Beguiled (23 page)

The casual remark was too leading; Agnes knew he was headed somewhere, but she intended to make his journey as difficult as possible.
“Young
Lindsay? How old are you?”

“Nine and thirty.”

“So old as that?”

Ignoring the jibe, he moved beside her at the railing. “Young enough to harry a Highland lass until her hair turns gray.”

The words were too romantic. If she did not challenge him now, he'd forget where they were. Agnes strove for boldness. “You're desperate enough to boast of your prowess to a virgin.”

He moved so close she could smell his minty breath. “I am experienced enough to know her worth.”

Agnes had used those words in praise of him. “But my innocence or lack of it is not why you came searching for me.”

“Nay.” He reached for her hand. “What other things did Lindsay convince you to try other than the punch, which you claim you do not like?”

The cool night air turned warm. He wanted to kiss her, of that Agnes was sure. She could not allow it, not here, not when the evening was so young. But she had considered it, and that realization gave her pause. She must manage this man. She must protect his life and those of his children. Boldness had not worked. She moved on to brazen. “Are you jealous?”

Pursing his lips, he nodded, slowly and deliberately. “ 'Twould seem I am, Agnes MacKenzie. What do you think I should do about it?”

“Put into my hands, the choice is a foregone conclusion. You will behave as your station dictates.”

The bell rang, indicating dinner would be served in half an hour. Agnes couldn't have eaten a bite even from God's own table.

“Agreed. Shall we stroll in the gardens and hold hands?”

A perfectly acceptable activity, and considering the passionate encounters they had already shared, Agnes liked the idea of reverting to the old-fashioned ways of courting.

“I'd like that.” She descended the stairs before him and waited. When he again stood beside her, she extended her hand.

Threading his fingers through hers, he tucked her arm against his waist. “Tell me about Vicktor Lucerne.”

“What brings the great composer to your mind? Are you a patron of music?”

“ 'Twas something the Throckmorton girl said after you left. According to her, you're the reason Lucerne will not perform in England.”

At the thought of her former charge, Agnes laughed. “Vicktor performs where he will and when he will. Even at the age of two and ten, he is a true genius of music.”

“You'll get no argument from me on that count. How did you meet him?”

“You have something on your nose.” She touched him there and frowned. “Must be a bruise from putting it where it doesn't belong.”

“Clever. Now tell me how you came to travel as Vicktor Lucerne's bodyguard.”

Some people referred to Agnes in that fashion; others styled her a companion. “After a near-successful kidnapping of their son, the Lucernes contacted me. For almost a year I traveled with Vicktor.”

Edward stopped before a thriving rosebush and picked a bloom. Taking a whiff, he closed his eyes. “Were you ever injured in defense of him?”

“Aye. I tore a nail off my thumb. It bled profusely.”

With a flourish, he presented the flower to her. “The truth, please.”

She'd been bedridden and in agony for two days, but an understatement seemed best. “I suffered a bruise.”

His gaze slid over her in a proprietary way. “Where were you bruised?”

“My ribs.”

“Were they cracked or broken?”

To conceal her discomfiture, Agnes laughed. “A stranger would think we were discussing china plates.”

He did not laugh. “ 'Twas no accident, was it?”

The mating calls of insects buzzed in her ears. “Nay.”

“Were you attacked?”

“Yes. By two ruffians and a club.”

“Your foreign fighting skills prevailed?”

The event was in the past; she could jest about it now. “After a taste of that club, aye.”

“Where was Lucerne?”

“Where any lad in the circumstances should have been—crouching in fear behind a rain barrel outside the Burgtheatre in Vienna.”

“The ruffians left you alone after that?”

“Not exactly. Their employer was persistent.”

“Oh? Who was he?”

“A wealthy Turkish prince. He invited Lucerne to Constantinople. Vicktor declined. The Turk took offense and used force.”

“Only once?”

“Yes. I advised His Highness to be more creative in his inducements to a lad of two and ten.”

“Was he?”

“Very much so. He lured young Vicktor with the promise of his very own caravan.”

“A much more enticing bribe to a lad. What happened then?”

“I learned to ride a camel and wear a veil.”

He slid an arm around her. “What a wonderful adventure.”

She had the advantage of limited time, for they'd be going in to dinner soon, but in her heart, she didn't want to move away from him. “ 'Twas actually, and I'm pleased that you asked.”

“There is much more that I would know about you.”

But rather than ask another question, he turned her to face him. Moonlight bathed his features in a soft glow. Just as he bent to kiss her, the door opened and the butler announced dinner.

Agnes almost wilted in relief.

Edward cursed but said, “The night is young, Agnes MacKenzie, and good food makes me more determined to get what I want.”

As it happened, the meal was an inventive collection of veal florry, ham with chestnut sauce, and an assortment of soused fish roes. Seated between Edward and the mayor, Agnes declined a glass of red wine, fearing that she might stain her dress.

Silver clanged against crystal, and the parson, who was seated on the other side of Edward, rose. When last Agnes had seen the man, she'd been scandalously cradled in the earl's arms. The mayor's wife and Commodore Hume had been there, too.

In his overlong blessing, the cleric made reference to friends and loyalty and staying true both to one's faith and to the messenger who delivered it. Agnes thought the topics unusual until the cleric sat down and brought up the subject of Edward's visit to Saint Vincent's Church.

Edward put down his fork and addressed the cleric. “With all due respect, John, this is hardly the place for such a discussion.”

The ensuing conversation so angered Agnes that she excused herself before the dessert was served. Edward caught up with her in the music room, where she'd taken a chair in the back row.

A
GNES STARED AT THE SILVER
buckles on his shoes. “You did nothing to change the cleric's mind, you wretched Lowlander.”

Edward sat in the chair beside her. “Change it from what?”

“Wipe that innocent grin off your face,” she spat. “You could have contrived a reason for our presence at another church. But did you? Nay. You allowed that cleric to think that we are contemplating marriage.”

“How can that be?” He could have been discussing the arrangement of the chairs, so casual was his tone and manner. “I do not recall ever hearing you say that you like me.”

Now he was being obtuse. “I do like you, but do not ask me why, for at the moment a reason escapes me.”

“Very well. I'll rely on those occasions when you are the most friendly to me. Truly, though, the cleric's mistaken assumption does have a beneficial aspect.” Crossing one knee over the other, he picked at the velvet of his breeches. “If he tells Mary Throckmorton, she may become discouraged and treat some other fellow to that game of peekaboo with her breasts.”

The image tickled Agnes. “You did not look away.”

“ 'Twas an interesting observation in some respects. You see, one of her breasts is quite larger than the other.”

“What!”

“A commonplace occurrence, and one that is well documented in anatomy texts.”

To keep from slapping his face, Agnes folded her arms.

“Yours are perfect.”

He thought she was covering herself. She dropped her hands to her lap. “You are outrageous.”

“But to return to your original complaint,” he went on. “Had you not hurried from the table, you would have heard me ask the good cleric to keep his assumptions to himself or risk losing my patronage.”

She'd spoken too quickly. “No one will think we are getting married?”

“Short of your leaping into my arms forthwith? Nay.”

The door opened, and the other guests streamed in. Agnes had taken a seat at the back of the room near the exit on purpose; if the music was boring, as was often the case at these affairs, she could slip out unnoticed. Others among the guests had planned to do the same, for they glared at her as they were forced to take chairs in front of her.

For entertainment, four of the Throckmorton sisters performed using spinet, fife, and mandolin. Poor Penelope must have been sent back to the inn, for she was not among the performers. The quartet began with several selections from Mozart. Next came an unusual rendition of a Vicktor Lucerne sonata. Unfortunately for the music, the women had switched to three-string lutes and a drum. The
Butterfly
Sonata sounded more like a cricket fest.

Agnes winced at the travesty.

Beside her, Edward nodded to sleep. In repose he looked like the scholar and loving father and younger than his age. She understood completely why Mary Throckmorton had flirted shamelessly with him tonight. Thinking of the many evenings he must have spent at similar affairs, Agnes wondered why he had not married a second time. Finding no plausible answer, she decided he was happy in the bachelor's life.

She didn't for a moment believe his doctorly story about unusual female anatomy; he'd said it to provoke her. But if she chose to verify his appalling claim, she could easily find the answers in the medical texts in his study or in the library. Every day women died in childbirth, and doctors spent time worrying over differences in breast sizes? No. He was having her on.

With that particular embarrassment in mind, she couldn't resist retaliating. Leaning close, she opened her fan and spoke behind it. “Wrecked ships and forever cabbages.”

He started, then tried to collect himself.

Moving back, she stared at the musicians but watched him out of the corner of her eye. “Were you napping, my lord?”

“Nay.” He yawned but didn't have the decency to look guilty for it.

“Then what did I say?”

He blinked and looked around the room, as if seeking his bearings.

“You were napping,” she said.

He moved so close, she could feel his breath on her face. “Sleep with me tonight, and you'll find out for yourself what I truly look like upon awakening.”

He uttered scandal with reckless abandon. She should rap him atop his head with her fan and storm from the room. But her heart was racing with that peculiar excitement only he could inspire. “What were you dreaming about?”

“If I were, which is not to say that I was, but merely for the sake of this discussion. If I
were
dreaming, 'twould take more than gibberish from you to wake me up. Several enchanting ways come to mind. Shall I tell you—”

“Go back to sleep. At least then you cannot embarrass me without shaming yourself in the doing.”

“Consider this, my philosopher.” His shoulder bumped hers. “I could have pretended to sleep to get you to talk to me, which you've not done enough of tonight.”

“Incorrect. After the misconception you perpetrated on the cleric, I spoke to you. I distinctly remember saying that I hoped you grew an ear in the middle of your forehead.”

“Ghastly image that.” He cringed. “I'd as soon sleep through my next wedding night as hear with the flat of my face.”

She tried not to laugh but failed.

“See?” he crowed. “You do like me.”

His immodest reaction reeked of swelled male pride. Eager to put him in his place, she said, “May I offer my felicitations now on your anticipated wedding night?”

“Anticipated being the important word.” His eyes gleamed with wicked light. “Aye, you may, and be sure to mention the part about being fruitful.”

Desire, base and raw.
That's what he wanted from her. “The conjugal aspects of marriage interest you the most.”

“Nay.” Turning, he mapped her face with an intense gaze. “A bright mind behind enchanting brown eyes will catch my interest first.”

Smooth didn't begin to describe his methods. “I'm sorry I awakened you.”

“Did I mention a mouth and a tongue that fit perfectly with mine?”

Mortified, she glanced at the people around them. To her relief, half of them were either snoozing or fighting off sleep, and the other half were bemoaning the poor entertainment. Agnes thought it best to whisper. “You're a rogue and much too familiar.”

“Because I find pleasure in telling you that your hands have magic in them?”

“Aye.”

He patted his knee. “We are agreed then. I am familiar with the way your hands feel, and they inspire magic.”

“Your roundabout logic will fail with me. Go back to sleep.”

“You will awaken me if I snore.”

It wasn't a question. She sighed loudly. “Of course.”

His smile was sinful, wicked. “I knew you would.”

Agnes thought he smelled like linen dried in the summer sun. Why hadn't she noticed that before? “How can you be sure that I will awaken you again?”

“Your stepmother told me that you are loyal to a fault and considerate of others. I've been in your company long enough to agree.” He closed his eyes and squirmed until he found a comfortable position. “Unless you'd like to return to the subject of what I look like upon awakening . . .”

“I'm certain you resemble a troll.”