Nothing to Commend Her (3 page)

"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.

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"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."