Nothing to Commend Her (16 page)

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.

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"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?"