Nothing to Commend Her (2 page)

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."