Nothing to Commend Her (5 page)

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.

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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?