leaving for London immediately.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Agatha turned to her armoire and quickly chose the necessities. She wanted to be gone within the hour, not a minute longer. She should've known that she wasn't suited for marriage. If he thought her crazy last night, wait until he discovered her work. Nothing was safe at Bridley Hall, not her work, her life, not even her heart.

The bedroom door slammed ajar. “You are not leaving!”

She stilled for but a moment from the onslaught of Magnus’ bellowed order before returning to her wardrobe.

“Where I live is of no consequence other than the fact that I wish to stay alive.” She snatched a shawl from the floor where it had fallen.

“I'll not stand for these theatrics. You are staying, and that is the end of it.”

She glared at his back as he made for the door. “Theatrics? Theatrics! You can take your bloody theatrics and go to the devil. I—am—leaving!”

“You're not going anywhere,” he growled, as he turned, the scarred side of his face a pale contrast to the angry red flush of his skin.

But she refused to be bullied. “It is apparent that you've no need of a companion, since we speak hardly a word during meals, nor do we engage in any semblance of a conversation afterward,” she said, her breathing quickened by her fury. “And you've made it painfully obvious you don't want me in your bed!”

She threw the shawl into her trunk and slammed the lid. “You couldn't even bring yourself to kiss me on our wedding day. Well, your mistress, or whoever this demon stalking me is, can bloody well have you!”

In two strides, he was in front of her, gripping her arms with such strength, a spark of fear gripped her as strongly as he did. Would he harm her, beat her?

Then she looked into his turbulent gray eyes. No, he was furious, but there was something else, something deeper, something that told her he would never raise his hand against her.

“There is no mistress,” he snarled.

Odd that she believed him, but she would not remain where she was of no use, where she wasn't wanted.

“And I was pushed,” she ground out.

“Then I'll assign you a bloody guard, but you are not leaving,” he demanded with a vigorous shake. “Do you hear me?”

She couldn't utter a word amid the chaotic emotions flashing across his face and in his eyes.

“You cannot leave me,” he said, his words broken and pain-filled. Then his lips crashed into hers.

Not a sound, not even a whimper left her body as he ravished her mouth, setting fire to all of her senses. Although startled by the power of his kiss, she found herself more than willing to accept his passionate assault. She'd craved such attention from him the first moment he'd touched her in the alcove at Lord Crittenden's ball. The way his tongue explored the inner recesses of her mouth, shocked and thrilled her to the marrow.

He suddenly jerked his head up and released her. Crossing the room, his back stiff, he said, “As to our wedding day, I refused to kiss a woman so obviously terrified of her new husband.” He stormed through the door, barking orders at Tess to unpack her things.

Agatha stood frozen in place not quite sure what had just happened. Tess returned, but not once did her maid look at her, which was just as well, she wouldn't have been able to form a solitary word.

She silently savored the flames still licking her body. It had been her first kiss, a glorious one to be sure, but would it be her last? And why would he think her terrified of him on their wedding day? She'd been overjoyed, elated, beyond happy.

She moved to the window and looked out over the estate. Could he have mistaken her nervous trembling for fear? After all, their wedding kiss was to be her first, one she would experience in front of his people and her family. She'd been concerned that she would embarrass them both, but she wasn't afraid of her husband.

The words those horrid girls said at Lord Crittenden's ball floated back to her.

"Doesn't the man know that no one wants to see his horrid face?"

"He frightens me.

"He should've died in that fire, and saved us all from his horrid appearance."

Her fingers brushed her lips as she sank to the window seat with understanding. “Oh my poor Magnus.”

“My lady?”

She looked to her maid. “Do you know where Lord Leighton was going?”

“I think to the stables, my lady,” she responded, still averting her gaze.

Agatha left to find Magnus. She had to speak with him, now before she lost her nerve. If his sudden kiss was any indication of his true feelings toward her, they had much to discuss.

She found him in the stables saddling a horse. The tension rolled from his broad shoulders in waves.

“I must speak with you,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart was not.

“We've nothing more to discuss, madam.” With that he bolted onto the beast and rode out of the stables as if the world were chasing him.

“Oh, that man,” she huffed. She wasn't about to let him avoid her again.

Eyeing the other horses, she frowned. She didn't have time to wait for a stable hand to saddle a horse for her. Her nerve would fail by the time it was done. With a solid nod, she plucked up a bridle and slipped the bit between the horse's teeth, then led the animal half way out of the stall before anyone said a word.

“My lady, you can't—”

“I can and I will, Mr. Skylar. Now either get out of my way, or I'll walk right over you.”

“You mean to say you're going to ride that animal without a proper sidesaddle? Without a saddle at all?”

“I'm a heathen at heart, Mr. Skylar,” she admitted plainly. “A leg up please?” She lifted her foot.

He made a grimace and looked to the direction her husband rode, then back to her. “He'll have my head for this.”

Agatha grinned. “He'll never know. I'll tell him I forced you. Now, a leg up, if you please?”

The older man ground out a few choice words under his breath and gave her a boost. Her legs astride, her skirts shamelessly high, she kneed the beast into a fierce gallop, hoping all the while as they sped down the lane, that she wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

Magnus cursed himself ten times over. How could he have been so foolish? He would forever remember the feel and taste of her. It would torture him till his dying day. And what must she think of him now?

He'd revealed a part of himself to her with that kiss. The years of loneliness, of rejection, the need to have someone care for him, the absence of passion in his life, it had all been in that single kiss. Would she stay knowing so much more about him now?

As much as he wanted to force his hand, he could not. He wanted her happiness more than his own selfish desires. He should go back to the house and tell her that if she truly wished to leave, he would not stop her.

He slid off his horse and walked toward the cliffs where he'd nearly lost her. He recalled his silent prayer of thanks when he felt her safe in his arms. A place she would never be again.

But would she be safe in London? Did someone want his new wife dead? Her avid determination that she'd been pushed was difficult to ignore, but she came from no family of power. Her death would bring about no change to anyone inheriting a title, monies, or land. And there was little doubt that she would ever bear him an heir, for he would never go to her bed.

He was ashamed of his cowardice, but he could no more ignore it than he could the scars on his body. She would turn from him with disgust, he knew it to be true.

But she fought for you, his conscience argued.

“Against a pack of shallow females.”

She accepted your hand in marriage.

“She had no other prospects. She was a spinster.”

And you are a fool.

“Of that I have no doubt,” he whispered.

A shot rang out, followed by a scream. Whipping his head around, he stared in stark terror at the sight of his wife tumbling from the back of her horse.

“Agatha!” He leapt onto his horse and raced to her side, praying with all his heart. He jumped from his horse and fell to his knees beside her as she sat up.

“Damn and blast,” she cursed.

He looked her over quickly, but saw no blood. Cradling her face in his rough hands, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, just a pain in my—” she groused, rubbing her backside. She gasped and clutched his arms. “There was a shot.”

He nodded, knowing it was useless to try and convince her otherwise, and he couldn't waste another moment sitting there in plain sight arguing with her. “We need to get out of here on the slim chance that it wasn't a stray shot from a poacher.”

“Then you believe me about the cliff?”

“We've no time to discuss it now,” he growled. Believe her or not, there had been a shot. It would be foolish not to consider every possibility, no matter how ludicrous.

“Agreed,” she said with a nod and a cursory glance to the woods.

He pulled her to her feet and lifted her onto his saddle, then mounted behind her. Within seconds they were speeding back toward the house, his anger rising with every stride.

“What were you thinking to follow me?”

“I needed to speak to you, it couldn't wait,” she said.

“What was so important that you risked your life to ride bareback? Are you mad?”

“I wanted to know why you asked me to marry you.”

“Of all the insane—I needed a wife. You were suitable,” he lied.

“Suitable,” she snarled. “Oh, yes, I was simply perfect for you. I was firmly on the shelf and my prospects were non-existent. A refusal of your offer would've been impractical. But that doesn't explain—” She stiffened in his arms.

“Explain what?”

She grew stonily silent. Before he could prod her further they arrived at the stables.

He leapt from the horse then lifted her to the ground, but held fast to her arm. She wasn't going to disappear into the house before he could get to the bottom of her foolishness.

“Skylar, if my wife so much as approaches the stables again, bar the doors!” He pointed at a few of the men standing near by. “And you lot, search the woods in the west field. A poacher appears to be about.” Or so he prayed that is what it was, an accident, but deep in his heart he feared otherwise. The cliffs and now this, could someone truly want her dead?

He turned and trod toward the house with Agatha in tow. “And find my wife's damned horse,” he called over his shoulder.

Once inside, all the servants kept a wide berth. Reaching the study, he slammed the door closed, flung her into a chair, and went straight for the brandy. He poured a hefty dram into a glass and took a long sip.

“I'd like one too, if you don't mind,” she said.

He steeled his nerves against her, but poured her a glass, then shoved it into her hands. They trembled, he noted and cursed himself for frightening her. Of course being tossed from her horse was likely the primary cause, but he knew he played a part in her fear.

He faced the cold hearth. “I repeat, explain what?”

He heard her take a long unsteady breath, but dare not look at her. He couldn't trust himself not to pull her into his arms and touch every inch of her body, assuring himself that she was not harmed.

“A great many things. But first I'd like to know if you believe me or not.”

“I am considering the possibilities.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” she said with a sigh.

“And your explanation?” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Yes, well, I do need to clear up something.” She fidgeted with her dress, the only telltale sign she was nervous. “You seem to have a misconception about our wedding day.”

He turned, curious as to where this was heading. “Is that so? Pray enlighten me.”

“I wasn't afraid of you on our wedding day. I've never been afraid of you, nor shall I be.”

His jaw tight, he gazed down into those blasted eyes, large and dark behind her glasses, peering up at him, absent of any deception. Still, he refused to believe her claims, they were all afraid of him. Years of rejection had taught him well.

He stomped back across the room to refill his glass. “It was quite clear, madam, that you were terrified. The flowers in your hands trembled as did the rest of you.”

“I was trembling because I—”

He waited, forcing himself to hear her lies, her silly explanations and braced himself for her next words.

She took a sip of her brandy. “Very well,” she said, her voice stronger than before. “I was afraid, I'll admit that. But I was most definitely not afraid of you,” she said, shooting him a scowl before turning her attention to the hearth, granting him a perfect view of her profile. Her pert nose, her long sweeping throat, she was beautiful, and he couldn't bring himself to tell her so. But he did not want her pity.

Her lips pinched. “To be perfectly honest, I was afraid of making an arse of myself.”

Magnus blinked at that, then took another long drink. The woman would forever surprise him. Her unusual nature was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place, but her language was definitely unexpected.

She lowered her head and stared into the depths of her glass. “I'd never been kissed before,” she said softly. “I assumed I'd like it, after all I wanted it—that is, I wanted you to kiss me. But I was afraid I'd do it incorrectly, or you'd be disappointed, or the entire gathering would laugh themselves silly at my—our expense.”

She ran her finger around the edge of the glass, never lifting her gaze to his, but he could see the flush of embarrassment on her skin. He remained silent, no longer certain of anything. Her motives, her feelings—or his.

“Then when you kissed my forehead,” she continued with a sigh, “as my father often does, I realized you didn't truly want me. Not the way a man should want his wife.”

She took a long, shaky sip of the brandy. With a deep breath, she said, “And you didn't come to me on our wedding night—or any night. Then after you kissed me this morning, I didn't know what to think. So, I came looking for you, while I still had the nerve to ask.”

He tossed back the last of his brandy. “And I answered.”

“Yes and no. You see, that wasn't the real question.”

“Then what is?” He wanted her to get on with the bloody business, because it was grinding the last of his resolve to a fine powder.

Slowly her gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you want me, Magnus?”

He sucked in a silent breath. Her eyes pleaded with him, begging for an honest answer, and although he knew it would give her more power over him, he could not lie. Not again. Not to himself or to her.

“Yes,” he choked out a harsh whisper.

Her eyes widened then she jerked her gaze to the hearth. Her skirts rustled as she rose and placed the glass upon the mantel. She gripped the thick marble ledge with both hands.

“Then why do you not come to me at night? Why do you keep your distance night and day?”

He turned away, unable to look at the one thing he desired but could never have, and slammed the glass down onto the tray, nearly shattering it.

“You've said there's no one else,” she said.

His hands fisted at his sides. “There is not.”

“Then you—cannot come to my bed,” she said, her voice heavy with regret.

He clenched his jaw against the need to correct her misassumption. It would be better this way for both of them.

She let out a long shaky breath. “It isn't important, Magnus. As long as I know that you chose me because you wanted me, and not because I was, well, merely suitable. That's all that matters. Thank you for telling me.”

“You have your answer, madam, now I should like one of my own.”

“Of course.”

Her skirts rustled as she drew closer, but he did not turn. He prayed she wouldn't touch him, he would lose what little control he still possessed.

“Did your father coerce you into accepting?”

“No, he did not.”

“Was it pity then?”

She snorted softly. “Ridiculous.”

He spun around and looked into her eyes, searching, hoping, and finding nothing but honesty glistening behind her spectacles. Still...

She clasped her hands before her and lifted her chin. “Nor did I marry you because you were the only offer I had. I married you because—because I wanted to,” she said with a firm nod.

“You could not want to—” Unable to finish the words, he clamped his eyes closed against the pain of the truth. No woman wanted to be with the monster he'd become. Women hadn't particularly wanted to be with him before the fire, for that matter.

“I wanted to be with you since that evening in the gallery when you were searching for my glasses,” she said.

His heart pounding, his breathing strained, he opened his eyes. “You knew it was me all along, and you say you didn't marry me out of pity.”

“I have never pitied you. I hate what happened to you, the pain you suffered, but I do not pity you. As to knowing it was you, I learned that later while you danced with Miss Hayden. You looked at me—intently. Men never look at me that way.”

“I wanted to dance with you,” he said lowly.

Her eyes grew damp and her sweet smile nearly ripped his heart from his chest. She deserved more than a monster for a husband, a man who could never love her as she deserved to be loved, but he could not give her up.

“Yet you did not ask,” she said.

“After what those harpies said in the gallery, I didn't want to cause a scene or embarrass you.”

“Also the reason for our quick wedding in the village,” she surmised.

He nodded. “Will you stay?”

She took a deep breath. “You are my husband. If you choose to, you could force me.” She stepped closer, her skirts covering his boots. “But I stay because you want me to. Because I want to, although I am concerned about the recent incidents.”

“I'll not let any harm come to you.” He lifted his hand and brushed the edge of his thumb across her mouth, aching to taste her rose colored lips. He wondered if he would ever have what he desired most.

A soft knock at the door barely registered, he was so enraptured by her.

“Come,” he called, not taking his gaze from her sweet face.

But Agatha pulled away to stand at the hearth, her back to the room. He could see her trembling, her hand covering the lips he yearned to taste.

“Lord Crittenden is here, my lord,” Barstoke said.

“I'll see him in the library.”

“Yes, my lord,” Barstoke replied, and disappeared.

Had she pulled away out of disgust from the touch of his scarred hand?

“Agatha, I—forgive me,” he said, and left her, fearing the look upon her face when she turned. He was a monster, his touch had to be unbearable to her. And his kiss. He'd taken her roughly in his arms when they'd argued, she had to be appalled. His wanting her may be what she preferred, but that did not mean she truly wished for his touch.

He closed the study door behind him then strode down the hall. And yet she'd said she wanted to stay with him. That she'd chosen to marry him of her own accord, and that she'd wanted him to kiss her on their wedding day. But how could that be?

With a shake of his head, clearing the questions from his mind, he continued down the hall. She was staying, and that was all that mattered at present. If she didn't want his touch, he would deal with that later, but something had caused her to tremble.

He walked into the library, a forced grin on his face. “Good to see you, Crittenden,” he said, and took his friend's hand

“I wasn't too sure you would be.” He chuckled. “It's only been a few weeks, old boy. But I was on my way to Haverton Hall, and thought I'd stop in and see how the newlyweds were doing.”

Magnus moved to the tray in the corner of the room and poured himself another brandy. At this rate, his wife would have him sotted on a regular basis.

“Things are fine,” he said, handing Crittenden a glass.

“A bit early, isn't it?”

With a sheepish grin, Magnus shrugged.

“Well then, to the happy couple.” Crittenden lifted his glass and tipped it to his lips.

“Indeed.” Magnus nearly drained his. What was she thinking? Feeling?

“Excuse me, my lord. Lady Leighton would like to know if Lord Crittenden will be staying for luncheon.”

“I'd be delighted,” his friend said. “And if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to stay a night or two.”

Magnus nodded. “You heard the man, Barstoke.”

With a nod, the old gent left, leaving Magnus wondering all the more about his wife. She'd recovered from his brutal kiss that morning, a fall from her horse, then his horrid touch, and was now playing the hostess. He should be relieved...glad, but found himself more bemused.

Crittenden cleared his throat. “Kind of you to let me barge in like this.”

He turned to note his friend's unease. “There's a purpose to this visit.”

With a grim nod, Crittenden sighed. “I'm afraid so.” He paced to the window, a humble look about him. “I'm in hiding.”

Magnus couldn't hold in his chuckle. “Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat, but didn't mean the apology in the least. “Your mother, I presume?”

“This isn't a laughing matter,” he said, his face a stern frown.

“No, no, of course not,” he choked.

“I knew coming to you, a newly married sod, would bring me no peace.”

He gripped his friend's shoulder, a grin on his face. “I apologize. But it would make matters much simpler if you'd just choose a wife and be done with it. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't follow you abroad.”

“But I don't wish to be married!”

Magnus’ grin wavered as his own situation teased his thoughts. “It isn't a death sentence,” he ground out, although he wondered if Agatha saw it as something just as dire. He'd taken so much from her.

“Just because you like being married, doesn't mean the rest of us want the experience.”

He turned at that. “Why do you think I like being married?”

“Well, it's obvious, man. You've done the deed twice.” Crittenden sipped his drink and studied him over the glass.

Magnus nodded, and averted his gaze to stare blankly at the scene outside the window. Done the deed twice. Twice, he'd taken away a young woman's life. The first, with deadly results, and now Agatha. How could he be so selfish?

“Honestly, I can't see the appeal,” Crittenden said. “Why not a mistress? They're much less troublesome. Of course, Elizabeth was a beauty.”

He jerked his head around, his temper simmering. “And Agatha isn't, is that it? You want to know why I chose a wife who's been on the shelf for some time, one not stamped out like a repeating bad pattern of the popular ladies of the season.”

Crittenden slowly lowered his glass, his brow furrowed. “I meant no insult, Leighton.”

He stomped to the corner, set his glass down hard alongside the decanter of brandy, and gripped the edge of the table. Taking several deep breaths, he reined in his temper. “No, I'm sure you didn't.”

“I only meant that she's nothing like the skirts we chased in our youth,” his friend said.

It had been Crittenden doing the chasing, although Magnus scooped up the leavings when there were any, which wasn't often. Even in his youth, he'd been a dour sort of fellow and not popular with the ladies. Elizabeth had been a rare gem who'd paid him attention. He'd thought himself so lucky.

“No, she's not like them,” Magnus muttered, shaking his head, but dare not meet his friend's gaze. They'd known each other far too long. Even with Crittenden's absence these past years, he would see the torment and regret mixed with hope and longing in his eyes.

“So,” Magnus said, clearing his throat. “How long do you need to hide?”

“A few days, at most. Until my mother's spies report back to her that I am not at Haverton House.” He chuckled, lifting the tension from the room. “I don't wish to be a sudden host to a slew of matchmaking mamas and their offspring.”

Magnus grinned at the picture of women, in various shapes and sizes, descending on his estate for a long and torturous unplanned house party. “Surely she wouldn't go that far.”

With a groan, he dropped into a chair. “You've no idea.”

A chuckle burst forth. “Sorry. Well, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

A worried frown marred Crittenden's features as he looked up. “Are you quite sure I wouldn't be a nuisance? I truly meant it when I said I didn't wish to interrupt your newly married—bliss,” he said, waggling his hand while barely containing his grimace.

A laugh, albeit forced, echoed in the room. Bliss. It would be bliss to hold his wife, to make love to her, to give her all the things she desired and deserved. But that was one emotion Magnus would never know.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I'm sure my wife will be delighted to entertain company other than mine.”

Crittenden laughed. “Well, naturally. I'm ever so much more charming than you, old fellow.”

Agatha had to have something to do, her nervous energy would be the end of her if she didn't. At least Lord Crittenden would be in attendance at luncheon. She needed time to recuperate, to regain her composure. It had taken all her strength of will to control herself after Magnus had admitted to wanting her. The sensation was rather heady, and yet just as disheartening.

They could never live as man and wife, not in the true sense of the word. They would never have any children, it would be just the two of them throughout the remainder of their lives. It was a sobering thought, one that, if she allowed it, would make her quite angry. It wasn't fair to have never been given the facts up front before accepting his offer. And yet she suspected she would still have agreed to marry him if she'd known.

“Strange,” she muttered, as she made her way to her rooms to clean herself up after her fall.

Why would she have agreed? She really aught to look at it logically, but for some reason she couldn't seem to formulate a single reasonable answer.

She hurried to the desk for pen and paper and sat down to right out the various reasons for and against, but before she could place a drop of ink to the page, she sat back with a sigh.

“It really doesn't matter now,” she said to herself. She was married, it had been her choice, one she felt certain she would've made regardless of these new facts.

Her gaze strayed to the window, and she rose to look out upon the estate, green and lush with summer. This was her home, this view from the window belonged to her now. Her gaze slid to the connecting door to Magnus’ rooms. And Lord Leighton was her husband, a strong, noble man, with a kind heart and a sad past. And he wanted her, the wallflower, the spinster bluestocking.

Agatha smiled and wrapped her arms around herself. She had more than she'd ever dreamed of having and refused to allow the lack of children in her future to ruin it.

She changed into her work dress, her thoughts finally in some sense of order, tidied her hair, then made her way to the potting shed to prepare her latest experiment. She wouldn't get too involved, not with company in the house. It wouldn't do to be caught at her work, smelling like a horse stall in need of mucking, and embarrass Magnus. They'd taken a very big step in their relationship, one she hoped would lead to a somewhat fulfilling marriage.

Stepping off the servants’ steps into the kitchen, the quickest and least visible way to the potting shed, she caught sight of the cook receiving a buss on the cheek from Mr. Roberts. She'd suspected they were sweethearts, but to actually see them was a bit of a jolt.

Agatha immediately retreated into the shadows and pressed her back to the wall, not wanting to embarrass them, but in all honesty it hurt to witness such affection.

Her fingers stole over her mouth, touching her lips, as she recalled Magnus’ kiss. She remembered too well his strong arms wrapped around her, his scent swirling through her senses, the deft parry of his tongue as it teased and tormented hers.

Why hadn't he kissed her in the study? He looked as if he'd wanted to, and the way he touched her lips with the tips of his fingers—her heart skittered across her chest. Oh, how she wished he had.

But perhaps it was painful for him to indulge in such affections. She knew something of the male anatomy and procreation. Not that kissing had much to do with it, but she knew that it could lead to other things. Things Magnus was incapable of. Perhaps he merely wished to spare her feelings, not get her in an amorous way.

“Oi, get on with yerself,” Cook said with a giggle. “I've work ta do.”

Agatha heard the outer door close on Mr. Roberts’ hearty chuckle, jarring her from her thoughts. She took a steadying breath and entered the kitchen. With a passing greeting to Cook, she made her way out the door to the shed. She really needed to concentrate on her work, not on kisses or the lack thereof. It was a complete waste of energy.

And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever kiss her again.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

Magnus and Crittenden entered the dining room, but Agatha was nowhere to be seen. He supposed she had to be regretting her situation, what woman wouldn't?

“Have you informed Lady Leighton?” he asked Barstoke.

“Yes, my lord. She was—involved, but said she would be along shortly.”

“That sounds ominous,” Crittenden said with a chuckle as they took their seats.

“She has unusual interests that keep her occupied.”

“Really? What sort of interests?”

“I am so sorry to be late,” Agatha said, bustling into the dining room.

Both men stood, but Magnus couldn't quite meet her gaze, fearful of what he might see there.

“Not at all, my lady,” Crittenden said, and took it upon himself to escort her to her chair. “Lord Leighton was just about to tell me of your unusual occupations.”

“My—” Her gaze shot to Magnus and he glanced elsewhere.

“Riding without a saddle, for one,” he muttered, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

“That is unusual,” Crittenden said, taking his seat. “Do you enjoy riding, Lady Leighton, sans saddle?”

“Um, not normally, no,” she said, her face flushing furiously, bringing a grin to Magnus lips.

“I sense a tale there,” his friend said with a chortle. “But I shall be a gentleman and not press you for it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a nod.

They chatted amicably, Crittenden doing most of the talking. Magnus had no doubt he sensed the hovering tension in the room, but it could not be helped. He wanted his wife, craved her, and would forever curse his soul for the bland future he'd forced upon her.

“I would like to hear what other pursuits you engage yourself in,” Crittenden said, a distinct twinkle in his eye. “I sense you are not the type to sit about doing stitchery and such.”

She laughed softly. “Hardly. I rather prefer my work.”

“Work?”

“Oh, well, I enjoy gardening—of a sort.”

“Of a sort?” Crittenden chuckled. “What sort do you find enjoyable?”

Magnus covered a smile with his napkin at Agatha's blind gaze. Crittenden's easy banter had caught her unaware, and she didn't know how to get herself out of it. Then he realized, for the first time in a very long while, he'd actually allowed the smile, several in fact, and all because of her and his friend. In what other ways was his life going to change?

“I-I enjoy roses quite a bit,” she sputtered.

“As most ladies do,” Crittenden said. “But I detect a difference in the hobby where you are concerned, Lady Leighton.”

“I suppose I am rather particular about how I like to grow things.” She flushed beautifully.

“About your gardening,” Magnus said, deciding to help her in this odd discussion. “You're not to use the potting shed any longer.” He cleared his throat and concentrated on his food. “It will be too cold come winter. So I've instructed Roberts to have all of your things moved to the orangery.”

He spared her a glance and found her mouth agape, while Crittenden looked between them with curious humor in his eyes.

“With your direction of course,” Magnus added. “I wouldn't wish for any of your experiments to be damaged in the move.”

Her spoon clattered against her dish. “You know?”

“Of course,” he said with a shrug.

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “And you don't mind that I experiment with—” she cast a glance at Crittenden then looked back to him.

“I don't mind.” He looked to Crittenden, still unable to keep his attention on her, a greater coward he'd never known. “Agatha is attempting to create a fertilizer that will increase crop production.”

Crittenden chuckled with a shake of his head. “Ah, the unusual occupation.” He looked to Agatha. “You'll have to share your secrets, my lady. I can't have Magnus out do my estate.”

She leapt from her chair and rushed to Magnus’ side and took his face in her hands. Her eyes overly bright, she pecked a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Magnus. Thank you.”

She hurried to the door and came to a jerky stop. “Oh!” She spun around, her face a flame of color. “If you'll pardon me, Lord Crittenden, I'm sure you'd much rather spend your time with my husband, than with me,” she said in a rush, then disappeared down the hall.

Magnus sat stunned, his gaze transfixed on where she'd stood beaming with joy. She'd cradled his face and kissed his scarred cheek without so much as a flinch of repugnance.

“My word, what a transformation,” Crittenden said.

He tore his gaze from where she'd disappeared. “What?”

“Your wife, she's quite lovely when she smiles. Especially when she smiles at you,” he said with a broad grin.

He frowned at his friend then looked to his plate, although had no appetite whatsoever. “You're daft.”

“And you're blind.”

His fork stilled in midair. Was he? Did she smile differently at him than she did others?

“Rather amazing, really.” Crittenden lifted his drink to his lips. “You were saddled with a woman who, well let us say, is not what I expected.”

Magnus blinked at his friend. “Nor I.”

Later that afternoon Magnus found Agatha bustling about in the orangery rearranging various pots and plants to make way for her work area. He'd told Barstoke to assign a few lads the chore, but had the feeling his wife would be the one to manage the move. He wasn't sure his company was wanted, but felt compelled to seek her out.

A plant toppled over, spilling soil across the floor. “Blast it to perdition,” she cursed.

He chuckled at her outburst. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh! You startled me,” she said, pressing a hand to her breast.

“I apologize. I had not meant to.”

“No, that's quite all right.”

“You should have one of the servants move these things.”

She turned back to the small plant. “I'm perfectly capable of moving a few plants.”

Reaching for the spilled pot, their fingers brushed.

She jumped back as if stung. “Where is Lord Crittenden? I expected the two of you to be solving all the world's problems over a glass of port.”

He forced a chuckle, lost as to how to handle her unease in his presence. Was it due to the way he'd kissed her, or merely his scars that caused her to pull away in such a manner? “He's taking a stroll about the gardens. He'll be off to his own estate in a few days.”

“Is it far?”

“Not very. Rather lucky the two of us met up in school.”

He lifted the plant and placed it aside where she'd moved several others. He'd hoped with her kiss earlier that she'd overcome any misgivings about his appearance, but it looked to be as if things had not changed after all. However unfortunate, he had an answer to her trembling.

Her kiss at luncheon had been one of thanks, nothing more. She was likely afraid he'd grab her like a barbarian again. And he wanted to, desperately, but if she were to turn away...no he refused to dwell on such things. He would keep a respectable distance, as he had in the past, regardless of the things she'd said in the study.

He moved a few other plants, widening the space where her new worktable would go, unable to take his leave of her.

“I suspect Barstoke shall locate a suitable table before the day is over,” he said, attempting to make casual conversation.

“I'm sure he will. Although the potting table height was ideal, it was a bit ragged.” She moved beside him, her hands filled with more plants. “The cupboard he located, however, is perfect for storage.”

He took the plants and placed them alongside the others, making sure not to touch her.

Straightening, he brushed off his hands. “Are you going to continue working on the wheat and corn you've planted behind the shed, or do you intend to cultivate new specimens here?”

“I'd considered indoor cultivations before in London, but any results won't be very useful for crop production.” She bent to retrieve a few items from one of the crates containing some of her supplies. “So I dismissed the idea.”

He crouched down beside her and lifted a pair of containers filled with a powdery substance. “Not necessarily. Although you will have provided an ideal climate, you could calculate the effects of your fertilizer more quickly.”

She nodded, a small smile on her lips, as she placed the items in the cupboard. “True. And I would be able to set aside my failures more quickly as well.”

He chuckled. “An experiment that doesn't bring about the results you expect isn't necessarily a failure. Simply one way in which not to combine the various ingredients.” He reached around her and placed the containers alongside the others.

She turned her head, her lips scant inches from his. Her sweet scent seeped beneath his skin, his hand stilled where it held the last jar.

“I never looked at it that way before,” she said, her voice soft and inviting.

“Well.” He stepped back and cleared his throat. His intention of maintaining his distance was not going to be an easy one. “I'm sure you would have eventually.”

“Perhaps.” She retrieved another vessel of powder from the crate.

Curious he eased closer to attempt to read the labels. “What are these substances you're working with?”

“I've calcium, nitrophosphate, and potassium. A proper combination of these to meet each plant's requirements will undoubtedly create the desired results. It's a matter of balance.”

She placed the last jar on the shelf, brushing his coat with her arm. He jumped back out of the way.

“You really ought to put on an apron of some sort, you're liable to get quite dirty in here,” she said with a soft laugh.

“You mean you'd wish I'd go away and leave you to your work.” He'd voiced the truth before thinking and wished to take it back.

She spun from the cupboard to face him. “Oh no. I rather like your company.” Her lashes lowered for a moment as her face warmed. “Although I'd accused you of just the opposite but a few hours ago.”

“And rightly so.” Perhaps distance on all fronts was not what she wanted after all.

“I was no better,” she said.

“I beg to differ,” he said.

She looked to her apron and brushed at a smudge of dirt. “I-I want to apologize for my manners at luncheon. I shouldn't have—well I should've behaved better. I hope I didn't cause you too much embarrassment.”

His heart fell. She regretted her actions, kissing him, to be exact, but he would endure the slice of pain. “You don't need to apologize. I understand. You were—surprised.”

Her lips turned up ever so slightly in the corners. “Yes, I was.” She lifted her head and gazed up at him, her deep brown eyes filled with hope. “And you don't mind my being a scientist?”

“I find your work fascinating.” Almost as fascinating as you. He swallowed hard against the desire to pull her into his arms and taste her sweetness.

Her face lit up. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Reaching out, he brushed the back of his fingers across her warm cheeks, then jerked them away. He had to try harder, much harder.

“Well then,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “If you're certain I wouldn't be a nuisance, perhaps I could open the other crate or assist you in another way. Move more plants, for instance.”

She dropped her chin to her chest, averting her gaze. He wondered if it was his face she couldn't bear to look at or if something else was bothering her.

She removed her gloves and set them aside. “No, I have it under control, but I—I was wondering—that is—”

“What is it you wish me to do? You need only to ask.”

She clenched her hands together and stepped closer, the tips of her slippers touching his boots. “Would you kiss me?”

He stood frozen, stunned by her request.

She focused on his weskit, her cheeks flaming. “Of course, I'll understand, and I shan't ask again if it's uncomfortable for you.”

She wasn't repulsed by his touch—or his kiss? Hope roared to life in his chest.

“Or if you'd just rather not,” she murmured.

He reached for her with false ease and pulled her against him. “I'd rather,” he murmured, then pressed his lips to hers.

A quivering sigh gave him entrance to her mouth, and he explored her, tasted her, indulged in absolute paradise. Her hands trembled where they lay against his chest, as did his, but the kiss went on and on. To hold her, to know she wanted his kiss was a staggering, exhilarating thought, but he would be gentle with her. He would not frighten her, he would not be The Monster.

Pressed against his chest, her heart pounded in rapid succession with his. He wanted to touch her, feel her soft smooth skin against his, but knew he could never risk losing her. And still, his hand rode up along her spine, across her back to her side. His thumb brushed the edge of her breast and she trembled, but did not pull away.

Perhaps with Agatha he could be a man once again. Perhaps with her, he could have the one thing that had eluded him his entire life.

A throat cleared, followed by a familiar chuckle. “I knew I'd come to call too soon,” Crittenden said.

With a low grumble, Magnus released her. “Your timing needs work, I'll grant you.”

Agatha spun from his arms and fussed with her gloves. He watched her for a moment, concerned he'd gone too far, then grinned with the realization that she was mortified to be caught kissing. At least, that is what he told himself.

He rationalized it was only her second kiss. She was sheltered where sex was concerned, her father being widowed, and she had asked for his kiss. She'd softened in his arms and sighed with pleasure as he'd held her. He refused to allow his fears to tarnish the few moments they'd shared.

But at the back of his mind, he knew modesty would not be what turned her from him if he tried to make love to her.

“Would you like me to come back at another time?” Crittenden asked with a broad smile.

Magnus shook off the thought, and moved to stand beside her where she fussed over her pots and jars. “What do you think? Should we send him on his way?”

Her gaze shot to his. “Oh no! Of course not. I—oh, you're teasing me,” she said, her face a flame of color.

With a grin, he nodded.

Barstoke appeared. “My apologies, my lord, but you have guests arriving.”

“Guests?”

“Yes, sir. Lady Crittenden, Lord and Lady Barrington, and their daughter. Lady Templeton, and her two daughters...”

The list rambled to approximately twenty or more people.

“Good Lord,” Crittenden sputtered. He looked at Magnus with the eyes of a cornered fox. “She found me.”

“You mean, they found you,” he said with a heavy sigh. “It would seem your mother is no slouch in deciphering your intentions. I suspect they stopped here to collect you while on their way to Haverton House.”

“Well, it's your bloody fault for telling her she was welcome here at any time,” Crittenden groused. “Oh, my apologies, Lady Leighton for my language.”

“Th-that's quite all right, my lord.” Agatha turned to the butler. “See them to the large drawing room, Barstoke. We shall join them shortly.”

Magnus watched her as the old gent went to inform their guests, not missing the telltale sign of her nervousness. Her fingers were turning white where they gripped her gloves.

Crittenden cupped his forehead, his eyes clamped closed as he sank to the edge of a planting wall. “I shall never have any peace. Now I've no choice but to survive a house party that I had no intention of having.”

“That sounds rather disagreeable,” Agatha said, her face almost ashen. There was something more here than the shock of unexpected guests, Magnus wagered.

Crittenden snorted as he lifted his head. “You've no idea. My mother is quite adamant about finding me a wife. I had hoped I'd escaped her machinations this time, intending to remain here for a few days, thinking that her plans would die with my absence from Haverton House.”

“She is determined,” Magnus said, his gaze still focused on his wife.

Crittenden sprung to his feet. “No. I will not allow this. I must put a stop to this, once and for all. She has no right to barge in here with her cackling crew regardless of your generous hospitality, Leighton.” He moved to the door, but Agatha rushed to stop him.

“No, please, my lord.” She looked to Magnus, her eyes pleading with him to aid her. Although he had told Lady Crittenden his home would always be open to her, he'd not meant an entire entourage, but casting them out would be discourteous.

“It's too late now, Crittenden,” he said. “And it would be unfathomably rude of me to toss them out, which is how it would appear in the end, regardless of which one of us did the deed.”

Agatha returned to Magnus’ side, her hands clenched tightly before her. “We're—honored that your mother a-and her friends wish to pay us a call,” she stammered.

He couldn't resist the urge to take one of her trembling hands. Thankfully, she didn't flinch at his touch. In truth, she clenched his hand quite firmly in return.

Not a moment ago, he thought at first his scars caused her trembling, and then he surmised that she might want his touch and it was nothing more than nervous expectancy, but now he was no longer sure of any of his deductions.

Her words, earlier in his study, echoed in his thoughts. She wasn't afraid, would never be afraid of him. That fact buoyed his heart. But the poor woman was terrified, as she'd been on their wedding day. But of what? Could she simply be afraid of entertaining their guests?

He refused to allow one of these interlopers a solitary word against his wife. She may not be the ton's finest diamond, but she was strong, brave—and his choice. She was Lady Leighton and deserved the respect of her position. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something else was troubling her.

Crittenden sighed. “If you're quite sure.”

She nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”

“You realize, they'll try and stay a few nights at the very least.”

“Oh, um, why that's fine,” she said, her voice barely showing signs of her trembling. “That's fine.”

Magnus looked to Crittenden. “If you would greet your mother and the others while I speak with my wife?”

“Of course,” he said and slipped from the room.

Magnus gripped her upper arms and turned her to face him. “I will gladly toss the lot on the drive, if that is what you prefer.”

“No, don't be silly.” Her voice quavered. “I'll not embarrass you, Magnus, by forcing them to leave.” She dropped her gaze to her hand, now fidgeting with a button on his coat. “I'll do my best not to make a ninny of myself, and concentrate solely on seeing to their comforts as a lady should.”

He rested his unscarred hand over hers, stilling it. “You are Lady Leighton. You have every right to behave as you see fit in your own home.”

“Thank you, but...” She looked up at him with warmth in her eyes, and something else. Something akin to guilt. “Um, there is something, or rather, someone—I'd forgotten all about him, really, but—well—with the arrival of Lady Crittenden—” she stammered on, and his stomach roiled.

He stepped back, releasing her, and forced himself to ask. “Him. I assume this is about your correspondence with a K. Reynolds.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“The post.” He clenched his jaw against the bile rising in his throat.

“Oh, of course. Well, the problem is, you see, he's coming to visit, rather soon, and I'm afraid—” She looked down and rang her hands. “I—I—oh botheration,” she growled and lifted her chin. “I lied to him. He thinks I'm a man.”

She stomped to her crates and kicked one, albeit not very hard. “I needed the nitrophosphate, and since no one in the scientific field seems to think women have a brain, I lied and told him I was a man.”

Stunned and yet elated, Magnus couldn't control the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. She had no lover.

He cleared the chuckle from his throat. “I see. And now this Reynolds is to pay a call.”

“He's coming to England on business and intends a visit so he can see my work. He's likely here already, his letter implied he would be leaving immediately after sending it, and Papa was somewhat remiss in forwarding his letter on promptly.” She spun around, her brow creased. “I know you must think I'm a terrible person for lying about such a thing, but my work—”

“I think nothing of the sort.”

“Then—then you're not cross with me?”

He shook his head. “No. Relieved, actually,” he said with an awkward chuckle.

She cocked her head at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

He may as well tell all, most of it, at any rate, the day seemed one for confessions. “I thought he might be—let us say, more than an acquaintance.”

Her eyes widened. “You thought I had a—that he and I were—”

He nodded. “I'd considered it, yes.”

She planted her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. “Of all the silly—he lives in America. How would I have—” She waggled her fingers in the air. “It's completely illogical,” she said with a firm shake of her head.

He chuckled low. “It would seem, my dear, that where you are concerned, logic and I don't appear to confer as often as we should,” he said dryly.

Her mouth fell agape, her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes glistened. “You mean, you were—you were jealous?” she asked, her voice breathy and unsure.

He crossed the small space and brushed her warm cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Most definitely.”

He dropped his hand before he pulled her back into his arms and kissed those sweet cherry lips formed in a perfect ‘oh'. “Does your father know of this Reynolds and your fabrication?”

“What? Oh, yes.” She shook her head, the glazed look in her eyes fading. “He wasn't at all pleased about it,” she said with a weighty sigh.

“Then I suspect once the gentleman arrives in London, your father will likely direct him here. You'll not be able to keep up the pretense any longer.”

“I know.” Her shoulders drooped. “It was silly of me to do it in the first place, but so many scientists and suppliers refused to deal with me, I didn't wish to take the chance. Nitrophosphate is so difficult to come by.”

“Do you have an ample supply currently?”

“Yes,” she said with a nod.

“Then you shouldn't worry about the loss of your connection. If it becomes necessary, I will purchase whatever you need.”

She smiled tremulously. “You would do that for me?”

His resolve was rapidly fading against the palatable desire to kiss her, to comfort her—to make love to her, but with a house full of people, all waiting for their appearance, they were pressed for time, and he suspected he would have a difficult time letting her go once she was in his arms again.

He forced a smile. “Of course. After all, I shall be the one to reap the rewards of your success in my fields.”

She shook her head with a faint giggle. “You continue to surprise me.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. Now then, are you ready to face the foe?”

“Oh, no, I must change.” She looked down at her work dress. “I don't dare let them see me like this.”

“You look lovely as always.”

She blushed at his comment, then amazed him by tipping up on her toes and kissing him, just a brush of the lips, before she dashed out of the orangery.

Just as they were beginning to come to some sort of arrangement, just as he was learning that she could accept his touch, that she might actually have feelings for him, he had to be cursed with a house full of nattering matchmaking women, and a soon-to-be disgruntled American on the way toward his door.

He grumbled as he strode down the hall. “Of all the bloody timing.”

Agatha pressed her hands together as if in prayer once she reached the haven of her room. A lone tear begged to slide down her cheek, but she refused to allow it. She had to look her best for Magnus and their unexpected guests. She would not fail him.

He'd been so understanding about her lie, about Lord Crittenden's mother and her friends—about her work, he was everything she'd ever dreamed of in a husband.

"And his kisses,” she sighed. Her cheeks flooded with warmth again and her heart raced. They were too exquisite to be believed. She'd never felt so alive, so exhilarated, so—wanted.

What would it be like to make love with the man?

She stumbled to a chair and sat down, her head still spinning.

“Stop thinking about it,” she groused. It was no use. He couldn't come to her bed, they couldn't do what other married couples did, so there was no use thinking about it.

But her thoughts did not obey as Tess helped her change into a more suitable gown. Her husband thought her work fascinating. He had been jealous, and claimed he wanted her. He'd actually kissed her with, dare she hope, passion?

“My goodness,” she whispered.

“Something the matter, my lady?”

“Oh, no, I'm sorry Tess, just thinking out loud.” And what a thought she had.

She was in love with him. She shook her head faintly, trying to deny the truth, but it was useless.

Love, it was a simple emotion, one of many, but she'd never thought it would strike her so forcefully and without warning. She'd imagined it to be one that grew with time. Not that she didn't want to love her husband, but she'd assumed, however incorrectly, that it would come with the passing of years, not a mere smattering of weeks.

“You can go Tess, thank you.”

Her maid gone and shaken by her newly discovered feelings, her head hung low with the weight of her discovery.

“He cannot love me, and may never,” she murmured. But that didn't mean they wouldn't be happy. He said he wanted her, and that was far more than she'd thought she had when she awoke that morning.

“It's something to build on,” she murmured and rose to leave, ready to face her unexpected guests.

She caught sight of a bit of folded paper lying on the floor.

“Odd,” she said, and bent to retrieve it. She unfolded the note and scanned the writing, her stomach dipping to the floor.

You will die, and he will suffer, as I suffered.

Agatha leapt to the door and threw it wide, hoping to catch the culprit, but the hall was empty. Could Tess have left it? Perhaps she had some feelings for Magnus.

She shook her head at the thought, it didn't seem very likely. If she did, why would she want him to suffer if she cared for him?

She returned to her room and summoned Barstoke. He appeared within moments.

“How well do you know Tess?” she asked without preamble.

“She's been with us since she was a very young, my lady. Has she been remiss in her duties?”

“No,” she said, tapping the note against her finger tip. “You trust her, I take it.”

“Explicitly, my lady. As I do all of the staff.”

She nodded. “You wouldn't have it any other way, I suppose.”

“No, my lady.”

She heaved a heavy breath and looked the old gent square in the eye. She trusted him, for no other reason than he was an exemplary butler and had been at Bridley Hall for years.

“I am about to make a rather unusual request of you, Barstoke.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Someone slipped this note beneath my door,” she said, waving the paper before her. “It is a rather unpleasant note. I need you to alert the household to watch for anything out of the ordinary.”

Barstoke blinked owlishly a moment, his craggy brows high. “Do you wish to include your guests in this—surveillance, my lady?”

“Most definitely.”

“We shall endeavor to the task.”

“I'm sure you will, and Barstoke, this is to be kept between us. I don't wish to alarm his lordship, is that understood?”

“Yes, my lady. Completely,” he said and turned to leave.

There were too many people to watch sufficiently, but she had to at least try. And then again, none of the guests were at Bridley Hall the other night when she'd been pushed. Which meant the person who'd left the cryptic note could've been in the house the entire time.

“Just a moment, Barstoke.” He turned and waited. “Would you say that it could be possible for someone to get into the house without being noticed?”

He stared as if she'd said something beyond ridiculous, but it was the only logical conclusion.

“Someone dressed as one of the servants perhaps?” she suggested.

Barstoke's back snapped straight. “I'm positive I would notice an unfamiliar face, as would Cook, and any of the other servants. No, my lady. I don't think anyone has entered this house without our knowledge.”

“I see.” She sank into a chair, the note still clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Barstoke. Please inform me of any oddities.”

With a stiff nod, he left.

If Barstoke was so sure, then that left three other possibilities. The person who wanted her dead was either one of their visitors, which didn't ring true due to the timing of the attempt on her life, one of the servants...or her husband. She shivered at the thought, and prayed for logic to save her from such a horrendous deduction.

“It would be so unfair to love the man who wanted me dead,” she whispered.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

Agatha poured several cups of tea and handed them to her guests, thankful that none of the horrid ladies she'd encountered at Lord Crittenden's ball were among them. But her nerves remained unsettled as the women chattered on, including her on some level. She had difficulty following the conversation as her thoughts were firmly fixed on her husband.

He couldn't possibly be a murderer, and yet his first wife was dead. There'd been some odd rumblings amid the ton at the time, but she was certain it was nothing more than nasty gossip. He'd not been accused of any wrong doing, had suffered severely himself. And why would he wish to harm her? Then again, perhaps her newfound emotions were skewing her perception and deflecting any guilt from his direction.

A laugh, low and rough, weaved its way across the room to her ears. Had that been Magnus?

She sought him out and found him smiling. Then his gaze met hers and her breath caught in her throat. How could he be the killer? Were his attentions all some cruel attempt to waylay her suspicions?

“It cannot be easy stepping into another woman's shoes,” Lady Crittenden said, catching her ear. “But you seem quite suited for one another,” the woman said, and patted Agatha's knee. “It was such a dreadful loss for Lord Leighton. George returned from abroad for a time to be by his side, but even he hadn't been prepared for such a sight.”

Agatha felt a slight tearing in her heart. She hurt for her husband, for what he must have suffered. Heaven help her if he proved to be guilty.

“Are you all right, Lady Leighton?”

She jerked her head back to the group of ladies around her. “What?”

“You look upset,” Lady Crittenden said.

“Oh, no. I'm sorry, my mind wandered a moment.”

“No doubt to your husband,” Lady Crittenden said with a subtle wink.

Agatha appreciated her sincerity, while desperately tying to hide her doubts regarding Magnus.

“Lady Leighton, please tell us how you met Lord Leighton,” Miss Barrington said.

“Oh, yes, do,” Miss Templeton added breathlessly. “Was it terribly romantic?”

She was caught quite unaware by the question. “Oh, well, um...”

“Don't be silly, girls,” Lady Templeton said. “You must forget all this romantic nonsense. Marriage must be decided sensibly. Don't you agree, Lady Crittenden?”

“Oh, my yes, but I would not discount love,” she replied.

“My dear Gerald and I have been married for twenty years, and it was arranged. We've been quite happy together,” Lady Templeton continued. “I'd understood your own marriage was somewhat of an arrangement, was it not Lady Leighton?”

“I—well—” Agatha nibbled at her bottom lip and glanced at her husband.

His gaze lowered to her mouth then back to her eyes, and she would swear she felt his touch from across the room. Renewed warmth ran through her, chasing her doubts away for the moment.

“No, it wasn't,” she said with a breathy sigh, and turned back to the ladies. “We met by chance at Lord Crittenden's ball, and it was romantic.” Although that stretched it a bit, he'd merely played her gallant and kissed her hand, but for a spinster bluestocking, that was very romantic.

“Oh, I knew it was a love match. You can tell just by the way he watches you,” the younger Miss Templeton said.

“Really, Lucinda, you mustn't say such things,” her mother fussed.

Watches her? She looked to him once more and again he met her gaze warmly. Dare she hope that there was more than want in his eyes...in his heart? Or did his gaze hold something else entirely?

“Oh,” the girl gasped. “I'm sorry, Lady Leighton.”

She turned and patted her on the arm. “That's quite all right, Miss Templeton. I admire a woman who speaks her mind, as long as it isn't harmful,” she added, thinking of those horrid girls in London.

Her husband could not be a monster...could he?

Dinner was a horrible bore, what with his wife at the far end of the table. Magnus had gained a promise from Crittenden that he would not mention Agatha's work, knowing how this set would take that bit of news. The detestable gossip would flow through London with frightening speed. Nothing would be said to her face, he'd warrant, her station keeping her fairly safe, but he'd not have the slightest whisper behind her back if he could help it.

“Perhaps after we sup, we could have some dancing,” Lady Crittenden said. “Young Miss Templeton is rather accomplished on the piano, is she not?”

“Oh, my yes,” Lady Templeton gushed.

Magnus looked to his wife, waiting for her response, but found her gazing off into space instead of paying any attention to their guests. He wondered what she was thinking. She'd seemed quite preoccupied since she'd joined them in the drawing room.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I am sure we would all enjoy such an endeavor.”

“Wonderful!”

Lady Crittenden's boisterous response and the other ladies sudden excited twittering appeared to bring Agatha from her musings. She pasted on a small smile and sipped her wine. Magnus hid a grin behind his glass as he watched her study and listen to the group, doing her best to determine what she'd missed.

“I suggest we dismiss with the usual port and cigars after dinner, gentlemen, and join the ladies in the drawing room,” Magnus said. He had a fervent desire to hurry things along so that he might actually have the chance to dance with his wife.

The last remove taken from the table, they rose and made for the drawing room. Agatha's hand trembled where it sat upon his arm, teasing his doubts, but he refused to let them win.

She stumbled as they entered the room where chairs had been moved away to allow for dancing.

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

“Young Miss Templeton is to play,” he said for her ears only.

“Oh, thank heavens,” she breathed, a hand pressed to her throat.

He withheld his chuckle, relieved once again that it was not he that caused her current case of nerves. “You do not play, I take it?”

“No, not at all. Nor do I paint. I am moderate with a needle, however.”

He covered her hand on his arm. “All you need do is dance with me.”

Her gaze snapped to his, her eyes wide.

“Unless you do not wish to, of course,” he said, looking away, a sickening feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

“I would love to,” she said, her voice unsteady.

He glanced at her face, thinking he would find resolve, but instead found her eyes swimming with questions. Why would she think he would not wish to dance with her? He'd admitted to just the thing that morning.

Crittenden appeared before them. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Leighton?”

Magnus relented his hold on her, unaware that the music had begun.

“Um, yes. Of course,” she replied, and took his friend's hand, but her gaze was on him.

Did she want him to interrupt, to say her nay? Women are bloody damn confusing creatures, he thought with a frown.

Lord Crittenden chuckled as he spun Agatha around the floor. “The old boy is green.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your husband, my lady, is pea green with envy. I can't say the last time I've enjoyed such a sight.”

Agatha smiled. “You are dreadful, you know that?”

“Absolutely.”

“But I believe you chose me as your partner more to avoid the other ladies than to tease my husband.”

He chuckled and swirled past Magnus, who did indeed look a bit out of sorts. “You are a keen observer, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord. But I warn you that I shall dance only this once with you. You cannot avoid the inevitable.”

Some minutes later, the music ended, and Lord Crittenden sighed. “A pity,” he said with a bow, and escorted her to her husband's side.

She didn't miss the clenching of Magnus’ jaw at their return.

“I suggest you keep her occupied on the dance floor, Leighton, or else another of these gents will claim her for the rest of the night,” Lord Crittenden said.

Magnus looked at her, and she felt warmed by his gaze. This man could not want her dead. What reason could he possibly have? Who could be made to suffer other than her father?

“If my wife wishes it, then of course,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

She extended her hand and smiled. “I insist, my lord.”

His demeanor changed in a blink. He took her hand and pulled her into his arms and twirled her onto the floor to a lovely waltz. She couldn't take her eyes from his, and prayed with her whole heart that he was not the author of the note.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he said.

“To be honest, I was afraid I would trample your toes. I've not had much experience dancing.”

He grinned crookedly, a sight she was growing quite fond of. “But you observed.”

She smiled. “Naturally.”

The revelry went on for hours, and the day's events wore on Agatha. Magnus and some of the gentlemen played cards, as Lord Crittenden danced with one of the many ladies in attendance. Although it was apparent he would rather not, he was forever courteous to each of the young ladies.

“You look unwell,” Lady Crittenden whispered.

“No, not at all,” Agatha replied, a bright fake smile on her face.

“Nonsense. I arrived unexpected with a group of friends, turning your house upside down, while you've been married not even a few weeks.” She took Agatha's hand. “I am sorry. I only wanted—well it's quite obvious what I want,” she said with a giggle.

“That's quite all right, Lady Crittenden.”

“You are very gracious, dear, but enough is enough.” She turned to the other ladies, and quietly told them all that she was going to retire, claiming a headache.

Each then took the hint and slowly called an end to the festivities, although the men were quite determined to finish their card game.

Magnus looked at Agatha as she crossed to the door, and once again, she felt warmed by his gaze. She would sleep on this business about the note. The morning would bring clarity to her thoughts.

He detested cards, but had not missed Agatha's fatigue after several turns around the floor and was pulled into a card game when he insisted she rest. He had to admit, but only to himself, that his leg pained him, and it would not fair well much longer if they continued to dance. But never had he enjoyed anything so much.

The feel of her in his arms, her flush cheeks, her bright smile, his blood pumped through his veins at an alarming rate, making him want to sweep her from the room and straight to his bed.

“Your mind is not on the game,” Lord Barrington said.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” he replied, tossing his cards to the table.

One of the others chuckled. “What did you expect, Barrington? The man's recently wed. Has his mind on other matters entirely.”

The group laughed at Magnus’ expense, but he forced himself to keep his temper in check. They meant no offense by the jest, but it rankled in light of his true situation.

“Not to worry, old boy,” Barrington said. “I'm a bit done in meself.”

With somewhat of a consensus among the men, they disbanded their game of cards and followed their wives to bed.

Crittenden, however, accosted him before he could place one foot on the bottom stair.

“You must help me,” he demanded.

“Help you? I've opened my house to you, your mother, and her friends, what more could I possibly do?”

Crittenden ran a hand through his hair. “I liked it better when you were a bachelor. At least then you could help diverge some of the ladies.”

A tired chuckle escaped his lips. “I'm sorry, my friend, but this time you shall have to find a way out of the trap on your own. Other than taking yourself off in the middle of the night, I cannot see how you can avoid it.”

They slowly ascended the stairs.

“You know, I wouldn't mind it quite so much if any of them had the pluck of your wife,” Crittenden said.

Magnus grinned as they parted ways. Once inside his rooms, he nearly gave in to the urge to rap at her door, but his hand fell to his side. Although his body insisted he seek her out, his head argued the opposite.

“She is tired,” he murmured. He had his dance, several in fact, and should leave her be. After all, what would he do once inside her room?

“No,” he said, turning away from the connecting door. He wouldn't be able to stop if he so much as kissed her, his blood still hot from their waltz.

Through sheer determination, he disrobed for bed, catching the sight of his scars in the mirror. The illusion of Agatha's face, twisted in horror as she spied his tortured body, forced him to spin away.

No, there would be no nightly visits to his wife's room or to her bed. He couldn't take the chance.

Had the whole bloody house risen with the sun?

The ladies were already ensconced at the breakfast table, leaving Agatha unable to disappear into the orangery for a few hours. She'd hoped that their guests would still be on London time, and not rise for hours yet.

She took her seat and glowered into her tea.

“Last night was simply lovely,” Lady Templeton said.

“Oh yes, it was delightful. Especially when Lord Crittenden showed Mary a bit of favor,” Lady Barrington said smugly.

“I think you're mistaken, Francie,” Lady Templeton argued. “He was quite taken with my Teresa.”

The topic of their conversation strolled through the door, dressed to ride, and nearly fell on his face. “Uh, good morning, all.”

Agatha wanted to laugh. It appeared as if Lord Crittenden had planned to decamp after breakfast, but had been caught. Now she knew why the ladies rose so early. She detected Lady Crittenden's fine work behind this morning's surprise.

“Good morning, dear,” Lady Crittenden said.

With a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, he snatched up a plate and filled it.

“Were you planning on going for a ride?” his mother asked.

Crittenden turned his gaze to Agatha, his face blank.

“I believe he and Lord Leighton had planned to go shooting, my lady,” she said, filling in the silence that hung in the air.

Crittenden brightened. “Yes, quite right! Off to bag some birds this morn.” He took a seat and ate heartily, like a man at his last supper.

Magnus appeared and she drank in the sight of him.

“Good morning,” he murmured, obviously surprised as she to find so many up and about this early.

Silly girl, she thought. Why would this man want her dead? It was a daft notion, to be sure. He would gain nothing from her demise. Just the previous morning he'd been afraid for her when she'd fallen from her horse, and the other night, he'd pulled her to safety from the cliff. These were not the actions of a man bent on murder.

Nor were his kisses.

She chastised herself for her wayward thoughts. How could she think logically if she got all flustery just at the sight of him?

Still, she'd come to the conclusion that morning that he could not possibly be the murderer. Logic had won out, so...she supposed she was allowed to get all flustery after all, she thought with a soft giggle.

His gaze found hers and held her. Oh yes, flustery and warm down to her very toes.

“Mornin', old boy,” Lord Crittenden said, breaking their connection.

Magnus moved to his seat at the end of the table, and reached for his tea.

“I understand you and George are going shooting this morning,” Lady Crittenden said, a distinct twitch at the corner of her lips.

Magnus’ hand stilled with his cup half-way to his mouth.

Agatha wanted to laugh, the look on Lord Crittenden's face was so comical.

Magnus looked to her, and she nodded faintly with a grin.

“Um, yes. Shooting,” he said, lowering his untouched tea to its saucer. “I should have thought to mention it last night, but it must have—slipped my mind.”

“I'm sure it did,” Lady Crittenden said.

Unable to hold in her laughter for much longer, Agatha decided it would be best to leave the room before her fib was found out and poor Lord Crittenden was forced into some other activity with the ladies. After all, she was dreadful at lying.

“If—” she cleared her throat and tried again. “If you will excuse me, I've a few things to see to.”

She slipped away before she burst open with laughter. But before she could get to the small parlor, she was swept under the stairs, and pulled into Magnus’ arms while he claimed her mouth with his.

“Magnus,” she murmured a faint protest against his lips. He'd startled the laugh right out of her.

He quickly set her at arm's length. “I-I apologize.” He dropped his arms by his side. “I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. It was unseemly of me to do so.”

His suddenly stiff posture and the way he turned so his scars would be less prevalent in the dim light made her pause. Did he think she didn't want his kiss?

“There's no need to apologize, you startled me, that's all.” She should tell him about the note, explain why she'd been so alarmed, but was more concerned, however illogical, over his current state than the idea that he'd been her attacker.

“Yes, I should have been more careful,” he said, averting his gaze, his hands clasped behind his back.

He was angry with himself for stealing a kiss, when she found it rather endearing. Or perhaps he still believed she feared him. After all, she'd been rather nervous the evening before, what with all that had happened.

She moved closer to him, deeper into the shadows and pressed against him. “I'm quite calm now, and would very much like it if you continued where you left off.”

He looked down at her, his eyes a cloud of confusion, but they warmed within seconds, and he wrapped his arms around her.

“You've no idea how much I wanted to kiss you,” he whispered against her lips between gentle kisses. Nothing like the hungry one he'd set out with, but she wasn't about to complain. Eventually, he would learn that she enjoyed all his kisses.

“Why didn't you?”

He nipped the edge of her lips. “We have guests, and I wasn't—”

“You weren't what?”

He lifted his head, a scant space between their lips. “I wasn't sure if you wanted me to.”

“Oh, I do, most definitely.”

Grinning, he kissed her softly then moved across her cheek to the side of her neck. “Why did you leave in such a rush?”

She tried to form words, but his nipping at her skin was more than distracting. “I was finding too much—um—humor at Lord Crittenden's expense.”

He chuckled, his warm breath sending rivulets of warmth over her body. “He put himself in this situation. But you seemed distracted ever since last evening,” he said, his lips doing things to her she'd never thought possible.

“Mmm, I had something on my mind, but it is gone now.”

“Truly?”

“Well, not quite, but you are helping...wonderfully,” she breathed.

He lifted his head and peered into her eyes. “Then allow me to be of further assistance.”

He pressed his lips to hers and she opened to him. The teasing parry of his tongue set fire to her senses and her mind flew off in a whirlwind. His thumb brushed the edge of her breast and she trembled. This was what she wanted—and more.

He eased his hand around until he cupped her breast, and she felt the tip harden against his palm. Her rapid breathing matched his own, and she relished the simple pleasure of his caress through her gown. What a fool she'd been to ever doubt him?

Voices drew near, and he growled low and long. A tendril of desire snaked through her body at the weighty sound.

“Damn guests,” he grumbled, and set her away.

“Damn bloody guests,” she replied.

With a chuckle, he kissed her temple and made to intercept them before they came upon her. She had to look the wanton, with kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

The guests distracted, she made a hasty retreat to her rooms to regain her composure, cursing the entire way. She'd forgotten to tell Magnus about the note.

The day wore on and on, and not once had Agatha a moment in private with her husband. No matter how many times she tried to get him alone, someone would interrupt. If it wasn't estate business, it was one of their guests demanding his or her attention.

Her nerves raw, she paced her room, growing uneasy with every step. She couldn't get his touch, his kiss from her mind. Several times, various guests attempted to draw her into conversation, but the memory of his caress simmered inside her making her completely daft.

Paper crinkled in her hand, re-focusing her efforts on her predicament. Someone wanted her dead. She read the note for the hundredth time. Revenge the obvious motive.

“Logic shall win out,” she muttered, and attacked the problem once more, determined to come to some conclusion.

“The revenge had to be against Magnus. Silly of me not to realize that before, but who would want revenge on him by killing me?”

Lord Crittenden perhaps? He had arrived singularly on horseback. He could've lurked nearby a few nights before and pushed her over the cliff. She was Magnus’ wife, and although he didn't love her, to lose another so soon would cut him deeply. Which left Lord Crittenden as a possibility.

“Although it seems an absurd notion,” she muttered, then decided he was not the one.

She needed to tell Magnus about the note. At least then he would know she wasn't some hysterical female with an overactive imagination, and perhaps he might shed some light on the identity of the culprit.

The house having retired some hours ago, she pulled on her robe, determined to explain things. It couldn't wait another moment. Who was to say this criminal wouldn't decide to kill her husband instead of making him suffer? His life could very well be the one in danger. Not to mention, after the day she'd already had with their guests, she doubted she would be able to speak with him tomorrow.

She knocked on their connecting door, but received no response. Tapping the note to her chin, she considered where he might be.

“Of course.” She slipped the note into her pocket and turned to go down the stairs to find her husband and Lord Crittenden, who were no doubt hiding in his study discussing the day's events and how to thwart Lord Crittenden's mother. Lady Crittenden had been quite clear that she would not leave Bridley Hall without him. His little farce of shooting birds had not escaped her attention.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

Something was bothering his wife. Magnus didn't believe it had anything to do with the guests or her impending visit from Mr. Reynolds. All day, she'd seemed intent on something, and whenever he had a moment free to speak with her, they were interrupted. Could his intimate touch that morning beneath the stairs be the cause?

“That's a pensive frown,” Crittenden said. “Afraid I'll beat you?” he asked, motioning toward the chessboard and their barely started game.

“No, I was just thinking.”

He smiled wide. “About your wife, no doubt, and not my sorry situation.”

Magnus’ head snapped up. “What about her? Did she say something to you?”

He laughed as he sat back in his chair. “Is there trouble in paradise already?”

“Don't be an arse.”

“Well then, what has you so troubled? You seemed fine yesterday in the orangery. More than fine, I would say. At least before my mother and her minions descended.”

“Hmm, yes. Fine.” The guests and her Mr. Reynolds impending visit had upset her, but she'd rallied after a time.

Perhaps it had to do with her fall over the cliff. She had been ready to leave him, to flee to safety. Then there was the shot and her topple from her horse. Could she still believe someone wished her ill?

“Well, out with it, man. There's no fun in pummeling you in chess when you're mind isn't on the game,” Crittenden said.

He sat back and looked at his friend for a moment. “Agatha believes someone is trying to kill her.”

Crittenden choked on his brandy. “Good Lord,” he sputtered.

“She fell over the cliff the other night.” He gulped down the last of his drink, despising the unexpected slice of fear that shot through him at the thought of losing her. “Luckily, she'd managed to grab hold of a root and held on until I found her. She claims she was pushed.”

“And you don't believe her.”

He rose and went to the opposite side of the room to fill his glass. “There's nothing for anyone to gain by her death. No monies, no land, no titles.”

“I have known the lady for less than a few days and cannot believe her capable of imagining such a thing. She's not the delusional sort.”

He turned to look at Crittenden and nodded. “I will admit, I'd begun to consider her story shortly before you arrived. A shot startled her horse that morning and the beast threw her.”

Crittenden came to his feet, his eyes wide. “And this didn't convince you?”

“The hands found a few tracks. It was a stray shot from a poacher.”

“You know as well as I, that is only a supposition.”

Magnus nodded, his jaw clenched. “Then how do you explain her claim? Why would anyone want her dead?”

He feared for her safety and yet she'd proven to be capable of lying, although a harmless one. Still, could she be trusted to tell the truth, or was this some bizarre attempt to manipulate him?

An ear-piercing scream ripped through the house. Magnus dropped his snifter, shattering it against the hearth as he ran from the study with Crittenden on his heels.

The door slammed against the wall as he lurched into the hall toward the stairs. Two figures struggled in the shadows at the top, there was no mistaking one of them was his wife.

“Agatha!”

She lost her grip with her attacker before he could make it half way up the stairs, and she tumbled down the first few steps before latching on to the railing. He hurried to her.

“Go! Catch the bloody fiend,” she snapped, smacking away his seeking hands.

He glanced at Crittenden. “Watch after her,” he ordered, and raced after the culprit. From that moment forward, whatever his wife said, he would believe, no matter how ludicrous.

He sought out the assailant's only escape, the servant's staircase, and rushed to the end of the hall. The darkness left him a little blind, but he knew the house better than anyone, having found as many nooks and crannies to hide in when his parents were at each other's throats.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell and he followed. Reaching the bottom step, he paused and listened for any hint of which way the demon went. Through the east wing or straight down to the kitchen. He chose the kitchen.

The servants would be coming down from the top floor, stirred from their sleep by the scream, and his visitors, ensconced in the far side of the house, would no doubt be sticking their prying noses out of their rooms. The kitchen was his last resort.

He found the back door to the kitchen lying open, and he lurched out into the rain with a curse. There was no way to track him now, his trail would be lost in the downpour. He could be anywhere in the woods. Anywhere.

Cursing, he made his way back to the hall to find the servants and several guests huddled around the study door. Barstoke held them all at bay.

They parted like the sea upon his approach.

“Take a few men and double check all the windows and doors,” he told the butler lowly so the guests wouldn't hear. “We have an intruder.”

“Yes, my lord.” He shooed the curious servants from the hall.

“What is it? What's happened?” Lady Crittenden asked, her face pale.

“Nothing to be concerned about. My wife stumbled on the stairs, that's all. She's perfectly fine.” She had to be all right, he prayed. “You should return to your room,” he said, then looked over the rest of the gathering. “All of you.”

He slipped into the study and firmly closed the door behind him on various sputtered rebuttals. Turning, he found his wife seated before the fire, a brandy in her trembling hand, and Crittenden standing before her.

She lifted her head, and he sucked in a breath at the lack of her spectacles. Those eyes would forever surprise him.

He crouched down beside her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded shakily, and he brushed the backs of his fingers over her pale cheek.

“Any luck?” Crittenden asked.

Gritting his teeth, wanting to scoop her up into his arms and make certain she was well, he shook his head and rose. “He escaped into the woods. There's no use searching the grounds tonight in this weather. It'll hide his tracks.” He crossed to the tray for a glass.

“It was a she,” Agatha said, then took a long draft of her brandy.

He paused, his hand on the decanter, and glanced at Crittenden. He was taken aback as well. “I beg your pardon?”

“The person who tried to push me down the stairs was a woman.” She looked at him, then Crittenden, then apparently gave in to the impulse to squint in an attempt to see them better. “You don't believe me. Either of you.”

He absorbed the information and splashed some brandy into a new glass. His own hands shook, he noted. “Where are your spectacles?”

“Broken or lost, when she tried to push me down the stairs.”

It wasn't funny, not in the least, but he couldn't contain his grin at her determination. “I believe you, Agatha.”

“As do I, Lady Leighton,” Crittenden said, with a small nod of his head. “The figure on the stair was slight. I'd thought a young man, but if you're certain...”

“Absolutely. And please, call me Agatha.”

Crittenden nodded. “And you may call me George.”

Magnus took a seat beside her and sipped his drink, steadying his racing pulse while he watched her smile at his friend.

“Well then.” She sat back and took a deep breath. “Should we summon the magistrate?”

He marveled at her strength. She had already regained her composure, only a hint of her fear remained. She was a rare and beautiful woman.

His gaze traveled her scantily clad form. Her robe, the same one she'd worn after her narrowing ordeal upon the cliffs, gave him a glimpse of so much more than her dresses ever could. He grew all the more heated by merely looking at her. But they were not alone.

“I will notify the proper authorities.” He rose and retrieved a lap rug, then placed it over her. Crittenden hid his grin behind his glass.

“Leighton had just told me what happened on the cliffs and the stray shot, when you screamed,” his friend said. “Have you any idea why someone would want you harmed?”

A puzzled frown settled over her features. “I had tried to fathom what possible reason there could be for someone to want me dead, but could find none. It's simply not logical.” She looked at both of them, although Magnus knew she saw nothing but a blur of color.

He rested his forearms across his legs, with a shake of his head. “Damned if I can think of a reason.” His gaze snapped to hers. “Wait—you mean to say you have an answer now?”

“Not an answer, but a clue.” She retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him.

He opened the note and his blood ran cold. “Where did you get this?”

“It was delivered to my room yesterday.”

Lurching to his feet, he bellowed, “And you waited until now to tell me?”

“Every time I tried to tell you, we were interrupted.”

“But you said you received the note yesterday. Why not tell me last night?”

She plucked at the lap robe. “I had some misgivings.”

“What misgivings?” He stood before her, seething that someone had tried to take her from him, and hurt that she'd not confided in him about the note, although he supposed he deserved it for not believing her in the first place.

“Well, it's rather silly now.” She cocked her head to the side and squinted at him, but sat back with a sigh, apparently done with trying to see him clearly. “I thought one of you might be the murderer.”

“What!”

“I say,” Crittenden sputtered.

“Well, it made sense at the time. Barstoke was certain that a stranger could not manage to get into the house without his knowledge, so that left only three possibilities. One of the servants, one of our guests, or you.”

Magnus knelt before her and took her hand. “I would never hurt you, Agatha.” Although he'd taken her freedom, her chance to have a life with a man she could love and bear children with, he would never physically harm her.

She pressed her hand to the back of his. “I know you wouldn't, but I had to sort it out, you see? I had to look at it logically. I couldn't let my feelings cloud my thinking.”

Her feelings. He held on to that thought, letting it settle inside him. She cared for him.

She looked to Crittenden standing behind him. “You, however, were a distinct possibility, I'm afraid. I could easily see, after reading that note, that Magnus could've taken the woman you loved, and therefore you wanted him to suffer as you had suffered from losing her. You could've arrived earlier to do the deed without our knowing it.”

Lord Crittenden gulped a large swig of his brandy, his eyes wide as she expounded on her thoughts.

“But that, again, didn't ring true,” she continued. “The only woman it could've been was Magnus first wife, and I know for a fact that you did not offer for her, or even so much as look in her direction during the season. I'm sorry I hadn't reasoned it all out sooner.”

Crittenden smiled and bowed. “I applaud your reasoning, Agatha. You are a most unusual female.”

“How did you know he didn't want Elizabeth?” Magnus asked, still kneeling before her.

Her cheeks colored. “Dancing wasn't the only thing I observed at all those balls and parties.”

He chuckled and kissed the back of her hand, then rose.

“Well,” Agatha said, and cleared the sudden longing for another of his delicious kisses from her throat. “Now that we know my deductions are correct, and that neither of you wants me dead, we need to examine the remaining facts. It would seem we are left with a note and a house full of suspects.”

Magnus studied the note again. “Someone wants to hurt me by killing you,” he muttered.

“A woman,” she said.

“Which does cut the list down a bit. But a woman! That's balmier than thinking either Crittenden or I wanted you dead. What could she have suffered because of me?”

Crittenden cleared his throat. “What of a—well—”

“No,” he snapped. “I do not now, nor have I ever had a mistress.”

Crittenden held up his hand in supplication. “Just trying to cover all the possibilities.”

“Actually, when you look at it from a certain point of view, I am quite lucky that it is a woman,” Agatha said.

“And why is that?” Crittenden asked.

“A man could have tossed me down the stairs without much trouble at all. She only had the element of surprise as her weapon. I just wish I'd not lost my glasses in the struggle before I could see her face.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Magnus called.

“Your spectacles, my lady,” Barstoke said, striding into the room.

“Oh, thank you, Barstoke. What perfect timing? I'd quite feared they were broken or lost. I've not a spare set, I'm afraid.”

Barstoke bowed his head, but paused. “My lady, I wish to apologize.”

Agatha set aside her brandy and put on her glasses. What a relief, she'd feared she'd have to move about like a blind woman until a new pair could arrive from London.

“Apologize, Barstoke? Whatever for?” She looked at the butler with perfect clarity.

“I was obviously mistaken, my lady, regarding our talk this afternoon.”

“Our talk? Oh, yes, of course. But you needn't worry overmuch, Barstoke. I have my doubts that she gained access to the house disguised as a servant.”

“Why do you doubt it?” Crittenden asked.

“I can't say at the moment, but something is niggling at the tip of my mind.”

Crittenden stroked his chin. “Perhaps she is a servant.”

“No. I'll not believe that of my staff,” Magnus said with a nod toward his butler.

“I am glad to hear it, my lord,” Barstoke said. “As to your request, my lady, no one has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. I am sorry.”

She sighed. “Yes, I'd feared that would be the case. But thank you, Barstoke.”

The old man bowed and left the room.

She turned to look at her husband. “Why do you discount the staff so readily?”

“They've all been with me for a very long time. Anyone wanting to harm me would've come long before you arrived, I'm sure.”

“Oh, yes. I suppose you're right. I haven't gotten to know them all yet, or that well.”

“You will in time. You've already won over Barstoke. He hadn't mentioned the note or your request for spies. I feel a bit put-out by that, if you must know, darling,” he said with a grin.

She tucked the fact that he'd called her darling in the back of her mind to savor later. Oh, it was merely a common endearment, there wasn't any true meaning behind it, but it sounded exquisite coming from him, and her pulse increased its pace. If only he hadn't touched her so wonderfully earlier and kissed her quite senseless.

Kisses are lovely things, she thought. Each vastly different, but none as satisfying as the one he'd given her beneath the stairs. It warmed her in places she dare not mention in polite, or any other sort of company.

She avoided his piercing gray eyes and lifted her brandy. It wouldn't do for him to see her thoughts at the moment. She took a long draw, it was quite delicious, and with luck would calm her.

“Most women don't care for brandy,” Lord Crittenden commented.

A giggle slipped from her throat, likely from a few too many sips. She set her glass aside. Liquor could cause all sorts of silly things to come out of her mouth. She needed to be careful lest she say something she couldn't take back. Something from her heart or her dreams—and in front of a guest.

“My father likes brandy,” she said. “He and I spent many evenings by the fire talking. When I was old enough, he offered, and I found that I quite like the taste.”

Magnus smiled softly, and it wasn't helping her current situation at all.

“It would seem I've married a rather unconventional woman, Crittenden,” he said.

“I'll second that,” he said, and lifted his glass.

She cocked her head and studied both of them. “It doesn't bother you, does it?” She knew it to be true, the look of amusement in their eyes. Neither seemed to mind that she was different.

“On the contrary,” Magnus said. “I, for one, am glad of it.”

She narrowed her gaze at the pair. “You know, I'm not the only woman of my sort amid the ton. But for some reason, gentlemen don't seem to care for my variety. Present company accepted.”

Crittenden took her hand. “That is because, my dear, ladies of your intelligence and independence scare the wits out of gentlemen like ourselves,” he said, and kissed her hand.

She looked to her husband, noting the faint twitch of his lips and the gleam in his eyes. Oh, it was only a small bit of jealousy, but it felt wonderful.

“So you prefer simpering dimwitted females then? Like the lot your mother has brought with her?”

Crittenden stepped back and rested his elbow on the mantle. “No, absolutely not.”

She perked up, intrigued. “Really?”

“Watch it, old boy,” Magnus chuckled. “She looks to have some plan scheming in her pretty little head.”

Crittenden flattened his back against the hearth, his eyes wide. “No, madam. I beg you, no matchmaking. I enjoy your company, a great deal, but I do not wish to be leg-shackled at present, as you well know.”

Agatha laughed and fell back against the settee. “Oh, if only I did know some one suitable for you. Now that would be a challenge. But have no fear, my lord, I am not the matchmaking sort. I've been on the receiving end of such an endeavor for years and did not care for it in the slightest. I can sympathize with you where your mother is concerned.”

A refilled glass in hand, Magnus stepped up beside Lord Crittenden and handed it to him, his lips pulled into a scowl. “Who tried to match you, and what gentleman did they try to foist off on you?”

“My cousin, Hattie. She was forever pointing out gentlemen and nudging me beneath their noses.” She nodded at Crittenden with a grin. “She would've placed me in your path at your ball, if your mother hadn't been handpicking the ladies herself.”

He cast her a bow. “My loss and Leighton's gain.”

Her husband mumbled something low that brought a twitching smile to Crittenden's handsome face.

“I believe I shall retire,” their guest said. He took Agatha's hand and kissed it, then moved to the door.

She grinned at her husband as he watched his friend slip from the room. “I so wish I knew what you said. But I can see by the look on your face, you're not going to tell me.”

“No I'm not.” He set aside his glass and crossed to her. “Come, you should retire as well.”

He held out his hand, and she eased hers inside. They walked up the stairs in silence, but when she paused at her door, he pulled her along with him down the hall.

She swallowed the unease and excitement rising in her throat. “And where am I to retire?”

“You're to sleep in my room tonight. I'll not leave you unguarded when a crazed woman is loose on the property.”

“She won't try again tonight, not with the entire house alerted, but I suppose it's useless to argue the point.”

“Useless.”

He opened his door, and she stepped inside. The scent wrapped around her in a dizzying whirl, leather and spice. It wasn't strong or offensive, but it smelled of him. The scent that had invaded her senses when ever he wrapped her in his arms.

He peeled his coat from his body as he crossed to a chair by the fire and draped it over the back.

Feeling silly standing there doing nothing, she retrieved his coat and hung it up properly, then took the neck cloth he'd tugged loose as well. For the first time, she glimpsed more of his scars. They ran down the side of his neck to disappear beneath his shirt. She could only imagine that his chest had their share as well.

She folded his neck cloth and placed it atop a dresser, pushing the reminder of his past pain from her thoughts.

A weary sigh echoed in the room as he sat by the fire. She crossed to his chair and bent to remove his boots.

“You don't have to do that,” he said.

“I want to.” She straddled his leg and pulled his boot from his foot. “I used to do this for my father on occasion when he'd worked late into the night.” She lifted his other foot. “I didn't like to wake his valet, he was always a bit surly afterward.”

A chuckle rumbled behind her as she pulled off his other boot. She glanced back to find him smiling again. Perhaps they would be able to share some sort of companionship after all. Even if he couldn't make love to her, they could kiss and hold one another.

She set the boots aside and moved to the bed. Her hands shook as she slipped off her robe and laid it across the foot of the bed. She felt his gaze on her, but was too anxious to meet his eye. Setting her glasses on the table beside the bed, she settled herself between the covers and waited...and waited.

He made not a move from the chair.

“Are you coming to bed soon?” she asked.

“Go to sleep, Agatha.”

She propped up on her elbows, retrieved her glasses, and looked at him sitting stone still in front of the fire.

“I understand we can't share a bed as other married people do, but I don't see why we can't sleep in the same bed. It's ridiculous for you to sit up in that chair all night.” She patted the space beside her. “Come to bed, Magnus.”

His gaze pierced her from across the room. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He'd said he wanted her, perhaps he did, but perhaps it was uncomfortable for him to be close to her in this way.

With a sigh, she returned her glasses to the bedside table and lay down. If he wanted to lie with her, he would, if not, then so be it. She would have to live with his decision. She closed her eyes on a silent wish.

Magnus waited with barely controlled lust, until she fell asleep. He'd wanted to join her, wanted to strip the last of the silk from her body and make love to her with everything sweltering inside him, but could not risk her revulsion.

Her soft, even breaths pulled him from his chair. He doused the last of the light and banked the fire, then made his way to the bed. Silently, he stretched out atop the covers. The warmth of her beside him fed his soul, urged him to move closer, dared him to touch. He rolled to his side, and eased his hand across her waist. Just to touch her for a few moments was all he needed.

With a moan, soft as a breath, she rolled toward him. Her hair tickled his cheek, and he brushed it ever so slowly away, relishing the feel of it sliding between his fingers.

In the faint glow of the firelight he saw her eyes open partway.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

“Kiss me?”

With slow sweet strokes, he swept his lips across hers.

“More,” she breathed.

Her breathy plea tore at his resolve. Perhaps he could give them both some modicum of gratification. For he wanted nothing more than to please her in every way he could. Even if it meant his own suffering.

His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts and her breathing quickened. Gradually, he moved his hand to cup her, the thin silk nothing like the barrier of her dress. He ached to slide the tormenting concoction from her body and feel the softness of her skin, but did not.

Caressing her as his lips moved across the nape of her neck to her shoulders, rolling the pebbled peak between his fingers, she moaned in sinful pleasure. He knew he must stop before it was too late.

Slowly, he shifted his hand back to her face, cradling her warm cheek as he kissed her thoroughly.

“Now, go to sleep,” he whispered, his lips brushing across hers.

With a contented sigh, she curled into his arms and fell asleep.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

“Morning, old chap,” Crittenden said, striding toward Magnus where he stood staring out into the gardens from the dining room.

He turned from his perusal, his thoughts not on anything other than the feeling of waking with his wife's warm body nestled against him. He'd ached to wake her with a kiss, but feared he wouldn't stop there. He'd nearly ripped her gown from her body and exposed every inch of her to his view the night before, but he'd settled for a kiss, a single touch, and throbbed painfully the entire night.

Guilt weighed on his shoulders, the injustice of his actions. She was intelligent, warm, caring, and if he wasn't mistaken, passionate. She would make a wonderful mother to a happy brood, for that is what she should have, and he'd stolen that from her.

“What's got you in such a dark mood?” Crittenden asked.

“Last night,” he said, only partly lying. He was afraid for his wife's life, but more disturbed by the long painful years before him.

“Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten? The intruder.” Crittenden filled his plate with nearly everything from the sideboard then took a seat at the table.

Thankfully, the rest of his guests were still abed. He'd not expected such after the previous morning, but they'd stayed up later the night prior, and Lady Crittenden had managed to extract a promise from her son not to try and disappear again.

Magnus joined him after warming his tea. “I cannot fathom any reason why someone would wish Agatha dead to take revenge on me.”

Crittenden took a large bite of ham and chewed. “Are you quite certain you've not left any hearts broken out there?”

“As I said last night, no.”

Crittenden lay his silverware down with a clatter. “You mean to say you've not—”

Magnus shook his head.

“Then last night wasn't just to save Agatha's feelings?”

“No.”

“Bless me. You're a better man than I.”

He slapped his cup down in his saucer. “I didn't refrain for any noble reason. I assure you.”

“Ah. I see,” he said solemnly, and pushed his food around his plate.

“I doubt that,” he grumbled.

“I have ears, man. You'd be surprised what's said behind a fellow's back. And as your lovely wife said last eve, we've known each other for a very long time.”

Magnus clenched his jaw. “Back to the matter at hand. Who is trying to kill her?”

Crittenden sat back and looked at him. “Someone who wishes to hurt you, just as the note said.”

He waved the idea away. “This threat has to stem from something in Agatha's past. It's a misdirection.” It had to be.

“You forget,” Crittenden said. “I've seen you with her. Your feelings are quite plain.”

“Ludicrous. I've never been around her in society. No one would've witnessed anything between us.”

“True, but you did marry her, and rather quickly. And you looked on her somewhat warmly during the wedding breakfast.”

He sighed with a shake of his head. “No. I cannot see anyone in attendance having such criminal motives. As to elsewhere, I've had few meetings with anyone. I've stayed on this estate since the fire. My only venture in public was at your homecoming and an occasional trip into the village.”

Crittenden swallowed another bite of breakfast. “Well, whoever she is, she seems determined after two, possibly three attempts. I suspect the poacher wasn't a poacher after all.”

Magnus slammed his hand on the table, jostling the dishes. “Who wants me to suffer and why?”

“Beg pardon, my lord. The magistrate is here,” Barstoke said, from the doorway.

“Where is Lady Leighton?”

“Still asleep, my lord.”

Magnus glanced at Crittenden before turning back to Barstoke. “Have him wait in my study. We'll be along shortly. And Barstoke, we're not to be disturbed, do you understand?”

The old gent barely blinked, completely comprehending that he did not want his wife to know of the meeting. “Understood, my lord.”

“You—we shall catch hell for this, I'm sure,” Crittenden said, rising to his feet with a grin on his face.

Magnus chuckled. “No doubt. But I'm more afraid of what she would do to the man if he dare suggest it was her imagination.”

“I doubt he would be stupid enough to suggest such a thing. She is Lady Leighton, after all.”

“You've never met Clarkson.”

With that they strolled into his study to face the pot-bellied old magistrate, who was, without a doubt the most avid misogynist Magnus had ever known. And a woman of rank was the worst sort in his hard cold eyes.

He was sure his wife would win the battle of wills between her and the magistrate. She would hold her own without pulling rank, but knowing such a confrontation would upset her, possibly even hurt her feelings, he refused to allow it to happen.

And, of course, if the man said one unkind word to Agatha, he might just kill him.

Magnus took the old man's hand. “Thank you for coming, Clarkson.”

“My pleasure, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to wipe the cold sweat from Clarkson's hand on his breeches. There'd been quite a mess after the fire, so his nervousness was understandable. Clarkson had the misfortune of baring the brunt of Magnus’ ill will toward the world as a whole during his investigation. Although everyone knew it was an accident, Clarkson wanted it all tied up neat and proper.

Looking back, Magnus was glad of the man's attention to detail, it made sure there was nothing suspicious or suspect left for the ton to gossip about at length, but his questions hadn't been easy to deal with at the time.

“May I introduce Lord Crittenden,” Magnus said.

“A pleasure, my lord.”

“Please, sit down,” Magnus said, and took his place behind his desk. Crittenden leaned on the hearth across the room. “I know that my message was somewhat vague, but I wanted to be sure to keep this in confidence,” Magnus said.

“Of course, my lord,” the old gent nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. “I would never—”

He held up his hand. “I didn't mean by you, Clarkson. I wasn't sure of any staff you might have.”

“Ah, yes. I quite understand.”

“There have been two, possibly three attempts on my wife's life within the last few days.”

The man's eyes widened and seemingly held true concern, but he was sure the fact the incidents were linked to a woman didn't sit well with him.

“We have determined her assailant is a woman,” he continued.

That dropped the man's jaw. “May I ask how you came to that conclusion, my lord?”

“Because it is a fact,” Agatha said, quietly closing the door behind her.

Magnus came to his feet and looked at her with the beginnings of a grimace, knowing the altercation wouldn't be pleasant between her and Clarkson, but promptly forgot the reason the man was there the moment he got a good look at her.

A simple frock of blue adorned her shapely figure to perfection. Without any bows or frippery it hugged her body while making his throb.

Crittenden crossed to Agatha, took her hand and kissed the back. “Good morning, Lady Leighton.”

That snapped Magnus out of his lusty daze. “Clarkson, this is my wife.”

The old gent, who had stumbled to his feet when she entered, executed a stiff bow. “Your ladyship.”

Magnus stepped around his desk and took her hand. “I had hoped to spare you this,” he told her.

She smiled up at him, and he warmed inside. “I know. Barstoke was rather—diligent, but I'm afraid I was too quick for him.”

He shook his head with a resigned sigh. Turning to Clarkson, he said, “I'm afraid I wasn't exactly clear before. The reason we know the assailant is a woman, is that my wife has been face to face with her.”

He assisted Agatha into a chair as he spoke, grateful that she was allowing him the honor of telling this tale. He hadn't been certain she would. “Also, Lord Crittenden and I witnessed her attempt to push my wife down the stairs just last eve.”

“Don't forget the note, old boy,” Crittenden said.

“Ah, yes. The note.” Magnus pulled it from his pocket and handed it over, then leaned on the desk, doing his best not to watch Agatha as she examined Clarkson. The poor man had definitely met his match.

“I see,” Clarkson said. He glanced at Agatha and her continued perusal then looked back at Magnus. “Do you have any suspects?”

“There, I'm afraid,” he said, opening his hands wide, “we are at a loss.”

“We have eliminated the staff,” Agatha said, but Clarkson acted as if she'd not said a word.

“You said possibly three attempts. What were the other incidents?”

“I was pushed over the cliff and shot at,” she said, her voice tight.

Magnus knew this wasn't going to go well if Clarkson refused to at least acknowledge her. She'd displayed a fiery temper over the last few days, one that put a beautiful spark in her eyes, but now was not the time for her to filet the gentleman. They needed him as an ally not an opponent. Clarkson may be a bit of a curmudgeon, but he was fair and intelligent.

“Hmm, shot was a poacher, no doubt. But pushed over the cliff,” Clarkson said, rubbing his jaw with a shake of his head. “Likely just a slippery bit of ground.”

Agatha opened her mouth, no doubt ready to give the man what-for, but Magnus pre-empted her.

“I thought as much myself, until last night with the intruder on the stairs. Far too many coincidences, and now this note.”

She shot him a narrowed look, her sweet lips pulled into a firm frown. But he winked at her and the frown disappeared. Those bright eyes widened, and he suddenly saw so much behind her spectacles. He didn't dare to hope it was love, but it was sweet and warm and all for him.

“Yes, the stairs,” Clarkson said, but Magnus couldn't take his eyes off his lovely wife. “Would you and Lord Crittenden elaborate somewhat on what you saw exactly?”

Crittenden cleared his throat and strode into the fray. “Late last evening, we heard a scream and ran into the hall to find Lady Leighton struggling with someone at the top of the main stairs. They succeeded in pushing her down the first few steps, but she luckily caught herself on the railing.”

“And I ran after the culprit,” Magnus said. “I'm afraid I never caught up with her, however.”

With a sigh, Clarkson looked to Agatha sitting perched on the edge of her chair her hands folded tightly in her lap, her chin tilted just so, daring the man to say one word against her intelligence.

“Can you give me a description of the culprit, my lady?”

“Certainly,” she said with a pert nod.

Magnus hid his grin, as did Crittenden.

“She stands roughly five feet, five inches tall, weighs approximately eight stone, and has an alto voice. She cursed rather vividly during our encounter. Although dressed as a man, it was quite obvious she was a woman.”

Both Magnus and Crittenden had ceased to smile.

“Agatha, why on earth didn't you tell me that last night?” Magnus fumed.

She cocked her head to the side. “You didn't ask for specifics.”

“But—” He shook his head and shot Crittenden a glare as his friend's shoulders shook with bottled up laughter.

“Mr. Clarkson, however, needs all the information he can attain to discover her identity,” she said. She looked at the old man, his eyes wide in shock. “Isn't that so, sir?”

He nodded weakly.

“I am afraid, however, that I didn't see her face or discover her coloring,” she continued. “She wore her hair tucked beneath a cap, and unfortunately, she managed to knock away my glasses during our encounter.”

She tapped the tip of her chin, completely unaware that she'd flummoxed them all. Magnus beamed with pride, besides the fact that she'd withheld very pertinent information.

“Now that I think on it, she wore a distinctive perfume. Yes, that's the thought that was bothering me last eve.” She dropped her hand to her lap and returned Clarkson's gaze. “I'm afraid I don't know the scent, but I would recognize it if I were to smell it again. It would suggest she is a lady of means, don't you agree?”

“Um, er, yes.” Clarkson blinked several times, and took a long deep breath. “This is all very—unusual.”

“Quite,” Agatha replied.

“Do you, perchance, have any enemies, Lady Leighton?”

“Not that I am aware of. I was not a sociable sort before I married. I rather preferred to stay in my—” she glanced at Magnus then back to Clarkson, “I have other more studious interests that keep me from such things.”

“I see,” he said, but clearly did not.

Magnus gave him credit. His wife had to come as quite a shock to the man's system. She was rare, unique—and all his.

Clarkson turned his furrowed brow to Magnus. “I don't wish to sound,” he glanced at Agatha, then looked back to Magnus, “distasteful in polite company, but is there perhaps a, um—”

“It's quite all right, Mr. Clarkson. I can see that you wish to talk man-to-man. I shall leave you gentlemen to continue the discussion. I must see to a few things regarding our guests. My husband has my thoughts on the matter and you now have my description of the assailant.”

She rose to leave, although Magnus knew she didn't wish to. The simple act of wanting to save Clarkson the discomfort of her presence, a crotchety old man who barely held in his disdain for women in general, endeared her even more to him.

She paused at the door and looked at Magnus. “I shall be in the small parlor if you need me.”

He smiled warmly at her and she smiled in return before leaving the room.

His feelings for her grew with every passing hour. She may never be able to love him, nor would he ever forgive himself for sentencing her to half a marriage, but God help anyone who tried to take her away from him.

Clarkson cleared his throat. “As I was saying. Do you, perchance, have a mistress, my lord?”

“I know that cost you,” Magnus said, strolling into the parlor several minutes later.

Agatha lifted her head from her writing and swiped a stray tendril from her cheek. “I don't know what you mean.”

Chuckling, he said, “Coy? That isn't like you.”

She set aside the day's menu, having made not a single change in Cook's suggestions, and rose. “No, it isn't. But as I'm sure you've noticed, I've difficulty in holding my tongue, and thought it best if I were to retreat for the time being.”

He turned her to him, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I like that you speak your mind. But you are right. Clarkson isn't someone we wish to alienate at the moment.”

“You do?” She blinked, clearing away the ridiculous expression she knew she was wearing. “I mean, do you really like that I'm so plain speaking?”

He chuckled again, and she so loved the sound. Gently, he tucked the stray tendril behind her ear, and pulled her against his broad chest. “I do. Very much.”

She smiled, but the sweet feeling lasted only a moment. Absently studying his attire, she smoothed the already smooth lapels of his coat. “Mr. Clarkson doesn't hold me in very high regard.”

“He is a fair man, for the most part.”

“Is it because of—never mind.” She forced a smile and looked up at him.

His brow furrowed as he gazed into her eyes. “Is it because of what?”

“Nothing, it's not important. Just a silly thought,” she said, backing out of his arms, although there was no place she'd rather be.

“Agatha, you don't have silly thoughts.” He pulled her back against him. “What is it?”

“I—I thought it was—I though it was because of your first wife. She was...I'm nothing like her.” She looked away, unable to bear the pain that would cloud his features.

He cupped her cool cheeks in his hands and looked into her eyes. “You are Lady Leighton, my wife, and my choice. And I am glad you are nothing like her.” He kissed her so tenderly tears sprang to her eyes.

“Do you two ever stop?” Crittenden said with a loud chuckle.

“You keep interrupting us and I'll be the one to find you a wife,” he growled.

Agatha giggled and buried her face in Magnus’ coat, hiding her happy tears, before putting a respectable distance between them. Her marriage, her life was turning out to be far different than she'd ever imagined.

“And here I come with good news,” Crittenden chuckled.

“So you've succeeded then?” Magnus asked.

“Yes, I've convinced the throng, or rather their ring leader, my mother, to leave your house. It will take a few hours before they've all risen and gathered themselves to leave, but Mother assures me it will be done.”

“I take it you've sacrificed yourself?” she asked, relishing the feel of Magnus arm slipping around her waist.

George grinned. “Only that I shall join them, but not before or on the altar.”

She smiled. “I shall miss you.”

“I, for one, shall be glad to be rid of the lot of you,” Magnus said.

Crittenden laughed. “No doubt.” He sobered and glanced over his shoulder. “As soon they are settled into whatever dreary pursuits they engage in at Haverton House I shall return as quickly as possible.”

Agatha glanced up at her husband then looked to George. “But why—” He had disappeared before she could receive an explanation. “He's not returning because of his mother, I take it.”

“No,” Magnus said. “We'd thought it best to remove as many possibilities from the immediate premises as possible, but Crittenden will return to help keep watch.”

“Watch over me, you mean.” She turned in his arms to face him. “Has it occurred to either of you, that by removing the guests, you've forced the assailant back into hiding? I'd hoped to see if I could determine which lady is in the habit of wearing that odd scent. Now, I'll not have the opportunity.”

“Without having to play host, it will be easier to keep you safe.” He tapped the tip of her nose.

“I want it duly noted that I disagree with your plan.”

He grinned. “Only noted? No argument?”

“Well, it would've been more prudent to eliminate the ladies in attendance first, although I doubt any of them are the one, but I also know you to be a stubborn man. No doubt Lord Crittenden is as well, leaving me quite outnumbered.”

He chuckled. “Duly noted on all counts. Now,” he said, pulling her tight against him. “Where were we?”

Determined to push out the unpleasantness of their current dilemma, she linked her hands behind his head. “Somewhere about here, I think.”

He lowered his lips to hers and she sighed in absolute pleasure. She hoped the rest of the women in the world were lucky enough to experience such bliss, if only in one kiss. A long dizzying kiss.

He touched her breast, and she leaned wantonly into his hand. Oh, the feel of his long tapered fingers caressing her, warming her, filling her head with all sorts of tantalizing thoughts. Could they do more, have more together?

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Barstoke said.

With a growl, Magnus dropped his hand, and set her away. “Yes?”

“You've a visitor.”

“Good lord,” he muttered. “More guests?”

“A Miss Reynolds, my lord.”

“Miss?” Agatha looked to Magnus.

He shrugged. “Perhaps your friend has a sister or wife.”

He looked to Barstoke. “Show her into the library.” The old gent left, closing the door behind him. “As much as I would prefer to pick up, yet again, where we left off, you've a visitor to meet and I should see to our other guests.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, her gaze focused on nothing in particular, confusion over this new visitor and the events of the last few days crowding her thoughts.

“All will be well,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then disappeared.

She left the parlor, hoping her galloping heart would slow down before she faced her visitor. Did she know what she'd done? Had Mr. Reynolds sent her in his stead because he was horribly angry with her?

Wringing her hands, she cast a silent prayer to heaven along with an apology for her lie, and made her way down the hall.

She swallowed hard then entered the room.

With eyes of bright blue, hair of spun gold, a delightful laugh echoed across the space. “I knew it,” the woman said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're A. Trumwell, are you not?”

Agatha nodded at the beautiful woman standing before her in a smart traveling gown. “Yes, but who exactly are you? I mean, what is your acquaintance with Mr. Reynolds?”

She laughed heartily. “I am K. Reynolds. Not what you expected, I imagine. I'd begun to suspect you some time ago and was dying to find out for sure. You can't imagine my disappointment when I met your father and assumed he was you.” She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head with a smile. “But I was right. I usually am,” she said with a nod.

Agatha moved her leaden feet across the floor. “You—are—”

“That I am.”

“You wrote The Modern Man's Guide to Farming?”

“Yes, I did. A nice bit of work, if I do say so myself.”

“But how—why—I think I need to sit down.” She eased herself onto the settee, her gaze still on the lovely woman standing before her.

“If I'd known this would be such a shock, I would've written and told you instead of springing it on you like this. I'm so sorry,” she said, taking a seat beside Agatha.

“No, I'm quite all right, it's just been a bit of a day.” She looked at the woman again, and a smile spread across her face followed by a hearty laugh. Miss Reynolds joined in, and they both laughed until their sides ached, and that is how Magnus found them.

The laughter pulled him into the library. Bridley Hall had been silent and solemn for far too long. But he'd not expected to find his wife laughing.

He'd come once he'd seen to the final preparations for his guests departure, not quite sure if he would need to play her champion or not, knowing nothing of this Reynolds woman or the gentleman his wife had corresponded with. But finding Agatha laughing heartily was not what he expected.

Swiping a happy tear from her eye, she rose and took his hand. “Miss Reynolds, may I present my husband, Lord Leighton, the Earl of Pensby.” Agatha looked up at him, her smile still bright. “This is Katherine Reynolds, my friend from America. Apparently, he was a she all along.”

With a bow he took the lady's hand. “A pleasure, Miss Reynolds. You'll forgive my shock.”

The woman laughed. “That's all right, my lord. I'd not given quite the number of hints in my writing as Miss Trumwell—I mean, Lady Leighton had in her letters.”

“I'd not done so intentionally, I assure you,” Agatha said.

“Well, this is rather remarkable,” Magnus said with a grin. “Until recently, I'd never met a lady scientist, and now I stand in the presence of two.”

“There aren't very many of us—yet,” Miss Reynolds replied with a half wink. “But I've intruded on you while you're entertaining. So I really must go.”

“Not at all. The others are preparing to leave today, but whether they remained or not, we wouldn't dream of allowing you to leave,” Magnus said, although he didn't mean it in the least. He wanted to be alone with his wife, but this woman was an obvious kindred spirit, and he wouldn't dream of letting her leave unless that is what Agatha wished. “You and my wife have much to discuss, I'm sure.”

“Well, I don't wish to impose.”

“I insist,” he said. “I'll leave you to get re-acquainted.”

“Thank you, Magnus,” Agatha whispered.

He chucked her under the chin and disappeared out into the hall to alert the staff of their new guest. Once he'd passed on his instructions, he escaped for a few minutes into his study to regain his composure.

The look on Agatha's lovely face, the bright glow in her eyes, could he keep her that happy? Or would their marriage dissolve over the years with his determination to not bed her? She was receptive to his touch, but how far would she allow him to go? Did he dare risk the painful crush of his heart if she turned away in revulsion from his scars?

Crush of my heart?

Could he possibly be in love with his wife? After Elizabeth he'd dare not hope to ever feel anything other than passing kindness or perhaps lust for a woman again. And he had plenty of lust where his current wife was concerned, but love?

Everything he knew of her, her mannerisms, her scent, her voice, the way she carried herself, her kindness, her intelligence, all of the tiny details ran rampant through his thoughts, and he knew.

“Good Lord,” Magnus muttered. “I am in love with her.”

He sighed and rubbed the ache climbing up his chest. Pondering his marital situation at present would do him no good. But his wife's face, the memory of her kiss-swollen lips haunted his thoughts. Even if he could never go to her bed, there were plenty of other pleasures they might share in, if her reactions to his touch were any indication. Yet, he still could not shake the sense that she might be forcing herself to accept them.

“The lot is arguing with her,” Crittenden said, strolling through the door. “I've no doubt she'll win, but you've been too congenial, and too damn reclusive. They wish to hang about and stick their noses in your life...and mine,” he groused.

Magnus continued his absent perusal of the grounds outside his window. He had to make up for his selfishness to Agatha in some way and know the truth—all of it.

“Leighton?”

He turned, his hands clasped behind his back. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“Something's happened. Is Agatha all right? Has there been another attempt?”

“No, she is quite well. But she has an unexpected visitor. A friend from America.”

“More guests.” Crittenden let out a weary sigh. “I cannot apologize enough for my mother's and my intrusion on you both. I swear I shall get her to leave. Her and her nosy compatriots.”

He forced a grin. “No need for that. Agatha and her friend will be visiting for a time, I'll wager. Let us see if we can help ease our other guests’ curiosity, then perhaps they'll depart of their own accord.”

He ushered Crittenden into the hall where they both stopped and looked up at the sound of voices. Agatha and Miss Reynolds were coming down the stairs, arm in arm chatting happily.

“My word,” Crittenden muttered.

Magnus moved to greet the ladies as they stepped off the last stair. “Miss Reynolds, may I present Lord Crittenden.”

Crittenden took her hand and bowed, his gaze firmly fixed on her face. “A pleasure.”

He could understand his friend's interest, the woman was quite lovely, but he'd best watch his step with his matchmaking mother in the vicinity. Although, Miss Reynolds was an American, and likely wouldn't suit, any interest Crittenden showed in any woman could spell disaster for his plans of remaining a bachelor.

“It's nice to meet you, my lord,” Miss Reynolds said.

“Miss Reynolds and Agatha share the same interests in science,” Magnus said offhandedly, noting the odd way the two gazed at one another.

“Fascinating,” Crittenden muttered.

“Very,” Miss Reynolds said, an intriguing sparkle in her bright blue eyes.

“Magnus, dear—oh, I do beg your pardon,” Lady Crittenden said. “I didn't realize you had a guest.”

“That's quite all right,” he said. “Lady Crittenden, may I present Miss Reynolds, recently of America. She is a friend of Lady Leighton's.”

He had to nudge Crittenden to turn his gaze away from the woman, but his mother hadn't missed the gesture.

“How do you do, Lady Crittenden? It's a pleasure to meet you,” Miss Reynolds said, extending her hand.

“The pleasure is mine, but, well I know it's rather silly of me, but would you by chance be related to Isaac Reynolds, the industrialist?”

Miss Reynolds smiled and gave a slight nod. “That would by my father.”

“Really? Well, isn't that a coincidence. I've read quite a bit about him of late.” Lady Crittenden did not bother to hide her sly grin. An American heiress was apparently suitable for her son.

“So, tell me about America,” she said, sliding her hand around Miss Reynolds’ arm and guiding her into the parlor. “I've always wanted to visit.”

“Oh dear,” Agatha breathed.

“Quite,” Magnus replied.

Crittenden, however, stood dumbstruck as his mother strolled away with Miss Reynolds.

Agatha moved to stand before Crittenden, but the fool paid her no heed.

“Lord Crittenden,” she said. “George,” she whispered harshly with a tug of his coat.

“What? Oh, did you say something?”

She planted her hands on her hips with a sigh and a shake of her head. “As highly as I think of Miss Reynolds, and think the two of you would suit rather well, I will not aide nor will I hinder your mother's matchmaking attempts. But I suggest you wipe that lovesick look off your face before your mother plans your nuptials.”

“Love? Are you daft?”

With a smirk, she turned and followed the ladies.

“No, just observant,” Magnus said, taking a stand beside his friend.

“Good grief,” he moaned. “And my mother—”

“Witnessed your display, yes,” Magnus said with a laugh, and slapped Crittenden on the back. “Dare I congratulate you now?”

“That isn't the least bit humorous.”

“Turn-about is fair play, old man.”

“This isn't love. I'm just—”

“Smitten?” Magnus suggested.

“No, it can't be. Impossible.”

He laughed at the terrified look on Crittenden's face. “I hate to disagree, but that is exactly how it happened with Agatha.” He knew it now, in retrospect. The first time he'd spied Agatha's wide dark eyes gazing up at him, he'd been lost.

“But—but—”

“There are worse fates than matrimony.” He pushed Crittenden into the room with a chuckle.

Perhaps Bridley Hall would finally become the home he'd always wanted. One full of laughter, family, friends...and love.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

Agatha knew there was no stopping Lady Crittenden now that she'd met Katherine. It surprised her, however, after the way in which she'd chosen each of his dance partners so carefully at the ball in his honor. Katherine, although an heiress, was an American, after all.

She shrugged off the mystery and surreptitiously moved about the room to see if she could sniff out the perpetrator, or rather her scent, since it appeared that the guests would not be leaving, what with their new arrival. It was just as well, she'd made some rather detailed plans for a lawn party the following day, and having never organized anything of the sort, she was curious to see how it would turn out.

Turning away from a group of ladies, all shooting daggers with their eyes at Katherine, she caught sight of Magnus. He was listening to Lord Barrington expound on his latest purchase of horseflesh. The man looked at Magnus’ scars and stammered a bit before continuing, but Magnus paid it no heed. What a rare man she'd married?

He noted her gaze and lifted one lone brow, apparently curious if she'd been successful. She shook her head then moved across the room to another gathering. But still no luck. Whoever the murderess was, she'd changed her scent, or was not a member of Lady Crittenden's group, which had been her original summation, but she had to eliminate all the possibilities. Still, the scent seemed familiar in some way, but if not from one of her guests, then where had she encountered it?

“Do you ride, Miss Reynolds?” Lady Crittenden asked.

“Yes, I adore it.”

“Wonderful. Then I suggest we all go for a ride this afternoon. What do you think, Agatha?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, a ride. That would be nice, but I'm afraid—well, I shall have to remain here. I've so much to do—for tomorrow.” She knew it did no good to lie. She was terrible at it, obviously. She couldn't even lie about her sex in a letter successfully.

“Would you like for me to remain behind as well?” Lady Crittenden asked.

“Oh no. Not at all. I want you to enjoy yourself. All of you,” she said, glancing about the small circle of ladies.

Katherine gave her a curious glance, suspecting something, no doubt. They'd connected remarkably well once they'd stopped laughing. It was almost as if she'd found the sister she never had. She hoped she could stay until Hattie returned from her honeymoon. The three of them would have a grand time.

Luncheon was announced and they all made their way to the dining room. It was a simple fare, seeing as she'd not expected them to remain, but no one complained, and she did her best to enjoy herself, if one could do that with a murderer on the loose.

She fussed over her food, responded to comments, but couldn't engage herself, her head filled with too many things. Once they returned to the drawing room after their meal, she claimed some chore and excused herself, if for no other reason than to clear her head of all the perfume, while the ladies discussed where they would like to go on their ride. She didn't miss the odd look from several of them as she escaped, but decided to worry on that later as she made her way to her rooms. If she'd made a fool of herself, or committed some social sin, then so be it. There were more pressing matters that concerned her at the moment, as in how to stay alive.

Magnus entered her sitting room, a scowl on his face, scant moments after her.

“You are not to go riding,” he ordered.

“I had no intention of doing so.”

“Good.” He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, but his scowl was still firmly in place.

“Is something wrong?”

“We have a house full of bloody nosy guests,” he grumbled.

She grinned at his surly display. “Yes, we do. Dare I ask which of them has put you in a mood?”

He paced before her, his frown deepening. “Lady Barrington, in rather frank terms, advised me on how I should treat my lady wife.”

“Ah,” she said with a barely suppressed grin. “And what sort of advice did she impart?”

He paused and looked at her. “How to court you!”

She swallowed her giggle. “And you find this advice unwarranted.”

“I find it a bloody nuisance. We're already married!”

“Yes, we are,” she replied, her smile too strong to hold back any longer. “I suspect it has something to do with our rather quick wedding.”

His jaw fell lax, his gaze soft. “I—regret that I did not court you as I should.”

“You didn't wish to feed the ton's gossip,” she said with a slight nod.

He shook his head and moved closer. “I was more afraid that once you'd seen me in the light of day, you would refuse me. A letter seemed—less of a risk.”

“I would have accepted your offer however it was presented,” she said softly.

“Agatha,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her sweetly, as if she were made of fine glass.

There was a firm knock at her door.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled, lifting his head. “When shall we ever know a moment's peace?”

With a shaky giggle, she pulled from his embrace and went to the door.

“Agatha, I—oh, um, sorry,” Katherine said, noting Magnus scowl.

He let out a heavy breath and muttered something as he passed her, into the hall and disappeared.

Agatha couldn't contain her smile, he was so wonderfully adorable when he was in a mood.

“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean—”

“No, no. It's quite all right,” Agatha said.

“Well, I'm not so sure your husband is so forgiving,” she said with a smile. “I only wanted to tell you that I'd managed to excuse myself from the afternoon's ride, due to fatigue from my recent arrival, but now I see that perhaps I shouldn't have.”

Her cheeks overly warm, she motioned her friend inside. “Don't be silly. While the others are out, we can steal away to my laboratory and I can show you my latest work.”

“Are you sure? I'm already intruding on you and your husband as it is, arriving like I did.”

“Nonsense, I wouldn't have it any other way,” she lied. Although she wanted to spend time with Katherine, there were so many other things happening, good and bad, in her life at the same time. And either she or Magnus had to go on the outing, it wouldn't do to leave their guests on their own.

“I'm so glad. So, tell me about what you've been working on lately,” Katherine said.

They sat down and talked, looked over Agatha's journal, and made some notes about how to proceed. Not until Tess appeared to announce the others were leaving for their ride, did she realize they'd hidden for some time.

“And Lord Leighton is joining them, is he not?” Agatha asked, not sure if he would abide by convention.

“Yes, my lady.”

“I suspect he wasn't too pleased with the prospect.”

“No, my lady.”

“Thank you, Tess.”

Her maid closed the door, and Katherine and Agatha giggled.

“He really does detest all this fuss, doesn't he?” Katherine asked.

“He's a private person, I think.”

“You think?”

“We've not been married long, as you'll recall.”

“He adores you, you know. It's obvious in how he looks at you.”

Agatha blushed. “Well, let's get downstairs and get to work. There's no telling how long they'll be gone. I'd hate to waste a moment.”

“I hope your guests won't be too upset that I monopolized your time,” Katherine said as they descended the stairs.

“We simply won't tell them.” Not telling was a bit easier than lying, at least for Agatha.

Katherine laughed and patted her arm. “You're learning, my friend, you're learning.”

“I have one guest, however, I think might miss you more than I,” Agatha said, recalling George's direct and somewhat heated gaze on Katherine during lunch.

“Whatever do you mean?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I see I'm not the only one who does not hide the truth well. But don't worry, I shan't say a word about Lord Crittenden.”

“No, I'm not very good at deception in person,” she said with a chuckle. “But he is nice, isn't he?”

“He is very nice. I think you and Lord Crittenden would get on famously, but he's said rather adamantly, that he does not wish to wed.”

They entered the orangery and she handed Katherine an extra smock.

“Wed? All I said, was the man was nice. Handsome too, but that's all.”

“So you did,” Agatha said with a smile, wondering how long her friend's denial would last. She doubted it would survive more than a day or two.

Hours later, Barstoke, bless him, announced that the other guests were returning from their ride, giving Katherine and Agatha ample time to scurry up the servant stairs to rid themselves of their afternoon endeavors. All the smelly, messy bits before they were found out. The ladies would likely take to their rooms for a bit of a rest at the very least before dinner, so they should have plenty of time, but they dare not get caught. Agatha shuddered to think what sort of gossip would result.

Once clean and no longer odious, she entered the drawing room where the guests all awaited the call to dine.

“Agatha, dear, may I speak with you a moment in private?” Lady Crittenden asked.

“Of course.” They left the room and strolled down the hall to the small parlor where Agatha spent her evenings after her work. She idly wondered if Magnus would join her there after their guests left now that their relationship had changed.

“You'll find this rather forward of me,” Lady Crittenden said, closing the door behind her. “But I require some information.”

Agatha grinned, suspecting she knew full well where this was heading. “What sort of information?”

“Well, you see—” She paced to the window, her hands clasped before her, then turned to look at Agatha. “You know how badly I want George to marry.”

“You've made that rather clear, yes.” She took a seat while hiding her grin.

Lady Crittenden blushed. “It's awful of me, I know. Not only have I dragged all these people into your home, I've practically forced my own son to run from me at the very mention of the word marriage.”

She laughed softly. “You are not unlike my cousin Hattie. She too had me more than ready to bolt on occasion. And you also want what she wanted for me. You want George to be happy. Am I right?”

The tenseness around Lady Crittenden's mouth and in her shoulders visibly eased. “Exactly. But I'm afraid I've gone about the entire thing all wrong.” She sat beside her on the settee. “I've driven him further from the altar and from me.”

She took her hand. “He cares for you very much.”

“I know he does. He's a good man, and a loving son. I couldn't ask for better, but...”

“He needs an heir.”

“Yes, but—well—”

Agatha sat back with a smile. “And you'd like some grandchildren as well.”

The older woman gave her a watery smile and a nod.

“And the information you wish from me?”

“I thought, well, since he seems to be quite fond of you that you might help me.” She suddenly clasped her hand. “Oh, but I don't wish for you to betray any confidence, or to talk to him on my behalf.” She sat back with a shrug. “Just give me some idea as to how to proceed.”

“Lady Crittenden, at the moment I would say that doing nothing will be more than enough.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“But—”

“If George wishes to marry any of the ladies here, he will decide that on his own, no matter how hard you push. And to be frank, if you push too hard, you may accomplish the very opposite of what you desire.”

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh dear. You're quite right. He is a stubborn man, just like his father was.”

“And yet, you married Lord Crittenden.”

A small smile, almost scheming, crept over her face. “I did indeed.” She stood then moved to the door. “You've helped me a great deal, dear. And again, I cannot apologize enough for intruding on you and Magnus. It was very rude of me.”

Agatha joined her by the door and they left the parlor. “It has been interesting, I'll grant you that, but I've enjoyed your company. Truly.”

“Well, we shan't be here much longer. But I am looking forward to your lawn party tomorrow.”

“I am a bit nervous, to tell the truth.”

“Nonsense, it will be splendid. Then the following day, I shall gather my little group and be off,” she said, glancing around the drawing room at the guests. “And if George does not wish to accompany us, I shall not say a word.”

But somehow, Agatha didn't believe her. Not that she lied, but that she had an alternate plan. Yet it was none of Agatha's affair, she noted as they entered the room to join the others. She'd answered Lady Crittenden honestly while keeping her promise to George and that was all she could do.

Magnus watched his wife move from guest to guest, admiring her simple grace, and how badly he wished he could cross the room and take her in his arms. The interruption in her rooms that afternoon had left him aching for her. The ride over the estate had been one of the most painful of his life. Physically and mentally.

Although he'd instructed Barstoke to keep a close watch on her every minute she was out of his sight, the crew of unwanted guests riding along with him drove him near to insane with their nattering.

The way the young ladies chased after Crittenden was nothing new, not really, and had he been in better spirits, he would have laughed at the circus before him. But it was possible, however unlikely, that one of these women wanted to kill his wife.

Still, as he looked about the room, he could barely give credence to the thought. They wanted Crittenden, as had always been the way. Not one of these ladies could possibly want to bring him grief.

His gaze strayed back to Agatha and her bright smile. Whoever wanted to harm him had indeed found a direct path through her. Without her in his life, he would be nothing.

“What do you suppose they spoke about?” Crittenden asked.

“Who?”

His friend huffed a curse. “My mother and your wife. She promised, you heard her, that she would not try and match me.”

Magnus glanced at Crittenden having not missed the panic in his voice. “I suspect it has to do with the lawn party tomorrow.”

“No, I don't believe it. My mother is scheming something and she's trying to involve your wife.”

“Steady yourself, man. Agatha said she'd not scheme against you and she won't. She would never break her word.”

“Still, that doesn't mean my conniving mother hasn't coerced her into something.”

Magnus sighed, doing his best to ignore the comment. The whole affair was growing more tedious by the minute. All he wanted was his house empty of guests, and his wife safe within his arms. Simple things, but would he be granted them? No. He had to stand amid this social gathering and endure it all. His friend's nerves as well.

“She said something, she had to have,” Crittenden muttered, his gaze jumping from his mother to Agatha and back again.

“Why don't you simply ask her?”

His head snapped around.

“And if you dare suggest,” Magnus continued, “that my wife would lie to you on this matter, I shall throw you out on your duff and leave you to your mother and her friends.”

Crittenden looked down at his boots for a moment, his shoulders sagging. “My apologies, Leighton. I've behaved like an arse. You've more than enough to concern yourself with other than my matrimonial state.”

He cupped his friend's shoulder and squeezed. “Apology accepted. But I promise you, Agatha would do nothing against your wishes.”

He lifted his head with a contrite grin as Magnus dropped his hand.

“And what are you two talking about that has you looking so serious?” Agatha asked, stealing up beside them.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the faint scent of rosewater and grinned. She'd washed liberally after working in the orangery with Miss Reynolds. Oh how he'd love to taste all the places she'd tended.

He slipped his hand to her back, needing to touch her, and leaned in closer to fill his senses.

“Nothing of any consequence.” He quickly pressed a kiss to her temple and damned if he cared who saw him.

“Do you really think I believe that?” she asked with a crooked grin, her eyes bright behind her spectacles.

Magnus chuckled and shook his head. “Sometimes, darling, you are too observant.”

“Agatha, I must know—that is—what did my mother want with you that she had to discuss it in private?” Crittenden asked.

Magnus let out a long sigh.

“You of course,” she replied.

“And?”

“I told her that her best strategy was to leave you alone, to do nothing.”

Magnus jerked his head around and looked at her. “What did she say to that?”

“She saw the logic and agreed. But I wouldn't count myself out of the net just yet, George. She still wants you wed very badly. She's just going to try not to push so hard.”

“One can only hope,” Crittenden said with a sigh. “Thank you, Agatha.” He left to join his mother with a smile, something Magnus hadn't seen him do in a long time.

“I wonder if I should've said anything,” she murmured.

“It wasn't in confidence, was it?”

“No.”

“Then I think you did the right thing. I've not seen Crittenden smile at his mother in a very long time. His lack of a bride has been easing a wedge between them for some time.”

“In that case, I agree.” Her gaze strayed to Miss Reynolds across the room. “But I have a sneaking suspicion his troubles are far from over.”

He chuckled and placed her hand on his arm as Barstoke announced dinner.

“Magnus,” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

They walked to the dining room, leading the group. “I know this isn't the proper time or place, although I suspect it isn't appropriate that I ask at all, but—”

“But what?” He escorted her to her chair and waved away the footmen who'd moved to pull it out.

She turned to look at him before taking her seat. “Where am I to retire this evening?” she whispered.

His heart ricocheted off his ribs and he swallowed hard. “I suggest you retire where you will be the safest.” He wanted to shout out his true feelings on the matter, but was afraid his zealousness would frighten her.

She cocked her head and studied him from behind her spectacles. He could feel her thoughts churning.

“Then in your opinion,” she said, low enough so the others would not hear, “would you consider my own bed, with Tess asleep in the dressing room, the safest?”

He clenched his jaw. “No. I would not.”

“I see.” With that, she sat down, promptly ending the odd conversation.

His thoughts rambling from one possibility to another, he made his way to the opposite end of the table, where he spent the rest of the evening looking at his wife and wondering where she planned to lay her head that night.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

Biting her lip, Agatha eyed the connecting door to Magnus’ room for the hundredth time. Dare she knock on his door, or should she just enter of her own accord? Did he want her to stay with him or not?

“Of all the times to be vague,” she huffed.

Why had he not simply said what he wanted? It wasn't as if he didn't express himself often enough on most matters. He'd been quite vocal, really, on her actions in the past, so why not say he wanted her to sleep in his bed?

Her hand stilled where it fumbled with the tie of her robe. Unless he didn't in fact want her to sleep in his bed. Perhaps he was trying not to hurt her feelings, or it was uncomfortable having her there, or—

“Botheration,” she hissed.

“Something wrong, my lady?”

“Oh, no. I'm sorry, Tess. I'm just fussing with myself about something. You can go now. Thank you.”

“But I'm not to leave you alone, ma'am. Lord Leighton's orders.”

“Ah, I see.” Well, no not really, but she would in a moment. “Tess, I have something I need to discuss with Lord Leighton, so I shan't be alone. I'll call you if I should need you.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl looked worried, but did as she was told and left.

Agatha marched to the connecting door, took a deep breath and knocked. She decided to wait for a count of five before entering his rooms without an invitation. This vague business was to stop immediately.

But the door flew open by the time she'd counted to two, and before her stood her husband, his coat and neck cloth gone, even his boots. His hair was a bit disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it several times, and his shirt sleeves had been turned up at the wrists. She could see the harsh ridge of scars climbing his right arm.

He swiftly put his hands behind his back to hide them, but not before tugging at his shirt in a vain attempt to cover the ones on his throat.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

Yes, quite a bit, actually, but she kept that thought to herself. His behavior validated so many of her theories, but the one that concerned her most was his determination for her to not see his scars. She'd known they bothered him, that he tried to hide them from others, but he still thought they would bother her.

He leaned forward and peered around the room. “Where is Tess? I gave strict instructions that she was not to leave you alone,” he grumbled.

“I sent her to bed,” she said with a wave of her hand and strolled right past him into his room. “Since I'll not be in my room, there was no need for her to be there.”

“You'll not be...”

She paused in the middle of the room and turned. He stood stock still in the doorway, his mouth somewhat agape.

With a steadying breath, she crossed back to where he stood. “I would rather sleep here with you, unless you object.”

“I will never object to that,” he said.

“Then why didn't you say so at dinner?”

“I thought my—enthusiasm might frighten you.”

She cupped his scarred cheek. “I've told you, Magnus, you will never frighten me.”

He closed his eyes tight and took her hand from his cheek and pressed a tremulous kiss to the palm.

Those horrible girls hadn't been the only women who had said things to him, about him and his scars. His confidence had been destroyed long ago, she knew that now. But he would see what she was feeling as pity, so she kept her anger on his behalf to herself.

She reached up where he held her and touched the scars on his arm tenderly, showing him as best she could that they did not bother her, that they were a part of him. He looked down into her eyes, and she prayed her anger was well hidden.

With a small grin, his arms stole around her. “You cannot deny I startled you beneath the stairs,” he said with a soft kiss. “I grabbed you like a marauder.” He moved to the tender spot behind her ear, his lips and tongue tormenting her, sending her pulse racing.

“Mmm, yes you did,” she breathed.

He lifted his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “You mean to say, you liked it when I grabbed you?”

She laughed softly and kissed his scarred throat then moved up to his lips. “I like everything you've done so far. So I have to conclude that I will like everything you will do in the future. And if I should ever dislike anything, you will be the first to know.”

With a sigh, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes. She could see a torrent of emotions amid his gray gaze, but the warm desire emanating from him pooled in her belly.

“I'm sorry I've been such a coward,” he said. “I still cannot believe that—”

“Cannot believe what?”

He stroked her face with his fingers, his gaze roaming over her features. “That you are here with me, and that you seem to—like my touch.”

She pressed closer to him. “I more than like your touch and your kisses. All of them.”

“You are heaven sent,” he said on a choked breath, then his lips crashed into hers and she was lost to pure sensation. He devoured her with his mouth as his hands rode over her body in wicked abandon. Oh heaven. With only her night gown and thin robe between them, his touch was like the sweetest dream.

He lifted her from her feet and carried her to the bed, and slipped the covers over her. After darkening the room, she heard his boots hit the floor, then he joined her but atop the coverlet.

“Why do you not get beneath the covers with me?” she asked, between gentle kisses. “We'll both be warmer that way.”

“Too warm, I'd say,” he murmured.

She pulled her head back. “What?”

He chuckled roughly and kissed her. “Stop talking.”

“But Magnus, I want—”

“Shh,” he said, his lips trailing across her shoulder as he slid her night gown aside. This was something new, and if silence was what he required, she would give it to him.

Warm and wet, he kissed his way down as the cloth shifted, exposing her breast. She held her breath as his lips floated over her skin. Lower and lower, he went. She gasped as he made maddening circles around the tip, teasing, tormenting, until she fell into heaven when he drew the peak into his mouth and suckled.

“So sweet,” he growled. “So perfect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair and held him to the task as he continued his assault. On a moan, she breathed his name, and lost herself in the heady sensations.

Bit by bit, he made his way back to her mouth and pressed his lips to hers, stealing what little breath she still possessed.

“You should sleep,” he whispered against her lips.

“I'd rather you kiss me some more, and—other things,” she said, hating the pout in her voice, but she so wanted his touch, his everything, if only she could have him.

He chuckled low and rich. “Enjoyed that, did you?”

She giggled. “You know I did. But Magnus, is it hard for you? Do you mind—”

“I am more than happy to kiss you and other things,” he said, nipping at her lips, while his hands stole over her body.

Agatha sighed with a smile on her face, although she felt guilty for enjoying such pleasure.

The lawn party was a success, and Agatha couldn't help but feel a ridiculous sense of pride. Her lack of experience had not proven to be a hindrance at all.

The guests moved to the area of the garden where she'd had archery targets set up. She detested croquet, and was pleased the group thought her idea delightful. Of course, with Lady Crittenden's unflappable support and a carefully placed word here and there, she doubted any of them would say a word against her.

“I've little experience with archery, Lord Crittenden. Would you be so kind as to instruct me?” Miss Templeton asked.

“Of course.”

Agatha hid her grin at George's quiet oath amid his forced smile, but it would pull his attention away from Miss Reynolds. His mother had not missed a single moment of his abject attentions toward her, but managed to hold her tongue on the subject. She was trying very hard. Or so it seemed.

“And what of you, darling? Shall I instruct you?” her husband asked.

“And what makes you think I need instruction?”

“I don't,” he said, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “I only wish an excuse to put my arms around you in public.” He nodded toward George where he stood behind Miss Templeton.

The night had been glorious. He'd held her, caressed her, kissed her for long luxurious hours, but he'd not disrobed, nor had he removed her chemise. She wondered, as she had many times, if going any further in their intimacy would be painful or uncomfortable for him. Or was he merely continuing to hide his scars? Whatever his reasons, she would be patient, but she would learn the answer eventually.

“I think then, my lord, you should do your best to show me exactly how it's done,” she said.

With a smile, he guided her to a set of arrows and a bow.

“You take the bow like this,” he said, and adjusted her grip around the handle. “Then you hold the arrow like this, the nock against the string, using three fingers.”

She felt like a puppet as he adjusted her grip. Although she was somewhat skilled in archery, she couldn't seem to make her body obey her. With his arms around her, his broad chest against her back, his hands atop hers, and his lips, ever so close to her ear, all she could do was let him guide her.

“You're trembling,” he whispered.

She swallowed hard. “I can't help it.”

“If you'd rather I didn't—”

“No.” She twisted her head on a breath, their mouths scant inches apart.

His gaze warmed. “Have you any idea how lovely you are?”

“You—you don't have to say such things to me, Magnus.”

He peered deep into her eyes, his voice low. “A man does not desire a woman he thinks unattractive.”

“But—”

“I thought you lovely the first time I saw you,” he whispered.

She shook her head faintly, words having failed her.

“And every day you grow lovelier still.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “And if we didn't have a lawn filled with nosy, gossiping guests, I'd kiss you right now and prove just how beautiful you are.”

She lowered her bow and arrow, almost having forgotten she even held them. “Will you prove it to me later?”

“You may count on it, madam.” He grinned as he set her away from him. “Now, let us see how well you shoot.”

Smiling wide, she turned, took aim, and let the arrow fly. Not a clean shot, as her hands were still trembling and her heart still pounding, but she hit the target.

“You never cease to amaze me,” he said.

“I shall take that as a compliment,” she said, and placed the bow aside so that one of the other guests could have a go.

“It was meant as one.”

Stepping back, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm and watched the others. She giggled at the sight of poor George having to assist yet another lady.

He shot her a scowl, and she hastily wiped the grin from her face and glanced at the others.

Lady Crittenden looked on approvingly as George did his duty, and the other ladies were all green, save Katherine, as he worked with Miss Barrington. Her shot went a bit wild, but was followed by another from Katherine, who was quite skilled.

“Nicely done!” George applauded, a bit too loud, but she had hit the mark squarely.

Magnus chuckled. “He's not helping matters, is he?”

“I'm afraid not, but you have to admit that Lady Crittenden is doing rather well.”

Magnus nodded as they watched Miss Templeton move to stand between George and Katherine, a look on her face of pure determination. Apparently the other ladies who'd accompanied Lady Crittenden had decided to step aside, as it appeared that Miss Barrington and Miss Templeton were friends as well as serious rivals, while poor George was the prize.

The two ladies flanked Lord Crittenden and began making subtle yet snide comments to one another while ignoring Miss Reynolds all together.

Her friend cast Agatha a humorous glance.

“I see she is more like you than I'd thought,” Magnus said lowly.

“What do you mean?”

He leaned close, as they watched the scene play out before them. “She is sensible and beautiful.”

His lips brushed her skin at the temple, and she let out a soft sigh, thrilled that he wished to fill her head with sweet compliments. But her grin fell soon after.

Did he say such things because he thought she needed to hear them or because he actually believed them?

She was plain, nothing special, but he seemed to think otherwise—or did he?

“Beg pardon, my lord,” Barstoke said, standing off to the side.

“Excuse me,” he said, and stepped away.

Agatha watched as Barstoke and Magnus moved to the far side of the lawn and spoke in fervent whispers. It made her skin crawl. Had something happened? Had they found a stranger lurking on the grounds? Had one of the servants been attacked?

She stepped toward them, determined to be included, it was her life, after all, but halfway across the grass she paused when George shouted something. As she turned to see what he was going on about, assuming it had to do with Misses Templeton and Barrington, she felt something sting her arm.

“No!” Magnus yelled.

She reached up to touch the spot on her arm and noticed her dress was torn and blood oozed from an ugly gash. Staring at the blood on her hand, her head swam.

“I will not faint,” she whispered. It was so undignified, and really what was the purpose? But she'd never faired well at the sight of blood. Still, she held to her resolve, praying the wooziness would subside.

“Agatha!” Magnus swept her up into his arms and rushed across the lawn into the house.

“I'm all right. I think.”

“Hush, darling, don't talk.” He laid her on a settee then shouted for bandages and a doctor.

She heard their guests talking around her, one or more of the younger ladies crying, and someone saying something about their fault.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd kindly leave the room,” Katherine said. “I'm sure Lady Leighton will be fine. It doesn't appear to be too serious.”

Agatha blinked a time or two, noting the burn in her arm. It helped cleared her head. Magnus hovered over her, his face pale as he tied a cloth about her arm. She covered his trembling hand with hers, and he closed his eyes a moment and took several deep breaths.

“Is there anything I can get you, Agatha?” Katherine asked.

“No, I'll be quite all right, thank you.”

“This is my fault,” George snapped. “Or rather, those conniving females. Bloody raving lunatics, the lot of them.”

“It was an accident.” Or so Agatha hoped. She couldn't see either Miss Templeton or Miss Barrington as a murderess.

“You could have been killed,” he ground out.

“Yes, well, that does seem to be the theme of this house party,” she said.

Magnus lifted his head and speared her with a look. “This is not a joking matter.”

She sighed. “You're right, but I am growing rather weary of it all.”

“Agatha, that is far too cryptic to let alone,” Katherine said.

“It is nothing that concerns you,” George said, taking her by the arm and escorting her to the door.

“Too late, my lord. I am concerned and I am involved. Now, either you remove your hand, or you shall discover what a girl can learn from five brothers.”

The look on George's face brought a smile to Agatha's lips as well as a laugh. “I would listen to her, my lord. We don't need another wound to tend to.”

Magnus stood with a sigh, Agatha's hand firmly encased in his. “Let her remain. She may be able to help.”

Her head tilted at an inquisitive angle, she strolled back to the center of the room. “And I shall, once I learn the details.”

“This is bloody madness,” George sputtered and moved to the liquor cabinet in the corner where he poured, then downed a good deal of brandy.

Katherine rolled her eyes and took a seat across from where Agatha lay. “Begin at the beginning.”

Agatha moved to rise, but Magnus was there in a blink.

“Stay still,” he ordered.

“I'd like to sit up, if you please.”

“I do not please, and you will lie still until the doctor has had a look at you.”

“I don't need a doctor. Katherine will you have a look at it and tell him I'm fine?”

Her friend rose, brushed past her husband, and lifted the edge of the rapping.

“I realize you're a scientist, Miss Reynolds, but your word won't sway me in this matter,” Magnus said.

“I also happen to have had some training in the medical field. I'd wanted to be a doctor, until I realized my true calling was in chemistry,” she said, looking beneath the rapping.

“Good Lord,” George sputtered.

“But I assure you, if she requires medical attention, I will not lie,” Katherine said.

With a muttered oath, Agatha waited for the verdict.

Katherine smiled and gave her a slight wink as she settled beside her on the edge of the settee. “You could do with a stitch or two, but if you don't use your arm for a time, a tight wrapping should suffice.”

Magnus let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The doctor would arrive shortly, Barstoke would've seen to it, and he would look at his wife's wound regardless, but he felt a sense of relief with Miss Reynolds’ opinion.

“I still say she should see a physician,” George grumbled.

“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Miss Reynolds replied snidely.

“You just admitted to having only some training.”

“And you admitted that the entire incident was your fault. If you'd paid better attention to those two silly girls—”

“I was paying attention to you!”

Miss Reynolds fell silent, her mouth a wordless ‘oh'.

“Please, it was no one's fault,” Agatha said. “It was an accident.”

“Perhaps, Miss Reynolds, if you would take a seat, I shall do my best to explain the situation,” Magnus said.

Agatha smiled up at him, and he took her hand in his, then began to tell what had occurred over the last few days. It astonished even him, as he spoke.

“My goodness,” Miss Reynolds said when he'd finished, but he could see her mind working on the puzzle. “That leaves quite a list of suspects.”

“I would rule out both Miss Templeton and Miss Barrington,” Crittenden said.

“Agreed,” Agatha replied. “They didn't have their come-out until two years ago.”

“So they could not have any connection to me,” Magnus said.

“I think it truly was an accident,” Miss Reynolds said, then looked at Crittenden. “Unless it wasn't one of their arrows that did the deed.”

“I—” Crittenden looked to the floor then out the window, a pensive frown on his face. “I don't know.” He looked at Magnus. “I honestly cannot say if it was or not.”

“But one of them or both them were crying, were they not?” Agatha asked.

Magnus squeezed her hand. “I'm afraid several ladies were, darling.”

There was a knock at the door, then Barstoke entered. “The doctor, my lord.”

“Oh, bother,” Agatha grumbled.

With a weary chuckle, Magnus told him to let the man in.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

Magnus climbed the stairs relieved the evening was over. He'd endured all he cared to of his guests, even his old school chum's presence was wearing thin. He wanted to be with his wife, safe and alone, but knew it would be a time, perhaps a long time before that was possible.

Agatha had spent the remainder of the day tucked away in her rooms with Miss Reynolds by her side, while he was forced to return to his unwanted guests. He'd wanted nothing more than to say with her, but knew his presence was required elsewhere.

All afternoon and into the evening hours he'd looked at each face, wondering who among them wanted him to suffer, who wanted his wife dead?

Lady Crittenden had fussed over him, visited Agatha in her rooms several times, and apologized for barging into his home. She announced that they would all be leaving come morning.

Too little too late, he thought.

As to the Misses Templeton and Barrington, one more apology accompanied with tears, and he'd go mad. There was little doubt as to the incident now. The ladies admitted, repeatedly, that it was their fault, which left him wondering if the murderess was among the guests after all.

He entered his room and went straight to the connecting door and knocked softly. He'd given Tess strict orders not to leave her alone once Miss Reynolds had retired for the night.

The seconds ticked by and there was no response. His heart jumped to his throat, as he yanked the door open, afraid of what he might find. But two steps into her room, he calmed his racing pulse.

Tess lay sleeping on a pallet at the foot of the bed, while Agatha sat curled in a chair by the fire, her notes spread around her, sound asleep. He warmed at the sight of her long dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, her robe gaped open, exposing her full breasts rising and falling with every breath beneath a thin nightgown.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

He crossed the room and slid his arms beneath her, and lifted her from the chair. She barely fluttered an eyelash. Silently, he carried her to his room and laid her on the bed. He slid her robe from her body then tucked the covers to her chin. She murmured in her sleep, something about kisses, and he smiled.

A soft brush of his lips against hers was all he dared, but he would sleep beside her, guard her from the demon who wished to take her away.

He removed his coat and draped it over a chair, then paused. With a grin, he moved to the cabinet, took down a hanger and neatly hung up his jacket. His neck cloth, however, he was not so careful with, knowing full well it would be pressed, regardless, the following day.

After removing his boots, he sat for a spell before the fire and listened to her deep even breaths. His own fell into a rhythm with hers and for the first time in an age, he felt a peacefulness wash over him. It called him to the bed, and after stripping down to just his under-drawers, he slid between the sheets to lie beside her. He had little doubt he would wake before her in the morning, and be able to cover the scars before she awoke, but until then he would relish the warmth of her body beside his this one time.

On a sigh so sweet he ached to taste her, she rolled toward him and snuggled into his side. He held his breath, fearing she'd wake as she had before, and he knew if he so much as looked into her eyes filled with longing, he would not be able to stop himself from making her wholly and completely his.

Her hand fidgeted a moment atop his bare chest, a fraction of space away from his scars, and she murmured something. But she fell into a deeper sleep, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He placed his hand over hers where it lay and closed his eyes to sleep the most restful sleep he'd had in many a year.

Agatha woke to find herself in her husband's bed, but with no husband.

“Drat,” she said with a huff.

Not that she expected anything more than what they'd shared before, but she would've loved to have had a few minutes alone together before the day began.

As well as a few kisses and caresses.

With a sigh of regret, she rose and retrieved her robe, then made her way to her room and readied herself for the day's events, whatever they were to be. After the archery incident the day prior, she had no great desire to plan much of anything to entertain her guests.

Tess, already awake and waiting for her, helped her dress and had just finished pinning up her hair when Magnus entered.

She studied his reflection in the mirror and his furrowed brow. “Thank you, Tess. That will be all,” she said, rising from the dressing table. Whatever was on his mind, she felt certain it should be discussed in private.

He cast Tess a glance as she closed the door behind her.

“Lady Crittenden and the others are leaving this morning.”

“It's just as well,” she said with a sigh. “I'd not been able to recognize the scent.”

He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you well?”

“I'm fine. My arm is a bit sore, but that's to be expected.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

She cocked her head to the side as she watched him. “You obviously have something on your mind. Care to tell me what it is? Or would you rather brood over a bit longer,” she said with a small smile.

With a rough chuckle, he took two strides across the room and pulled her into his arms. His kiss was slow and delicate.

“I should have arrived sooner, before you woke,” he said, kissing and nipping his way to her ear.

She sucked in a breath at the sharp tingling sensation racing over her skin as he pulled her earlobe into his mouth.

“You should never have left the bed.”

“You needed your rest.” He moved back to her mouth, his lips faintly brushing across her skin.

With a grin, she nipped his lips then swirled her tongue around their edge. “I needed you.”

On a groan, he pulled her against him tighter in a fierce embrace and covered her mouth hungrily. She clung to him as he continued his delicious assault, while his hands roamed over her body, touching the small of her back, her hip, her throat, her breast. She moaned, the pleasure, so exquisite she wished it would never end.

But it must. They had guests to see off.

“Magnus,” she murmured.

“I know, I know, but I cannot seem to get enough of you.” He held her head in his hands and delved his tongue deeper into her mouth, stealing the last of her breath with slow delicious strokes.

After a time, seconds, minutes, even hours, she couldn't be sure, he set her away from him, but thankfully, he hadn't let go. She wasn't certain she'd remain standing if he did.

She shook her head, then shook it again. He chuckled low and warm. She adjusted her spectacles and cast him a false glare.

He stepped back, extending his arm. “Shall we see this lot off so we can finally have some peace?”

With a smile and a nod, she allowed him to escort her out of the room.

They'd hardly stepped into the hall, when Barstoke appeared, winded and panting. “My lord, the potting shed is on fire!”

“Stay here,” he said, and rushed to the stair.

“No, I'm going with you.”

He stopped and gripped her shoulders. “I want you here, where it's safe.”

She shook her head. “My safety is in numbers, and you'll need as many hands as you can get for a bucket brigade.”

He looked as if he were about to argue, but pulled her to him and crushed her lips with his. Grabbing her hand, he tugged her along as they raced toward the gardens and the small potting shed.

Together they came to a halt in the garden, the flames leaping high into the sky. Magnus went rigid by her side.

She grabbed Mr. Roberts’ sleeve as he rushed past. “Is there anyone inside?”

“No, my lady. But the rest of yer things—”

“Damn my things, Mr. Roberts! Was anyone hurt?”

“No, ma'am,” he called, as he ran toward the lead of the bucket brigade.

She turned to her husband, still frozen in place. His hand had gone limp in hers. She stepped in front of him and clutched at his coat. “Magnus, look at me.”

His empty gaze sickened her. The horrors he must be reliving brought tears to her eyes. They needed to join the brigade, but she could not leave him like this.

“We have to help put it out before it spreads,” she said, but received no response.

She cupped his face in her hands, and jerked his attention down to her. “No one is hurt, do you hear me? Everyone is fine.”

He blinked and shook his head as if from a trance. “Agatha.” His trembling fingers brushed her lips.

“Yes, I'm here, darling, but we have to help.”

His clear gaze shot to the chaos behind her, then to her. He grabbed her and leaned close. “Promise me, you'll stay far away from the flames.” He gave her a subtle shake. “Promise me!”

“Yes, of course! But you must promise me the same.”

A crooked grin tipped up the edge of his lips. He pressed a quick kiss to her brow with a murmured promise, then raced to join the bucket brigade. Agatha did the same bringing up the rear with the rest of the women.

“Agatha, we need to wet down the area near the hedge,” Katherine said, as she appeared beside her.

She nodded, understanding what she intended. If they kept the area around the shed wet, then the fire was less likely to spread.

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” Lord Crittenden shouted, snagging Katherine by the arm.

“What does it look like, you fool?”

“You shouldn't be here, it isn't safe!”

She shoved at his chest. “There isn't time to argue, go help Lord Leighton!”

With a snarl, he hurried to aide Magnus, while she and Agatha, along with several of the female staff, tossed out water as fast as they could.

Several of their male guests joined the brigade to put out the flames while the ladies watched in abject horror.

“Ninnies,” Agatha growled, and tossed another bucket filled with water.

Although it took almost the entire day, and her arm was dreadfully sore, the flames were finally doused, the house saved, and all of them weary to the bone.

Agatha leaned against the wall, feeling ready to topple over, but strong arms pulled her away and lifted her from her feet.

“Magnus, I'm all right,” she coughed.

“You're exhausted.” He moved into the house and made straight for the study. Once there, he gently placed her on the settee. A glass of brandy appeared before her and she took it with a sigh, as he inspected her arm.

“It doesn't appear to be bleeding,” he said.

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“You'll have Tess change the bandages when you go to your room.”

She nodded at his order, noting for the first time the scars on his chest. With his coat gone, his shirt dampened with sweat and water, they stood out sharply against his skin.

Her eyes slid closed as she felt a deep pain in her chest for him. He'd endured so much, the fire, the loss of his wife, and now this lunatic determined to take revenge for something they couldn't fathom.

Katherine sat beside her with the assistance of Lord Crittenden.

“Can I get you anything else?” George asked her, as he handed her a glass of brandy.

“No, this is fine,” she replied with a heavy sigh.

The door closed and Lady Crittenden appeared before them. “Is there anything I can do, Magnus? It seems this week has been fraught with troubles.”

“No, but thank you,” Magnus replied.

She looked down at Agatha and Katherine, a worried frown in her face. “Are you all right?”

“They both nodded and sipped their drinks.”

“Well, I must say I've never seen such a sight,” Lady Crittenden said with a huff. “The two of you heaving buckets and the like? Such things are generally left to the men. I can understand such things from you, Miss Reynolds, American's are—different.” She cast a sly glance over her shoulder at her son. “But Ladies don't generally do such things.”

“That's quite enough,” George snapped. “I'll not have you slight Miss Reynolds for her bravery and clear thinking. If she'd not thought to wet down the surrounding gardens, the whole house could be ablaze.”

A grin teased the older woman's lips. “But George, dear—”

“Now is not the time for a lecture on deportment. Now if you don't mind, I'd like a word with Lord and Lady Leighton.”

“Very well. I'll see to the others and make certain you're not disturbed,” she said with a nod toward Magnus before disappearing, a satisfied smile on her face.

Agatha glanced at Katherine who sat somewhat stunned, but no less aware of what had just happened. Lady Crittenden had been quite obvious in her little play, for they both knew she'd been filling buckets as fast as she could at the well. But George had been completely taken in. So much for doing nothing. Although to George's eyes, she was no longer prodding him to marry, the poor blind fool. The question was, however, did Katherine wish for George's suit?

Agatha shook her head at the quandary, there was little room left for more ponderings in her weary mind.

George bent low before Katherine. “You should be resting.”

Katherine eyed him over her glass. “No, I'm quite fine. Right here with you,” she said softly, placing her hand atop his.

George's mouth fell open then closed with a click as he straightened and tugged at his neck cloth.

Agatha and Katherine exchanged amused glances.

“Yes, well,” George said, clearing his throat. “This business today—”

“It was set,” Katherine said without preamble.

Agatha nodded. “I'd feared as much. But how did you come to that conclusion?”

“You'd said that all of your chemicals had been removed. There was nothing left to cause such a blaze, so it had to be helped along.”

“Agreed.”

“Bloody hell,” Magnus said with a growl as he lifted his drink and downed its contents.

Katherine set her glass aside. “What I'd like to know is why the potting shed?”

George threw up his hands. “She's trying to kill her!”

Agatha chuckled roughly, her fatigue gaining ground. “George, what Katherine means is it was obvious I wasn't in the shed at the time, so why bother burning it down?”

“Isn't that what I said?” Katherine asked, her dainty brows arched.

“Not directly, no,” George grumbled.

It would seem an intelligent woman was a bit more than George had expected.

Agatha laid back against the cushions her head suddenly pounding. Matchmaking mothers, killers, chemicals, and a husband who teased her to distraction, all of it was paying a heavy toll on her sanity.

“Perhaps she was warning you,” Katherine said.

“That seems rather odd, she's made several direct attempts, supplied a note, why would she warn her?” George asked.

Before anyone could attempt an answer, Barstoke appeared.

“My lord, the Magistrate has returned, per your summons.”

“Show him in,” Magnus said.

Katherine touched her hand. “Do you wish me to leave?”

She gripped her friend's hand in return. “No, but I warn you, he's not an easy fellow to deal with.”

Katherine chuckled. “Neither are English lords,” she said, shooting her a grin.

“But you seem to manage so nicely.”

They both chuckled, while George grumbled a choice explicative or two.

“You should go up to your room and rest,” Magnus said, taking her drink from her hand. “As should you, Miss Reynolds. Crittenden and I will handle this.”

“You know, I think you are right. We shall leave this to you,” Agatha said, climbing to her feet. “But if you need any information regarding—”

“Yes, I know, Agatha,” he said, and ushered her to the door.

He turned to Miss Reynolds on her other side. “Have Tess stay with her once you've seen her to her room.” Magnus said, his hand at Agatha's back.

“Not to worry,” Katherine replied. “She'll not be alone, I promise.”

But Magnus did worry. The fire was meant as a warning, but not to Agatha. It was directed at him. Whoever was perpetrating these events, wanted to remind him of the past.

Worn to the bone, Agatha insisted Katherine retire to her room, and set about taking a bath to remove the soot and grime. She nibbled at the last bit of cheese from a plate Barstoke had sent up for her dinner some time ago, having missed breakfast and lunch, and thought about Katherine's comment.

Why would she burn down the shed knowing I wasn't there

The door opened, and a breeze brushed across her damp skin. “I don't need you anymore this evening, Tess,” she said without looking over her shoulder.

“You were not to be left alone!”

“Oh!” She ducked deeper into the water, but knew Magnus could see practically everything. “I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she snipped.

“This person grows more dangerous with every attempt! You are not safe alone!”

She sat up, forgetting her nudity, and flipped her towel open, exposing her pistol. “I happen to be a crack shot. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my bath.”

His eyes roamed over her body, and she sank back beneath the water. With a leisurely stroll, he crossed the room.

“Allow me to assist you, my lady,” he said, his voice thick. He took a seat behind the tub, and she spun around, unable to face him.

He lifted the washcloth and slowly rubbed it across her shoulders. “If you want me to leave, you've only to say it.”

“S-stay,” she whispered.

His breath brushed across her shoulders as he exhaled. Nervous, a little scared, but very excited. She wanted this, she wanted him...she wanted love, but what could they have together? Could she be so selfish as to accept his attentions when he couldn't find his pleasure as well?

His lips touched her skin at the base of her neck and she failed to withhold her gasp. His hands slid across her shoulders and down her arms to disappear beneath the water. She could feel the scars on his hand and arm, how different it felt from the left, but it didn't bother her in the least. All she could think of other than that passing thought of their difference, was what he was going to do next? Or more to the point, what part of her was he going to explore next and should she allow him? It was so unfair to him. This was so much...more than his kisses and his attentions the other night.

His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts and her breathing quickened. Then he lifted them from the water, caressing them as his lips moved across the nape of her neck to her shoulders. Rolling the pebbled peaks between his fingers and thumbs, she moaned in sinful delight, and laid her head back against his shoulder.

“You should stop,” she whispered, guilty for enjoying herself when he could find no pleasure of his own.

“Why would I want to do that?” he asked with a soft chuckle.

She turned, sloshing water over the sides and peered into his eyes. “It isn't fair that you give me pleasure when—” He stopped her words with his lips and lifted her from the bath.

He lowered her feet to the floor, ending the kiss. His gaze traveled every exposed inch of damp skin. “I never thought I would ever see anything so lovely ever again,” he said, his fingers gliding down her sides to her waist.

More compliments, but she wasn't about to stop him. It all sounded too wonderful.

He dabbed at her damp skin with a cloth, and she felt no shyness at his attentions, likely due to the fact that his lips followed much of his work, thoroughly distracting her from any embarrassment.

“This seems so unfair,” she murmured as his mouth teased a taught nipple, while his hands roamed lower.

“In what way, darling?”

“You should—mmm—find your pleasure—oh my,” she gasped as he teased the curls at the apex of her thighs, finding a highly sensitive spot.

“And you think this doesn't bring me pleasure?”

“I don't know—ohhh.” He slid a finger into the heated center of her being while his thumb toyed with that deliciously sensitive spot, and she nearly collapsed.

“Yes, Agatha. Let it take you, and I'll find my pleasure.”

He swallowed her scream with his kiss as she flew apart in his arms. She'd never known such wonderful sensations, such rush of emotions. No longer able to remain upright as the waves receded, she collapsed against him.

Magnus lifted her and carried her to the bed. Her eyes glazed with spent passion, her flushed body bare to his view.

“You are stunning,” he whispered, and lowered himself to the bed. He slipped her spectacles off and placed them on the bedside table then began a long leisurely path down her throat to her breasts with his lips. Pausing, he pulled one pebbled peak into his mouth, and she arched into him.

He'd wanted this, wanted it all, but had been too afraid to move them to this level of intimacy before. He'd felt bold the other night, but now, after seeing the flames licking the sky, knowing that he might lose her no matter how hard he tried to protect her, he was determined to have all that he could—all that she would give.

He moved down, nipping and licking her skin, lower and lower.

“Magnus?”

“Hush.” His breath blew across her damp folds and she gasped at the sensation. Then his mouth was there, tasting her, tormenting her, driving her over the edge again, but from a much higher level, he was certain, and she shattered like fine crystal beneath him.

He wanted to claim her, make her his in truth, but dare not risk her rejection. It would kill him to see the disgust on her face. This was as far as he braved.

He rose from the bed and pulled the covers over her, and tucked her in securely, then turned to leave.

Her hand fell to his. “Stay with me, Magnus.”

He clenched his jaw, wanting desperately to please her, but feared he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he were to lie beside her again. Not after watching her body flush with her release. He would return to her later, but not until his blood had cooled significantly.

Like a goddess, she rose from the bed to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Please, Magnus,” she whispered against his chest.

He held her tightly to him, her lack of clothing leaving his situation more exposed than he'd realized as his rigid shaft pressed against her belly.

She looked up at him with a puzzled expression. “Magnus?”

He put her at arm's length, hoping she didn't understand, but somehow knew he'd been caught in his lie.

With a frown, she reached for her spectacles on the table and turned her gaze to his. “You needn't have lied. You could've simply said you didn't want me. I said I would stay with you, you needn't have gone to such great extremes to keep me here,” she said, her voice tight.

He clamped his lids closed, hating that he'd let her believe he couldn't make love to her. But she had to understand. “I was trying to spare you.”

“Spare me? From what, Magnus, the truth? That I'm a plain, plump wallflower? That I'm merely suitable as a wife?”

“No, damn it! You are not plain! You're beautiful,” he choked out. “You deserve a man that isn't—isn't a monster,” he said with a resigned sigh.

“You are no such thing.” She rose to her knees, her beautiful body barely hidden by the bedding she clutched in her shaking fists.

Brushing her fingertips across his scarred cheek, she said, “I see you, Magnus, not your scars.”

“They're not only on my face, Agatha.”

“I know,” she said with a watery smile. “But they aren't you.”

“Agatha, I—I can't.”

“Yes, you can.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he inhaled her delicate scent. Could he truly have what he wanted? Would she not turn away?

“Make love to me, Magnus,” she whispered.

He looked into eyes filled with more emotion, more caring than he ever thought possible, and all for him. But he could not, would not risk losing her.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, prying her arms from around his neck, then left the room.

Grabbing a passing footman, he made sure someone was stationed outside her door at all times.

Agatha waited until she heard his solid footsteps leading away from the door before she fell to the bed in a torrent of tears. How could loving someone hurt so much?

He wanted her, his desire was evident, she'd been a fool to accuse him otherwise, but she'd felt so hurt once she'd realized he hadn't told her the truth.

She swiped the tears from her cheeks and pushed her emotions aside, attempting to look at it logically. He wanted her, desired her, but would not make love to her because of his scars. He feared she'd be repulsed by them.

Shaking her head as she rose to retrieve her nightgown, she vowed not to let his fear win. “I will not let the past haunt our future.”

She returned to the bed and made her plans. First, she had to stop this fiend who wanted her dead and Magnus to suffer, a man who already suffered. He'd lost his wife, the grief alone would be difficult to bear, but he'd suffered so much more.

“Grief stricken,” she murmured, staring at the canopy above her bed. Could this woman be driven to murder by grief?

There was a clunk outside her door that sent her heart careening against her chest. Easing from the bed, she fetched her gun from the chair by the tub and silently made her way across the room. She pressed her ear against the door.

Muttered cursing seeped between the cracks. A footman, no doubt, had been ordered to watch her room.

She straightened with a soft sigh and shook her head. “Magnus, my love, what am I to do with you?” With a guard on her at all times, how was she to catch the murderer?

Still, it did bring a grin to her lips. He cared for her and her needs in so many ways. And soon, she'd see to caring for his.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twelve

The house finally devoid of guests except for Miss Reynolds and Lady Crittenden, Magnus breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Some of the guests had left the day before, shortly after the fire, while others had decamped that morning, feeling that with the recent incidents, they'd be wise to vacate the premises as quickly as may be before one of them fell prey to the accursed bad luck that plagued Bridley Hall.

If only his own luck would change. All day Agatha refused to speak to him. He supposed he deserved her censure for not telling her the truth. He'd spied her inspecting the remains of the shed with Miss Reynolds, refusing to heed his warnings to stay clear and inside where he could keep watch over her. Then once they'd completed their assessment, they shut themselves up in the orangery, neither he nor Crittenden were allowed inside.

“Damned annoying to be barred from a room in my own house,” he grumbled.

“They're scheming something. I feel it,” Crittenden replied.

“You've had matchmaking mothers and marriage minded ladies chasing after you for months. It's understandable that you would be a bit paranoid.”

“I tell you, they're scheming something.”

Magnus looked to Crittenden sitting across from him, a plaintive frown on his face. “Scheming or no, you've lost, you realize.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not caught yet.”

He chuckled. “Why bother running from the inevitable? You care for her, it's plain to see.”

Crittenden sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “It will take some—adjusting to. A long engagement, I think.”

He shook his head. “She isn't the sort to wait for long. She'll be wanting to go home soon, I imagine.”

Crittenden lurched forward in his seat. “Home?”

“Home to America,” he said with a nod, and wondered if Agatha wished to return to her father's townhouse in London. Although she'd promised to stay, that was before she knew the truth.

Barstoke appeared and announced dinner.

Magnus rose to his feet, the weight of his past, his future, his fears weighing on him. “Dare I ask if the ladies will be joining us?”

They'd taken the midday meal in a different part of the orangery where they could work at their formulas on paper while they ate. He'd spied Agatha through the glass, having a need to catch the faintest glimpse of her. If she were to leave him, how would he bear it?

“No sir, they have elected to have a tray sent to Lady Leighton's rooms.”

With a sigh of resignation, Magnus and Crittenden made their way to the dining room and ate in dismal silence. Each thinking on the woman who'd managed to wrap herself around their hearts.

Agatha bit into her lip and set her tea aside. She had to ask her friend's opinion, she had no one else to speak to in matters of the heart. Hattie was too far away, now on her honeymoon, and Lady Crittenden had left, although she didn't feel comfortable enough with the woman to discuss relations with her husband.

That left her friend, Katherine, whom she had the distinct feeling wasn't exactly naive regarding men. Not that she thought her anything less than a lady, but she did have five brothers, after all. One could hardly avoid learning some distinctive details in such a situation.

“Katherine, I—”

“Yes?”

She sipped her tea, tasting nothing, as she peered over the cup.

Averting her gaze, she set her cup aside. “I need to ask your opinion on a certain matter, but I'm afraid it's rather—personal.”

“You can discuss anything with me, Agatha, and it will always remain in the strictest confidence.”

“I know, it's just rather awkward,” she said, wringing her hands.

“My father always says if you don't put a problem on the table, how will you ever begin to dismantle it?”

Agatha grinned. “I can see where you get your sense of science from.”

“Yes, there are several in the family.” She reached across the settee and touched her hand. “Tell me what's troubling you. If I'm of no help, no harm will be done. But I want to help.”

“Well it—he—that is to say—” She took a deep breath and looked her square in the eye. “Magnus is afraid I will be repulsed by his scars if he and I were to attempt to have marital relations.” There, it was out, and she felt only slightly relieved, but took a deep breath in any event.

“Oh, dear,” Katherine said, as she sat back, her gaze drifting away.

“I hope you're not too shocked by the topic, but I've no one else I can speak with.”

She jerked her head around an understanding smile on her face. “Of course not. It is a rather dire problem.”

“Yes, quite. I'd hoped that with your knowledge of men, having so many brothers, that you might have some idea of how I can convince him that— well he simply doesn't believe me when I tell him that his scars are of no consequence.”

“Well.” She jumped to her feet and paced a moment or two. “Each of my brothers is quite different, but I suspect Magnus is most like my brother Reginald. He is the most stubborn of them all, always thinks he knows best for everyone.” She tapped her chin with a finger then paused and grinned down at Agatha. “However...”

She lurched to the edge of the cushion. “What? What have you thought of?”

“I overheard, quite by accident of course,” she said with a wink, “that his wife had seduced him and he had no choice but to marry her.”

“Oh my,” Agatha gasped.

“Not to worry, it was a plot to get my brother to move on with things. He loves her dearly and she him, but he had a severe case of cold feet and refused to pop the final question. He was constantly coming up with all sorts of reasons not to marry. But in the end everything turned out rather well for them both.” She spun around and looked about the room. “But this won't do. Not at all.”

“What do you mean?”

A sinister grin stole over her friend's lips. “Here is my suggestion, and mind you, it isn't for the faint of heart.”

A few hours and quite a bit of brandy later, Magnus climbed the stairs, hating himself for deceiving Agatha, wondering yet again, if he'd been honest at the first if she would've stayed with him. Now there was little question in his mind if she would or not. Her continued silence and avoidance of him was proof enough. He would not be surprised if both she and Miss Reynolds made for London at first light.

He entered his dressing room and tugged at his neck cloth. His valet appeared.

“I've no need of you tonight, Simmons.” He wanted to be left alone, completely with his disfigured self.

He dropped into a chair and tugged at his boots.

“Allow me, my lord.” Simmons quickly removed his boots and was gone with a wave of Magnus’ hand. The man knew when he was in a mood, he'd witnessed his recovery first hand.

Magnus rose and peeled the shirt over his head as he crossed to the bedroom. He tossed it to a chair in front of the fire and stood there watching the flames.

“I'd wondered when you were coming to bed,” Agatha said from behind him.

He spun around and reached for his shirt, and put it back on swiftly while keeping his left side facing away from the bed.

“I thought you had retired,” he said, staring into the flickering flames.

“I have.”

Her voice virtually purred and he tampered down the surge of desire rising in his blood. “I thought you weren't speaking to me.”

“Oh, that was simply to give me time to think.”

He turned as she sat up and he realized she was naked. Her pale skin glowed in the flickering firelight. She was an angel, with her hair down about her shoulders and those exotic eyes wide and deep looking up at him from behind her spectacles.

He swallowed...hard. Resisting her would be the hardest thing he ever did, but he had to or else he would lose her.

And yet, he'd thought he'd lost her but an hour ago. That was why he'd remained in his study with Crittenden getting as close to foxed as a man could get without crossing the line. Her safety was the only thing that had stopped him. He had to be alert to watch over her, whether she wanted him to or not. But now...she was here in his room, in his bed, as bare and as beautiful as ever.

She rose and crossed to him where he stood before the fire. He could see her hands shaking just the slightest bit, but she didn't hide her body from his view. To have her as his wife, body and soul, would be the greatest gift he'd ever received.

Stopping before him, she reached out and spread her hands across his chest, running over his covered skin, then began to work the buttons free. “I've seen them, Magnus. They are unpleasant, they make me hurt inside for what you suffered, but they are not you.”

He stilled her hands at their work.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she gazed up at him. “Don't turn away from me because of the past. Give us a chance for a future together.”

Slowly, he dropped his hands and let her do as she wished. If this is what she wanted, although he knew she would turn away in the end, he could not deny her anything.

With a tremulous smile, she unfastened the remaining buttons and slid his shirt from his shoulders. His jaw popped, he clenched it so hard, but he dare not move an inch.

He sucked in a breath and clamped his lids closed as the tips of her fingers brushed across his skin and over the harsh ridges of his scars. But she didn't merely examine his old wounds, she examined the rest of him as well. He felt the warmth of her breath, then her soft lips as she moved from his right side, mangled and deformed, across to his left with delicate kisses. Kisses so soft and sweet, they tore a groan from his throat.

“I see you, Magnus. All of you, and I shall never turn away.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he tilted up her chin and savored the sincerity in the depths of her eyes. He slipped her spectacles from her nose and placed them on the mantle, then lowered his head. She'd seen him, touched him, and still remained. It was enough to give him the courage to love her.

He brushed his lips across hers then led her back to the bed and laid her against the pillows. Her hair spread out around her like a dark halo, her deep brown eyes shimmering up at him filled with excitement and so much more.

That image remained with him as he banked the fire, allowing the darkness to wrap around him, concealing him from her view as he disrobed. He would show her no more ugliness.

He climbed into the bed beside her and hesitated, afraid to touch her, afraid to begin, for he knew there would be no turning back.

She rolled toward him and curled against his side. He was grateful that at least it was his good side facing her, so she wouldn't feel the brunt of his scars against her delicate skin. But she laid her hand against his chest and gently followed the horrid ridges down across his hip to his leg. As she neared his throbbing shaft, he clasped her hand before she could venture any further.

“Does it bother you so much, my touching you?” she asked.

He chuckled roughly. “Hardly.”

“Then why did you take my hand away?”

“Because I like it too much.”

“I see,” she purred, and settled her body atop his.

He sucked in a breath at the feel of her full breasts pressed against his chest, and her moist heat nestled against his erection.

He swallowed hard. “Are you sure you want this—me? You've seen what I am.”

“I would think the answer is obvious,” she said, her lips brushing back and forth across his. “But I have to admit, I'm not sure how to manage the, um, rest of this. They only put just so much information in books, I'm afraid. And my aunt was rather vague on the subject before we married.”

He could feel the smile on her lips and easily pictured her body flush with both desire and embarrassment.

“I think I can assist you, my lady,” he said, his heart light and full of hope, for although she trembled, he knew it had nothing to do with his scars.

“Please do, my lord,” she said with a heavy breath.

Grasping her hips, he lifted her just enough until she could feel the tip of his erection against her opening.

“Oh my. That feels...”

“Yes, it does,” he growled as he slid into her heated core, then rolled her to her back and held himself above her on his elbows while he kissed her thoroughly. With a single thrust, he broke through her maidenhead.

She gasped but held onto him tightly.

“It will ease in a moment,” he said, and laid butterfly kisses across her lips and cheeks, holding back the burgeoning need to plunge into her time and again. “If I could have spared you that, I would have.”

“I know,” she said with a smile against his lips, and began to move beneath him.

He responded in turn, and like a dance, they rode the waves of their passion, exploring, touching, tasting...exploding.

She called out his name on a sweet shrill note, and it brought him to an explosive end. He filled her with his seed, as she fed his heart and soul with her cries of passion.

His heart pounding, his head spinning, he lay back against the pillows with his wife in his arms and stared into the dark, thanking God for bringing her into his life.

“I had no idea it was like that,” she whispered.

He chuckled. “It isn't always.”

She lifted her head and he saw, in the faint light of the moon seeping between the curtains, her perplexed scrutiny.

“It's different for different people,” he explained.

“Oh. I see,” she said, her voice uneven, and laid her head against his chest. She seemed to have no qualms running her hands over his scars or any other part of him, and he reveled in it.

He slid his fingers into her tangled locks. “It wasn't like this with her.”

“You don't have to tell me anything, Magnus. I don't want to—”

“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I want to tell you.”

Her hand, splayed across his chest while her fingers moved in slow circles above his heart, waiting for him to continue.

“There was never any love in this house. Only hate and pain,” he said. “My parents were forever at each other's throats, leaving little time to give a child any attention. I had great hopes for Elizabeth and myself. I wanted to fill this house with happy sounds, sounds of family. I'd thought I could love her when I asked her to marry me, or at least come to care for her as I'd hoped she would come to care for me, but it wasn't to be.”

“She didn't love you.”

“No. Not long after we wed, she confessed that she'd married me for my title and money. She despised me for taking away her youth, her life. She called me monster long before the scars.”

Her fingers clenched into a fist. “And yet you tried to save her life.”

He settled her fingers back over his heart. “We were arguing over some silly party she wanted to have, but I was too busy to have a house full of her friends, people I would've been forced to entertain, or so I told myself. Perhaps I merely wanted to hurt her as she had hurt me. Whatever the true reason, I told her no and stormed out. There was a crash in my wake, but I ignored it. She enjoyed throwing things when she was angry, not unlike my mother.”

“The fire.”

“Yes, it was several minutes later when I realized what had happened. She'd thrown a lit lantern and within moments it had licked up the curtains and set the room ablaze. By the time I reached her, it was too late.”

“It wasn't your fault, Magnus.”

He stroked her bare shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Perhaps not all, but I must claim my part.”

“Yes, I suppose you must.”

“For nearly a year, as I lay in my bed mending, forcing my limbs to obey me, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd become just like my father. Spiteful and cruel. I wondered if I would ever know love, if this house would ever ring with happy voices.”

She lifted her head and slid her hand to his cheek, her touch warm and gentle. “We each have a bit of our parents in us, we cannot deny that, but we are each our own person as well. Your life, this house, is what you make of it, and nothing more. You cannot let the past determine your future.”

His heart warmed all the more with her fierceness on his behalf, and he decided to expose the last of himself to her. She'd welcomed him into her body, he prayed her heart would do the same.

“It won't,” he said. “Not any longer, not with you in my life. You drove out all the ghosts and brought life into this house.” He slid his hand through her tangled curls to the base of her neck and brought her lips close to his. “I love you, Agatha,” he said, and kissed her softly.

He felt a tear splash against his cheek as her lips trembled against his. He brushed his fingers across her damp face and studied her in the dim light. Fear threatened to cut through him, but he held it at bay, determined to make no assumptions, to give them both a chance.

“Why do you weep?”

“I-I hadn't wanted to hope.” She sniffled. “I knew a man could desire a woman and not love her.” She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “And I love you so much. I was afraid you would never feel the same about me.”

“You—” Too choked with emotion to speak, he pulled her against him and let her tears dampen his chest as his own slipped from the corners of his eyes.

They lay together for several minutes, holding one another in the dark.

“I'm sorry I'm such a watering pot,” she mumbled against his skin.

He laughed, rolling her to her back, and braced himself above her on his arms. “You, my love, can be anything you like. A countess, a scientist, even a watering pot—just as long as you are mine.”

“Always,” she whispered. “As I hope you are mine.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way.” He kissed her tenderly, then loved her with everything he couldn't say with mere words.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Thirteen

“Ah, so the happy couple is happy once again,” Crittenden said, strolling into the dining room the following morning.

Magnus enjoyed the blush stealing over Agatha's cheeks. “You could say that,” he said, and winked at her, bringing a deeper hue to her flushed face.

“In that case, perhaps I should take my leave of you today. Now that you two are set to rights, and the last, save one other guest, has left, I thought it might be best if I followed suit. But I will gladly stay if you wish it.”

“I don't see why you should,” Agatha said, then looked at Magnus, her beautiful eyes wide. “I mean, the decision, of course, is yours, darling.”

He chuckled, and covered her hand atop the table. “Agatha's right. After all, there's not much more to do but sit and wait for this lunatic to strike again.” He knew his friend was trying to stave off the marriage trap, they'd discussed it at length last evening, but doubted this last effort to run would do him any good. “But I would appreciate it if you remained, another set of eyes, and all that.”

“Mr. Clarkson may have some luck,” Agatha added.

He sighed and shook his head. “I've little hope there. The list of suspects is too long.”

“Then you finally agree that it is not a ruse or misdirection?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

He chuckled with a nod.

Crittenden took a place at the table with a filled plate. “Then we should re-examine your past, my friend,” he said, pointing his fork at Magnus. “There has to be a clue there somewhere.” He shoved a large helping of kippers into his mouth.

Magnus slid his hand from Agatha's and sat back in his chair. “The one woman who despised me is dead.”

His wife cast him a tender, understanding smile.

Crittenden's head, however, snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

He looked away from her sweet face and focused on his friend. “Elizabeth. She reviled me most explicitly.”

“I had no idea,” Crittenden murmured then sipped his tea with a heavy sigh. “I stayed away from England too long.”

He grinned at Crittenden. “I, for one, am glad you've returned.”

“As am I,” Agatha said, with a beaming smile. “One can never have too many friends.”

Magnus’ fork clattered onto his plate as his gaze focused on the past.

Agatha reached for his hand. “What is it? Magnus, what have you remembered?”

“The only other woman I've ever known that disliked me—” He turned his eyes to her, and blinked away the thought. “No. It can't be her. It's preposterous to even think it.”

“Preposterous or not, it's a start,” Crittenden said. “Who are you thinking of?”

He turned to him and said, “Beatrice Hayden. Although it's beyond imaginable.”

Agatha adjusted her glasses and peered closer at him, her mouth set in a somewhat firm line. “Then why did you say her name?”

A slow easy grin pulled at his lips. “Easy, love. Green is not your color.” He took her hand and kissed the pulse point at her wrist, winning a slight gasp. “But to set the matter straight, I have not had any other connections with that woman other than she was Elizabeth's friend.”

“So you didn't—” Crittenden said, his hand waving in the air.

“No, I did not. As I've said before, several times.”

“But you did dance with her,” Agatha said.

“She approached me. I thought it odd at the time. I'd always thought she hated me,” he said with a shrug.

“You spoke, I presume,” she said. “What did she say? Anything that might give us a clue?”

“I have to admit I'd paid her little attention. My thoughts were occupied on another figure across the room,” he said with a wink.

She attempted to hide her grin. “What did she say?”

He gazed down at the pristine tablecloth and tried to relive the conversation. “She complained about my inattention. Said something about the ladies in the room. And she said—” his head snapped up, “she said it was time for me to find a new wife.”

“Good Lord,” Crittenden said, flopping back against his chair.

“Damnation,” Agatha grumbled. “I've been a complete idiot. I can't imagine how I'd missed it.”

“What did you miss?” Magnus asked.

“First that horrible comment at our wedding, then as she left, she looked straight up at me in my rooms and gave me the oddest sort of nod. I'd dismissed it all at the time, my thoughts concerned with a different matter entirely. But her perfume, she'd worn that scent at our wedding. I cannot believe I was so blind to the facts.”

She shook her head, tossing her napkin to the table and rose from her chair. She stopped in front of the window and stared out at the garden. “And I call myself a scientist,” she groused.

Magnus stole up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. Pressing his cheek against her hair, he said, “We've all been blind to the facts, love. The entire incident is not of the ordinary sort. And we still don't know that it's she for certain.”

“I know it's her. I can feel it.”

He chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Now that isn't a very scientific answer.”

She let out a small giggle and leaned back against him. “No it isn't, but it would seem that where you're concerned I have difficulty thinking clearly.”

“Is that so?” He nuzzled her neck, recalling every moment of their lovemaking and nearly forgot that they weren't alone. But they would be—tonight and for many, many nights to come.

Crittenden rattled his cutlery. “Would you two stop cooing over there and get back to the matter at hand?”

She cupped the back of his head and held him close for a moment more, then stepped from his arms. “You're quite right, my lord. We've much to discuss,” she said.

Magnus ground his teeth together. “Yes, like when are you leaving?”

“You just asked me to stay,” Crittenden said with a howl of laughter.

“Since we now have a suspect, I see no reason you need to hang about. We've only need to watch for her,” he replied, ready for his friend to leave so he could take his wife directly up the stairs and make love to her all afternoon. She'd be safe in his bed and in his arms.

Her beautiful blush proved she'd thought something similar, he'd bet his life on it. But that thought sobered him. Beatrice wanted to kill Agatha, and if she succeeded he would suffer more pain than any fire, any wound he could ever sustain. He'd rather be dead than live his life without her.

“I think we should set a trap,” Miss Reynolds said, as she strolled into the dining room.

“Is listening in on private conversations a habit of yours?” George asked, a frown on his face.

“Only when it's important.” She took a plate and sat beside him at the table. “We'd best plan quickly too.”

“What sort of trap?” Magnus asked.

“One in which it appears I am alone, of course,” Agatha said.

He gripped her by the shoulders. “Absolutely not. You are not to be alone for even a moment, do you understand?”

“I won't be alone. You and George and Katherine will be waiting for her to strike.”

“You bloody well will not,” Crittenden said, jumping to his feet and pointing a finger at Katherine.

“I don't like to be ordered about, my lord. And I suggest you put that finger away, or you may very well lose it,” she said, brandishing a carving knife.

Ignoring George and Miss Reynolds’ as they continued to argue, Magnus looked to his wife. “You cannot put yourself in such a position, Agatha. I won't allow it. You cannot—I cannot—” The thought of losing her sucked the air from his lungs.

She smiled tenderly and touched his cheek. “It's the only way, my love. We have no proof it is her, so we must bring her out into the open.”

He jerked her into his arms and held onto her, his body shaking. “I won't lose you now,” he whispered harshly. “Not after all we've been through, not after waiting so long to find you.”

“You won't lose me, I promise, you won't,” she vowed, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

“She's right, you know,” Miss Reynolds said, breaking into Magnus’ horrific thoughts. “We either set a trap for her, or wait until she makes her next move. Either way, Agatha's life is in danger. It would be best if we were prepared.”

Crittenden sighed. “It's damned annoying when you're right.”

Magnus turned and looked at their friends as he continued to hold Agatha against his chest, wanting, needing to protect her with all that he was. “This has to end.”

“Then I suggest we get started,” Miss Reynolds said.

Magnus assisted Agatha into her chair and sat down beside her, never letting go of her hand. They sipped tea and nibbled at the remains of their breakfast, as they designed their snare.

“The orangery is the ideal location. With all the plants there are numerous places for us to hide,” Katherine said.

Her husband gave a solemn nod. “Agreed. The question is, how soon will she strike again?”

“I would think she'd try as soon as possible. She's not let up one bit on her attempts since she began,” Crittenden said, filling is fork.

It would seem little turned the gentleman from his meals, Agatha thought. “George, I've noticed you have a rather rapacious appetite. Did you not like the food in India?”

He chuckled behind his napkin. “Sorry to make a pig of myself. You are a truly keen observer, my dear. And you are correct. I'm afraid the spices did not set well with me. I longed for solid English fare. Had it prepared whenever possible, but it wasn't quite the same.” He lifted another hardy helping to his grinning lips.

“What of American food?” Katherine sipped her tea, eyeing him over her cup.

“I've not yet sampled any.”

“Then perhaps it's time you should.”

Magnus cleared his throat, apparently not having missed the subtle innuendoes. “Back to the matter at hand.”

Katherine nodded, a faint blush to her cheeks. “Yes, of course. Now, I suggest that Agatha go about her regular tasks. That way we won't alert her to our suspicions.”

Magnus stroked his jaw, reminding Agatha of the many kisses she'd placed there during the long, wonderful hours of the night.

“Not too regular,” he said. “After all that's happened, it would be reasonable that we'd take some precautions.”

“True,” Agatha said, pulling her thoughts back to safer, more important ground. “Katherine could act as my guard, so to speak. We could work on an experiment together, then she could go to fetch something, leaving me alone.”

“I still don't like it,” George grumbled.

“Neither do I, but we've little choice,” Magnus replied.

They agreed on a span of time and Agatha rose to return to her rooms to change into a work dress.

“I shall be back shortly,” Magnus said, rising with her.

“You don't need to escort me. Tess is in my rooms, I shan't be alone.”

“Nevertheless, I shall see you to the stairs at the very least.”

“Very well.” She smiled, letting his attention flow through her like sweet summer wine.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned her into his arms and kissed her. “Be careful, love,” he said, brushing her cheeks with the back of his fingers.

“I shall be fine.” She pecked a kiss to his lips then turned and climbed a handful of steps.

Pausing, she looked back at him. His gaze, so intent, so warm, so full of love, her heart felt near to bursting with joy. “Have I told you today, that I love you?”

With one foot on the bottom stair, his hands wrapped around the end of the banister, a soft smile spread across his face. “I believe you said something to that effect a few hours ago.”

“Ah, yes,” she chuckled. “Well, I think it bears repeating. I love you, Magnus, with all my heart.”

He was before her in an instant, his strong arms around her. “I shall never tire of hearing it.”

The tightness of his voice brought tears to her eyes, but she kept them from slipping away. “And I shall never tire of saying it.”

He kissed her—hard—then pulled away before she could be lost in the sensation, although her heart pounded beneath her breast from the heady taste of him.

“I love you, Agatha, but I shall never be able to tell you how much.”

“As long as you try—often,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Everyday, my love.” His lips touched hers then moved across her cheek to her ear, his arms wound around her body, pressing her to his broad chest. “Everyday, for as long as I live.”

“We shall get through this and have many happy days together,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, pulling away, setting her at arm's length. “Yes, we will.” A smile brightened his face. “Now, off with you, so we can bring an end to this business.”

She pecked a quick kiss to his lips then hurried the rest of the way up. She spared a quick glance over her shoulder at him standing on the stairs before slipping down the hall.

Magnus made his way back toward the dining room, and met Crittenden in the hall.

Miss Reynolds brushed past, a rosy tint to her cheeks. “I'll just go change into something more appropriate,” she said, and hurried up the stairs.

Magnus shot Crittenden a look, and the man merely smiled.

“I'll not remind you of your mother and her machinations, but you are well and into it, you know.”

His friend folded his arms and studied him. “True, but you can't be the only one enjoying yourself.”

“I happen to be married, a status, as I recall, you wish to avoid.”

Crittenden chuckled. “After seeing you these past days, even with this difficult situation, you've never been so content. So happy. I would even venture to guess that I've not seen you smile or laugh so much since I've known you. Makes a man—consider things.”

Magnus nodded, feeling a small flush of embarrassment to his skin.

“Agatha is good for you,” Crittenden stated.

“I couldn't agree more.” His gaze strayed to the staircase. “I only wish I were as good for her.”

Crittenden slapped a hand to his shoulder and steered him toward the orangery. “You cannot blame yourself for this business. It will be handled soon enough and the two of you can get on with your marriage, safe and content in your daily routines.”

Magnus nodded as they strolled down the hall, then came to an abrupt halt. “My God. Routine,” he rasped. “She knows Agatha's routine.”

His heart racing, he rushed back down the hall to the stairs.

“What are you thinking?” Crittenden asked, his steps keeping pace with Magnus.

“She knows Agatha will return to her room to change into her work dress. She's done so from the first day she began her experiments.”

“But she said her maid would be there.”

“She assumed,” Magnus rasped as he paused at her door, listening for any sound.

Crittenden's wide eyes met his. “Voices,” he mouthed. “The maid?”

Magnus’ heart fell to the bottom of his chest as he shook his head. He motioned for Crittenden to remain at Agatha's door, while he moved down the hall to his rooms, hoping to surprise Beatrice through his connecting door, and praying he wouldn't be too late.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fourteen

“Oh, Tess,” Agatha called to her maid lying still as a stone on the floor beside the bed.

“She can't hear you,” Beatrice said.

Agatha had seen Tess’ feet sticking out from behind the bed on the far side of the room, but hadn't managed to cross to her before Beatrice appeared from the dressing room holding a gun. Agatha's gun.

“Is she—” she swallowed her fear, she could show no sign of weakness.

Beatrice studied her before answering. “No. I've not decided her fate as of yet.”

Clasping her hands before her to keep them from shaking, she took a deep breath. “But you've decided mine.”

“Yes. I'd first intended to push you out the window, but now,” she said, motioning with the gun, “I think I'll simply shoot you.”

“You won't succeed in escaping. We'd deducted it was you. Magnus will find you.”

“Oh, but he'll have no proof. After all, this is your gun.” She waved the gun toward the secretary. “Sit down, Lady Leighton. You're going to write a letter.”

Agatha moved leisurely, praying Magnus and George would wonder what was keeping her so long, but they were likely hiding in the orangery by now. She hoped Katherine didn't appear. She had no doubt her friend would do something rash, headstrong was too small a word to describe Katherine Reynolds.

Agatha sat down at the desk, knowing full well what she wanted her to do. “A suicide note, I presume.”

“You are the smart one, aren't you?” Beatrice eased closer, but not close enough that Agatha could do anything. “Start writing.”

“What do you wish for me to say?”

“Oh, the usual. Your husband doesn't love you, and you're unhappy. This dismal house has driven you quite mad and you wish to end it all.”

“No one will believe it, no one that knows me,” she said, stalling for time, trying to come up with some way out of this horrendous predicament.

“No one does know you, silly girl,” she hissed. “You were a speck on the wall for too many seasons. No one will care that you're gone.”

“My husband will care.”

She laughed, a frightening maddening sort of laugh. “That fool of a man doesn't know the first thing about love.” Her gaze narrowed. “And neither do you.”

Agatha turned in her seat, away from the pen and paper. “Then how will killing me make him suffer? If he knows nothing of love, then my death will surely not cause him any grief.”

“Oh, it will hurt him. Two dead wives. The gossip will destroy him, the ton won't have anything to do with him after this, I'll see to that. He'll be alone for the rest of his life. And the best part is the fool actually believes he's in love with you. That is an unexpected treat.”

“When did you suspect he cared for me?”

“It was obvious at Crittenden's ball. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you. I nearly laughed aloud when I realized who'd caught his attention.”

“And if he'd not chosen a new wife, what then? How would you have found your revenge?”

“If you must know, I was going to marry the fool,” she said, her face contorted into a distasteful scowl. “I was ready to marry the disgusting beast, disgrace him at every turn, and send him to the poorhouse.”

Much became clear to Agatha. Her years of observation brought a good deal to light. “You dislike men immensely. So much so that you avoid them at all costs.”

“They're all oafs. What of it?”

“Nothing, except it explains quite a bit. She was more than your friend, wasn't she?”

“You don't know anything,” she growled. “Just shut up and write that note.”

“I know that you wish to kill me so that Magnus will suffer, as you suffered. Your words, not mine. That leads me to believe you loved Elizabeth as more than a friend, but I suspect she didn't love you in the same way.”

The gun shook in her hand. “She loved me! It was him, it was all his fault. We were happy until he came along.”

“But you were never lovers. She may have not loved Magnus, but she never loved you either. You were merely a friend to her, nothing more. She wanted rank and money—and men, but never you.”

The gun shook violently. “You're wrong!”

Magnus opened the connecting door and eased inside the room. Agatha held her breath and forced her gaze to remain on Beatrice, lest she give him away.

“I am rarely wrong in matters of deduction,” Agatha said, forcing a cool reserve to her voice, one she did not feel, by any means. “I also know that you will not succeed in this plan of yours.”

“You little nobody!” She lifted the gun higher and took aim.

Magnus lunged from behind, throwing Beatrice to the ground.

“Magnus!” Agatha lurched forward, but Crittenden burst through the door and placed himself between her and the pair wrestling on the floor.

A shot cracked the air and the room went still.

Agatha clasped her hand to her throat, too terrified to speak, to say what she feared might be so, as neither body moved. A tunnel formed before her as she waited for some sign. She blinked, but the tunnel only narrowed further. Her lungs refused to take in any air, and her legs grew too weak to support her. The last thing she remembered was the room spinning around her and the sound of her name.

Magnus leapt from his prone position atop Beatrice, and took his wife's limp body from Crittenden. “Agatha, are you hurt? Agatha!”

He carried her to the bed as Crittenden reached down and felt for a pulse against Beatrice's throat as Katherine rushed into the room. Magnus hardly spared him a look, but saw him shake his head. It was over, but what of his wife?

“Agatha, love, wake up,” he begged, then kissed her gently and brushed a stray tendril from her cheek. “Wake up, my love. It's over.”

Her lids flickered and blinked several times, then with a cry, she through her arms around his neck and sobbed against his chest. “I thought you—the shot—oh, Magnus.”

“Shh, love. It's over. I'm fine, but you gave me a fright.”

“I-I fainted?”

“Yes, love.”

She looked up at him, her brows furrowed deeply. “But I never faint.”

He chuckled at her confoundedness. “It would seem there's a first time for everything.”

Katherine helped the maid sit up, as she cradled the back of her head. “Blimey, what happened?”

Agatha laughed roughly against his chest. “Let us hope this was a last.”

“I second that,” he said, holding her tight.

Barstoke and many of the staff hovered at the door.

“Send for the magistrate and a physician,” Magnus said. “And someone help Tess to her room. I want the doctor to have a look at that bump on her head.”

“Oh, I'm fine, my lord. But my lady—”

“I'm fine as well Tess. Just a bit overcome by everything,” Agatha said.

Tess eyed Beatrice's still body and made a wide berth as Crittenden and Katherine assisted her across the room to the door to a pair of footmen.

Magnus lifted his wife in his arms and headed for the connecting door to his room. “You need to rest and not in here.”

“I said I feel fine,” she fussed softly.

“So you did,” he said, as he strode into his room.

He placed her on the bed, and pulled the coverlet over her. “Stay here while I take care of things.”

“But Magnus—”

“Humor me,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead.

He returned to her room, the image of her sweet smile firmly etched in his mind.

Clarkson came and went, and without bothering to question Agatha, which was just as well, as far as Magnus was concerned. He wanted her fully rested and calm. Once this business was done, he planned to join her there, and show her just how much she meant to him. He'd come far too close to losing her.

Against her wishes, however, he had the doctor give her a good look, determined to know she was well. Tess too, was seen to.

“Both are well?” Crittenden asked as he entered the study, Miss Reynolds on his heels. The doctor and magistrate having left moments before.

“Yes, they are well, and Clarkson has it all in hand.”

“That's a relief. I wasn't sure how this would end. That man is rather odious,” Miss Reynolds said.

“Yes, he is a bit of a curmudgeon, but he's fair,” Magnus said.

“Well then, in that case, I should prepare to leave,” she said, and turned on her heels then headed for the door.

“Leave?” Crittenden asked. “Now?”

She paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Yes, now. I'll leave as soon I've said goodbye to Agatha.” She looked to Magnus. “I thank you for being so hospitable. It's been a pleasure meeting you, my lord. If you're ever in America, do look me up.”

He nodded, then she smiled and turned back toward the door.

“Just a minute,” Crittenden said, snagging her by the arm.

“I've not but that to spare if I wish to make London before dark.” She slipped from his grip and strolled into the hall, Crittenden following like a lost pup.

Magnus moved to the doorway and watched with a grin as she led his friend on a merry chase.

“Why such a rash decision?” Crittenden said, following her up the stairs.

“Rash?”

“Yes, why London, why now, why this instant?”

“Because that is where the ships are that sail to America,” she said, as if explaining the obvious to a child.

“And you must return now?”

“I see no reason to wait. I'll not hang about while Agatha and Lord Leighton begin their new life together, now that this mess is done. I'd be quite in the way.”

Magnus followed, slowly moving to his own rooms, but still well within hearing distance.

“Then come to Haverton House,” Crittenden said, and the lady paused in her stride toward her room.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because—because—damn it all, Katherine, you know why.”

Magnus hand rested on the handle to his door as he looked down the hall at the pair.

Miss Reynolds turned, a small smile on her face. “No, I don't know why. I'll not hypothesize, theorize, or make a single conjecture on this matter. I have to have the facts.”

Crittenden paced back and forth, running his hand through his hair. Magnus wanted to laugh, but had been in the man's shoes before and quite knew the feeling. Then Crittenden did something he'd never expected of his old friend.

He fell to one knee and took her hand in his. “Will you marry me?”

The lovely lady tilted her head to the side, and said, “I know that was difficult for you, George, but I'll not marry a man who doesn't love me.”

“Then you'd best plan the wedding, dearest, because I do love you.” With that he leapt to his feet and pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

The sight put a wide smile on Magnus face, as he slipped inside his bedroom.

“Dare I ask why you're smiling so wide?” Agatha asked from the bed. He did so love seeing her there, her hair across his pillow, her gaze soft and warm.

“Crittenden just asked Miss Reynolds to marry him.”

She sat up with a laugh. “Did she say yes?”

“After he confessed to loving her, yes.”

He removed his clothes then slid between the covers.

“His mother will be pleased,” she said.

“No doubt.” He pulled her against his chest and using his chin, nudged the strap of her chemise aside so he could taste her shoulder.

“They make a good match.” She said. “If George can handle her intelligence and her determination. She's rather independent.”

“Hmm,” he murmured against her skin.

“Um, Magnus, do you really think we should—well, after all, it is the middle of the day.”

He pulled the small tie at the top and spread the fabric wide, exposing her full breasts.

“The magistrate is gone, the doctor as well,” he said, nipping at a tender bud, peaked and ready for his attentions. “And Crittenden will be on his way home with Miss Reynolds as his guest within the hour. There's no one left to bother us.” He pulled the red-tipped berry into his mouth and suckled.

“Ohhh, well—um—if you're certain,” she breathed.

“Positive.” He moved to divest her completely of her chemise, wanting all of her exposed to him.

“This just seems a bit improper. Scandalous, even,” she said, but squiggled to release the cloth from her body.

“That it is,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “But I refuse to bow to convention. You are my wife, and I plan on making love to you whenever I wish, for as long as I wish.”

“Oh, I rather like the sound of that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“That isn't all you're going to like,” he murmured.

“You know, last night you snuffed all the lights and removed my spectacles so I wouldn't see you, and not a moment ago you undressed before me without a hint of discomfort.”

He paused, his lips hovering over hers. “I—I hadn't even realized.”

She smiled up at him, sliding her hands over his bare chest. “I do love progress. Among other things,” she breathed, one hand moving lower to find him more than ready to fill her every desire.

“And I love a fast learner,” he groaned, then took her mouth in a long drugging kiss.

“I always was a good student.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Epilogue

Agatha threw her arms around her cousin, so excited to see her, and relieved. She needed some help with organizing Katherine's wedding to Lord Crittenden.

They'd decided to marry in the country, instead of in London. Lady Crittenden wasn't all too pleased with that, but seeing her son happy and with a suitable woman, she did her best to remain quiet on the subject.

While Haverton House was overflowing with Lord Crittenden's relatives and friends, Bridley Hall was filled with Katherine's relations. And in that, Magnus was not all too pleased, but Agatha thought she'd managed to keep him happy even with all the intruders. Not a night passed that they didn't sleep wrapped in one another's arms.

“You look different,” Hattie said with a giggle. “I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's definitely something different.”

Laughing, she took her cousin's hand and drew her to a chair. “I'm truly happy, and not merely content.”

“Would that be due to your success with your fertilizer or due to your husband?”

“Both, but if I have to choose, then I choose my husband.”

Hattie sighed, a happy gleam in her eye. “It's wonderful to be in love, isn't it?”

“There are no words to describe it. I cannot imagine why so many women of our circle choose to marry without it.”

“I suspect it has more to do with their parents than anything else.”

She patted her cousin's hand, a smile on her face. “You and I shall never do that to our children.”

Hattie cupped her stomach, a tearful smile on her face. “No, I shan't.”

“Oh, Hattie! Are you really?”

She nodded and a tear slipped away.

“How wonderful for you! And your husband, he's pleased with the idea of becoming a father?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a watery giggle as she swiped away the tear. “He couldn't stop crowing for days.”

Agatha wondered if Magnus would be as happy when she informed him. She wasn't one hundred percent sure yet, but soon she would know.

Katherine entered the parlor, her hands filled with papers, her gaze intent on them. “Agatha, have you seen—oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company.”

“That's quite all right, Katherine. Come join us. This is my cousin Hattie.”

They fell into a comfortable chat, Hattie and Katherine getting along famously from the start, just as she knew they would. They talked of Hattie's honeymoon, her trip to Italy, to be precise, and of Katherine's wedding plans and her own honeymoon.

Agatha wondered, although not seriously, what it would have been like to have gone on a trip with Magnus. They'd been at such odds in the beginning, both too afraid to say or do anything wrong. And there was that awful business with Beatrice Hayden. It's quite possible she would have followed them and created some sort of incident that looked like an accident. She shuddered at the thought.

“Are you all right, Agatha?” Hattie asked.

“Oh, yes. I'm fine.” She stood and pushed the past behind her. “But I've a few things I need to do. Will you be all right here with Katherine?”

“Of course, I'll see you a bit later.”

With a nod, Agatha was out the door and in search of her husband. She only needed to see him, just to make sure he was well. Silly of her, she knew, but the memory of a gunshot and not knowing who had been hit stole up on her thoughts at odd times.

His study door was ajar and she eased inside. He sat at his desk, his attention on a ledger spread open before him. She could smell the out-of-doors on him from across the room. It could not have been long since he'd taken his morning ride.

She silently closed the door and leaned against it to watch him as he worked. A familiar fluttery feeling wafted through her and she grinned. Although scarred, he was the most handsome man in the world—her world, and she loved him beyond anything.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we shall need to lock the door,” he said, lifting his head with a crooked grin.

“How long have you known I was here?”

He rose and circled his desk. “I knew the moment you peeked through the doorway.” He sat on the edge of his desk and held out his arms.

Laughing, she raced across the room and threw herself into the haven of his embrace. “You have a very keen sense of hearing, my lord.”

“No, love. Hearing has little to do with it,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose. “My body—my heart responds to you wherever you are. But as much as I am enjoying this visit, are you not supposed to be visiting with your cousin?”

She linked her hands behind his head and soaked up the sight of him. “I left her in Katherine's care.”

His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong, love?”

“Can a wife not seek out her husband for a few stolen moments?”

Magnus brushed a stay tendril from her cheek as he studied her sweet face. He knew of her nightmares, they'd begun the moment the house began filling with visitors. Bringing back all the memories of what had happened more than a month ago. Often, he pulled her to his side, held her close as she slept until her worried murmurings subsided. Not once had she awoken, nor had she mentioned them to him, and he feared they would plague her for some time. Even he had his share, but they would fade with time.

“You may seek me out anytime, night or day, love,” he said, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

“Oh, I do wish this wedding was in the past.”

He chuckled. “Are you not enjoying your friends?”

“I'd rather enjoy more time alone with my husand,” she said, and nipped at his lips with her teeth.

“Do not move.” He released her and crossed to the door. With a flick of his wrist, the key was turned. He crossed back to her then lifted her onto his desk.

“You have that look in your eye,” she said, her breath soft and inviting.

“That I do.” One hand slid beneath her skirts as the other cupped the back of her head and held her as he ravished her mouth.

He made quick work of the barriers between them, and soon she was lying back across his desk and ledgers like a wanton, begging him to touch her, fill her—love her.

And he did, with his whole heart.

Haverton House was filled to the rafters for the wedding breakfast. There was barely enough room to breathe, but Katherine looked lovely in her wedding dress, while George looked a bit green around the gills, but he'd managed to remain upright for the service, which was saying quite a bit for the man.

A rather tenderhearted toast echoed about the dining room, and Magnus slipped his hand in Agatha's beneath the table. She squeezed in return, and wished for the bride and groom to hurry things along so they might return home and have a moment alone with her husband. She had something very important to tell him.

But the day wore on at a snail's pace, and once home, she collapsed in a chair in their rooms, exhausted.

“Tired, love?” Magnus asked, taking her hand and kissing the back.

“Beyond measure.”

“You are still having dreams,” he said with a nod.

“How did you know?”

He chuckled, and she waved the answer away, it was obvious. They'd not slept apart since that awful woman tried to kill her.

“Now that the wedding is done, the Reynolds and their throng will be gone soon, and all will be peaceful once again.”

“Um, yes.”

He paused in tugging off his neck cloth and looked at her. “Agatha?”

She plucked at the lace edging her sleeves Hattie had insisted she wear. “It will be quiet for a time, but not for very long, I'm afraid.”

He sat down beside her and tipped her chin up to look into her eyes. “Explain.”

“I am—we are—that is to say—”

Chuckling, he lifted her and placed her in his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Out with it. What have you done or not done that is going to cause our peaceful existence to be spoiled once again?”

She bit her lip, and said, “We're going to have a baby.”

He sucked in a breath, and stared at her with wide eyes. “You—we—”

“Yes. We are. In eight months the house will be turned upside down once again.”

“You're not—happy about it?”

“Oh, no. I'm very happy, shocked, but happy. I just wasn't sure you would be. At least, not so soon.”

“You, my love, may turn this house upside down and inside out with all the children you desire. That is a noise I will be more than happy to live with.” He cupped her face in his hand and kissed her thoroughly.

She threw her arms around his neck and cried happy tears. “I'm so happy.”

“As am I. I will forever be grateful to those harpies at Crittenden's welcome home ball for driving you straight into my arms.”

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A sneak peek at Jo Barrett's next book...

* * * *

Doorway To His Heart

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter One

Emily opened her eyes and tried to focus on her surroundings. Something was very wrong. Where were all the blinking, bleeping machines? Why was she at the hotel instead of at the hospital? She vaguely recalled sirens, someone shouting out orders, and Lila crying. Somewhere amid the chaos she'd given up the fight and let the blackness take her. But surely they would've taken her to the hospital, or had she recovered enough to be sent home? Maybe she'd only been tired after all.

Maybe...wait. This wasn't her hotel room, she realized as she gingerly sat up. It was a beautifully appointed room, but it wasn't where she and Lila had been staying.

“Oh my. You're awake,” a voice said from the doorway.

Emily blinked a few times and brought the young woman into view. She didn't recognize her at all, but what on earth was she doing dressed like that?

“I'll fetch his lordship.”

"His what?” she asked, her voice gravelly, but the woman hurried out the door. Emily shifted her legs to the side of the bed, pausing only a moment when a wave of dizziness caught her unaware. With a steadying breath, she stood. Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she managed to make it across the room to the hearth. A warm fire burned in the grate. Where in the world was she

Noise from the doorway drew her around, but she held firmly to the mantle for balance.

A tall man, lean, and rather handsome, wearing a neck cloth and weskit of all things, strode toward her. He didn't seem happy.

“You should not be out of bed,” he said. He reached for her, and she backed away, her shoulders bumping into the mantel.

“Where am I?”

His brows drew together. “In your room.”

She warily shook her head. “This isn't my room.”

His eyes narrowed. “Return to bed. You're overwrought.”

“Not until you tell me where I am.” She held fast to the mantle, but her strength was fading. Her gaze darted from his to the others standing behind him, all of them wearing the oddest clothes, and their faces were pulled into worried frowns.

“Who are you people? Why have you brought me here?”

The handsome one seemed to make some mental decision as his stern features relaxed.

“We're here to help you. Now, you must get back into bed.” He reached for her again and she jumped back, rattling the fire poker in its stand.

“No!” She snatched up the poker with her shaking hands and waved it in front of her. “Get back. I don't know what you want from me, but I'm not staying long enough to find out.”

She eased toward the door, willing her legs to obey her, but they had other ideas, as did her head. The room was spinning wildly. “Just stay—back—all of—you.”

The poker slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a clatter and her body followed, but the man scooped her up before she completed her descent. She felt his warmth, inhaled his scent, and it oddly soothed her.

“Who are you?” she cried, fighting off the blackness closing in around her.

“No one you need fear.” The rumbling of his voice echoed through her weary body.

“Name,” she said, gripping the lapels of his coat, struggling to make her mouth cooperate.

He laid her down on the bed and pulled the covers to her throat.

“Please,” she breathed, her strength nearly gone.

His cool gray eyes peered into hers. “Viscount Westmore. Your husband.”

She tried to shake her head, she had no husband, and even if she did and for some reason couldn't remember, she knew without a doubt he wouldn't be a viscount. But her strength deserted her completely, and she was lost to the blackness.

“Watch her closely, Martha. In this state she might hurt herself,” Viscount Westmore said.

“Yes, my lord.”

Barnaby looked at his wife one last time before leaving the room. He doubted she was playing at one of her games this time. She seemed almost innocent when she'd looked up at him from her drooping lids. He saw confusion clearly in her crystal blue eyes and fear. Still, it would be best if he kept a careful watch on her. His wife was a devious witch, one he dare not underestimate.

Emily opened her eyes to the same room she'd thought she'd dreamed. The bed, a more luxurious comfort she'd never known, not even in the five star hotels she'd stayed in, encapsulated her weary body. But those people, she thought and sat bolt upright in the bed. Who were they?

She looked around the room again, it was exquisitely furnished with antiques. Even the wallpaper was over a century old. All those tours of old English homes had taught her a thing or two about vintage decor.

“Well,” she whispered to herself, “whoever you are, if you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn't have put me in here.”

“Good morning, my lady.”

Emily jumped at the sudden appearance of a young woman.

“Um, good morning.” She vaguely remembered her from yesterday or had she been out of it longer than that? Either way, just because the room was nice, and the woman seemed pleasant enough, didn't mean there wasn't something severely wrong.

“Would you like your breakfast now, my lady?”

And what was with the my lady stuff? “I—um, yes that would be nice.”

The woman moved to the side of the bed and Emily leaned away, leery as she reached out then pulled on a silk rope hanging by the bed.

Emily let out her pent-up breath. She needed to get a grip, or better still some answers. “Who are you?”

The woman's pleasant round face twisted into a worried frown. “Martha, my lady. Your maid. Don't you remember?”

“Right. My maid. Sure.” Okay, she'd play along for a while. “And how long have you been my maid?”

“For five years, my lady.”

The woman's expression grew more worried with Emily's questions, so she decided to back off a bit.

“I'm sorry,” she said with half a laugh. “I'm afraid I'm—I'm a little confused.”

The maid smiled just a bit. “It isn't any wonder you're a bit out of sorts. You've been terribly ill.”

Yes, she was ill, very ill, but now... she felt fine. Well not fine, but not in any real pain, just tired. “And what illness did I have, exactly?”

“I—I don't know, my lady. Only that you were asleep for quite some time. We were afraid that—well, it's no matter now.”

Martha did know, but for some reason wouldn't say, Emily was sure of it.

Another woman appeared bearing a tray as Martha propped her up in the bed and adjusted the covers. This one was timid and literally quaking in her boots.

“Thank you, Phoebe,” Martha said softly and took the tray. The young girl disappeared as if death were chasing her.

But death had been chasing Emily. She'd been dying of cancer. Then there was the concert, and Lila, and her trip to the country, it all came rushing back to her.

Martha placed the tray across her lap. “Here you are, my lady. After a hearty breakfast, you'll feel right as rain in no time,” she said and moved across the room, unblocking Emily's view of the mirror above the vanity.

Little did Martha know, Emily would never be right again. The woman staring back at her from the mirror was not Emily Mayfield.

She lifted her hand and touched her cheek, although pale, it was a pleasantly shaped cheek, but it was not hers. Nor was the nose or eyes. She looked down at her long tapered fingers, a distinct difference from her own.

“My God,” she breathed.

“I'm sorry, my lady, did you say something?” Martha said from the doorway.

Emily swallowed and shook her head and the woman left.

“Okay,” she whispered. “There's a perfectly good explanation. I'm either dead or still in a comma.”

She took a few more calming breaths. Yes, that had to be it. Just a little hallucination. After all, her hair was gone from the chemotherapy, but even if she still had any it wouldn't be long and blonde. And her eyes, although she couldn't be certain, looked blue, while hers had been brown. She warily lifted the neckline of her nightgown and examined her body.

“Huh, not bad,” she muttered. But it wasn't what she was used to. A barely there bust, even when she was healthy, and mostly skin and bones after all the treatments was the norm, but this—it was a shapely, nicely endowed body, and completely unbelievable.

She dropped the neckline with a frown. “It has to be a dream.” And yet her stomach grumbled in disagreement. “Okay, so not a dream, then what? Can you be hungry in a coma?”

She thought for several minutes as her stomach continued its grumbling. Well, food seemed to be what she needed, so she'd eat. What else could she do? Run out of the room screaming something about body snatchers?

No, whatever was going on, she'd have to take it one minute to the next. After all, if she was in a coma and it was all a dream, what could it hurt to enjoy it? So far it was fairly nice. Really weird, but nice.

She lifted the fork to her lips and waves of pleasure washed over her. Just the thought of food like ham and eggs usually made her nauseous, but no more. She dug into the fare with gusto, savoring every morsel as it slid over her tongue. It had been so long since she'd enjoyed the simple pleasure of eating. This dream is a keeper, she thought with a smile.

As she ate, she looked more closely at her surroundings. She did love the old manor houses scattered all across England, which might explain the decor, including a viscount, and the absence of the cancer was an easy guess. No one would wish that on themselves, but why the new body? Why not dream up her old self?

She glanced at the long tapered fingers and wondered if they could play the piano as well or perhaps better than her own. Emily's fingers had been one of her trials. They were often too short to perform certain complicated pieces, but she'd overcome the disadvantage. Oh, she wasn't the toast of the town by any means, but she had a following of a sort, and she relished her bit of success.

“Okay, so longer fingers make sense, but the whole package?”

She set the tray aside after thoroughly cleaning her plate and settled back against the pillows as she tried to make sense of everything. Images, memories perhaps, she wasn't sure, drifted through her mind.

There was that odd sense of walking through a mist after she'd collapsed. She recalled passing a woman, and she'd been smiling, but she never looked at Emily. She just kept on walking, her destination, a strange glowing door, was all she seemed to see.

She snapped her head up and looked at her reflection. That was the woman she'd seen, the one in the mirror! But who was she? And why had she taken on her appearance in her dream? Had she seen the woman somewhere on tour and plucked her out of some forgotten memory?

Wanting a closer look, she eased from the bed and steadied herself on the various pieces of furniture as she crossed the room to the dressing table. She sat on the small cushioned stool and looked more closely at her reflection.

“I don't know you,” she whispered, certain she'd never seen the woman before. Except for that odd misty memory.

She picked up the brush and ran it through her sleep-tangled hair, surprised that the pull and tug stung just as it would if it were real. But how could she be feeling everything if it were only a dream?

A small pillow of hatpins sat to the side. She pulled one from the velvet and with gritted teeth, pricked her finger. “Ouch,” she hissed.

Shoving her finger in her mouth, she returned her gaze to the mirror and stared in awe.

“No, it isn't possible. A nurse probably just stuck me with a needle or something,” she muttered around her sore finger. She was in a coma in some hospital somewhere. But a distinct chill raced across her skin. Would a nurse have pricked her finger?

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head. “She would've stuck a needle in my arm or the back of my hand.”

That realization had her rushing back to bed and pulling the covers up over her head. How could this be? Could she be dead? If so, then death was something far different than she'd ever imagined. There was that possibility, but why take on the form of a shapely blonde? It wasn't as if she'd been unattractive—before. She was comfortable in her body, when it was healthy. But mostly, and as ludicrous as it sounded, she didn't feel dead.

Her lips growing numb from her nibbling, one final possibility popped into her head. Easing the covers aside, she sat up and looked once again at the stranger in the mirror. Was it possible that she'd somehow been given a second chance? Through some twisted form of reincarnation, had she been given a healthy body and a new life to live?

But why backward in time, or so she assumed by the antique clothes, and her superb but historic surroundings? Why not forward?

She slowly shook her head at her reflection. “It doesn't matter,” she whispered, a crooked grin on her lips. She was alive and she was enormously grateful.

Her eyes stole heavenward and she whispered her thanks. “But if this is a dream and I'm in a coma, I'd like to stay here ‘til it's over if you don't mind,” she added, just to be sure. It was a much nicer place to leave behind than a cold antiseptic hospital room.

A small noise caught her attention. At first she thought nothing of it, a house this size, one she assumed was rather large and with a full staff made noises. But this was a breathing noise

She turned her head and caught sight of the edge of a pink ruffle sticking out from behind a chair nearest the door.

She'd have to set things straight with everyone she'd met so far. Waving a poker at them wasn't a good way to begin. She didn't want them thinking she was a nutcase, but this, she suspected, was someone she'd yet to meet.

“Hello,” she said, attempting to coax out her not-so-stealthy visitor.

A little blonde head peeked out from around the chair. “They said you were awake.”

“Yes, as you can see I am.”

The child stepped into view, but made no effort to move closer. She actually seemed wary of her, the fire poker incident apparently having reached her small ears.

“They also said you were mad,” the little girl said, and her eyes shot wide as she dodged back to her hiding place.

Emily let out a rough chuckle. “It's all right. I'm not about to blame you for something you overheard. But you really shouldn't repeat everything you hear,” she said softly. “It's not polite.”

“You're not angry?” she asked softly from her hiding place.

“Of course not.”

She peeked out from around the chair. “Is it true then? Are you mad?”

Now that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? But regardless of what she believed, be she dreaming or reincarnated, she didn't want to frighten a little girl, so she decided to play along. It was her only option, and this child with her blunt way of speaking might just be the person she needed to help her get her bearings in what could be her new life.

“I'm not crazy, but I am...confused,” she said.

Her pretty little face scrunched up in uncertainty.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Emily asked.

That drew the child out and she nodded.

“I don't remember who I am, where I am, or anything?”

Her pretty blue eyes widened. “You don't?”

“No, not a thing.”

“Is that why you talk funny?”

Ah, yes, her accent. She'd have to work on that. At least it wasn't too far off, she'd moved about so much doing concerts, she'd dropped most of her Americanisms, but she definitely didn't sound like the English Gentry, and if she had indeed taken over another woman's life, she needed to make some adjustments to her speech and her behavior.

“Yes, um, I'm sort of relearning how to do things. Starting over,” she said.

“That doesn't sound like fun,” the child said.

Emily shook her head gravely. “No it isn't. But you could help me. If you want to,” she hurried to add. “You could tell me things.”

The girl eased to the foot of the bed. “I don't know a lot. I'm only eight.”

She smiled at the child. “I'll bet you know more than I do. For instance, I didn't know you were only eight. You look much older and are far brighter than I would've thought for your age.”

She straightened her spine and smiled brightly. “Papa says I'm smart.”

“I'm sure he's right. And, um, Papa is the Viscount Westmore?”

She nodded with a worried frown. “You really don't remember, do you?”

So this beautiful little girl was her daughter—sort of. All of it was very confusing, but she'd deal with things as they came at her as best she could.

“No, I don't,” Emily replied. “But it's our secret, all right? If your papa knew, he might send me away, and I don't want to go away. Do you understand?”

“Oh, Papa wouldn't do that. He's a nice man. He would want you to get better.”

“I'm sure he would, but he and I might disagree on how I should go about accomplishing that.”

“Oh.”

“So will you help me and keep my secret?”

She nodded.

“Thank you. What's your name?”

Her brows rose and her eyes widened. “Michelle.”

“Michelle. That's a lovely name. And, um, do you know my name?”

The girl blinked and said. “Millicent.”

“And I'm—I'm your mother?”

She nodded slowly.

Emily rested back against her pillow, marveling at her situation. She was now a wife and mother. Two things she'd not accomplished in her life, but had intended to, once her career slowed down. Of course she hadn't met the right man, but then she'd thought she had time.

“How come you remember how to eat?” Michelle asked with a glance at the tray.

“Well, there are some things, I suppose, we just don't forget. They're second nature, like breathing. We just know how.”

“Are you still sick?”

“Not really, no. But I'm not quite ready to—to—” She had no idea what she was supposed to do. She had no experience at being a viscountess. Healthy or otherwise.

“Dress?”

“Yes, dress,” she said with a smile. “I'm still a bit tired.” And completely out of my element, she wanted to add, but didn't.

“So you're not going to die like they said?”

Emily blinked at that, not quite sure how to answer. “I honestly don't know,” she replied. “Everyone dies at some point, but I feel fine. So I don't think I'm about to die anytime soon,” she said with a grin, somehow knowing she was right. She was healthy, for the first time in a very long while. She could feel it.

The little girl tilted her head as she studied her. “You look different.”

“I do?” She glanced at the mirror over the dressing table and touched her cheek. “Different how?”

“Well,” she said, squiggling up onto the bed. “You don't have those lines around your mouth anymore,” she said, motioning near Emily's face with her fingers. “Or that funny bump between your eyebrows.”

She laughed. “I think I like the improvement then.”

Michelle's eyes widened and her mouth fell lax as she stared at Emily.

Emily sat bolt upright. “What is it, sweetie? What's wrong? Are you sick?” She'd never had any close family, just a few friends, and she'd never been around children much. But the look on Michelle's face struck a bolt of fear straight to her heart.

Michelle shook her head slowly. “You smiled. And laughed. I don't think I've ever seen you do that before,” she said with awe.

“You haven't seen—oh sweetheart,” she fell back against the cushions with a giggle. But the humor quickly died in her throat.

What sort of woman was this Millicent Westmore? And what had really been wrong with her?

About the author...

Jo currently resides in North Carolina with her patient and supportive family while she juggles her writing career and her position as a programmer analyst. In her early years, she wrote folk songs, poetry, and an occasional short story or two, but never dreamed of writing a book. She didn't even like to read! But one fateful day, she picked up a romance novel and found herself hooked. Not only did she discover the joy of reading, but the joy of writing books. These days, if she isn't tapping away at her computer on a story of her own, she has her nose buried in the latest romance novel hot off the presses, and is enjoying every minute of it.

She participates regularly in a critique group, and attends various seminars and classes, constantly honing her writing skills, determined to squeeze as much time into developing her craft as she does creating new stories about the quest for love. Someday, she hopes to take off her programming hat and write full time. So many of her dreams have already come true. What's one more?

Visit Jo's website at www.jobarrett.net

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