Nothing to Commend Her (7 page)

They remained silent as they rode. What more was there to say? She tolerated his touch, and although she did so valiantly, he detested the fact that she feared him so.

Upon their arrival back at the house, Skylar helped her down from her horse, as he'd purposely managed to linger overlong atop his own. With a brisk thank you for the ride, she disappeared into the house.

Grumbling at his fate, he went to his study and concentrated on his work—after vowing to keep out of her way and let her live this life he'd imposed upon her in whatever manner she wished.

One that excluded him.

Agatha was bemused to say the least. They'd started out well, she thought, getting to know one another during their ride about the estate, but something changed after their visit to the Sprys. He'd fallen silent on the ride back, and she'd not seen him since. He took luncheon in his study with orders to be left alone, and again that night at dinner. Had she said or done something so disagreeable that he wished her out of his sight?

He'd explained and expounded on the estate during their ride as if he were speaking to another man, and she'd adored him for it. And at the Spry's cottage she'd seen glimpses of the gentleman she'd met at Lord Crittenden's ball. A kind and caring man, but what had changed? Why was he now avoiding her?

She supposed it could have been her odd behavior, digging in the dirt and scratching notes. But how else was she to get a few samples of the fields without getting her hands dirty? At least she'd managed to hide her sample away without him noticing. Or perhaps her tendency to take charge, as she did at the cottage was an embarrassment to him.

"Oh dear,” she whispered.

They'd started off well, then she'd ruined it by not behaving like a proper lady, moving furniture, scrubbing floors. She held her heated cheeks and groaned down at her breakfast plate. When would she ever learn to hold her tongue and behave as a lady should?

She straightened in her chair and sighed. But the way he'd looked at her when Gracie spoke of kisses, had that not been the look of a man attracted to her in some small way?

After picking at her plate, she gave up on feeding her body and went to feed her mind. The puzzle of her marriage would win her nothing but a headache.

Almost two weeks passed, and although Magnus had finally returned to the dining table, there was barely a word spoken. At least he could bear the sight of her once more, and while the stony silence hurt, Agatha refused to prod him for any attention. Regardless of how badly she wished he would talk to her, touch her...kiss her. His comment to Gracie echoed in her ears night after night. Did he or did he not wish to kiss her?

"Blasted puzzle,” she grumbled around a nibble of her dinner.

"I beg your pardon?” he asked.

"Oh, um, nothing."

He returned to his dinner, but she caught him watching her several times. Should she speak, try and start some sort of conversation?

This is absolutely ridiculous!
Her fork clattered to her plate.
If he wants silence, he can bloody well eat alone!

"I've word that Mrs. Spry is up and about once again, and no longer needs any assistance,” she said, not daring to look at him, but from the corner of her eye she saw his hand still, his glass poised half-way to his mouth.

"That is good news."

She heard the hesitance in his voice, but once she met his gaze she noted his eyes held no annoyance.

Determined to forge ahead, she said, “Yes, it is. Of course, I suspect, you were already aware, since you take your morning rides about the estate."

"Um, yes, Spry had mentioned her improvement. He—"

"Yes?"

"He thanked me—you again for your assistance."

She nibbled the edge of her lip and dared ask what had been plaguing her for days. “Are you still terribly disappointed in my behavior then? She has improved, and I could not, in good conscience, sit idly by and do nothing."

"Disappointed?” He set his glass down, his brow furrowed.

"I know a lady doesn't normally move furniture or scrub floors...” she trailed off at his bemused stare as he sat back and studied her.

"You think that I was displeased by your actions?"

She nodded vaguely. “Weren't you?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head as if to dispel a thought before focusing on her once again. “Your behavior at the Spry's was above reproach. Truth to tell, it was I who behaved poorly."

"But—"

He shook his head. “No, I should have realized that Spry needed assistance. I should have done more than merely inquire about his wife's health."

"Oh, well, I suppose men don't see things the way women do."

He grinned with a soft chuckle, and although it was crooked due to his scars, it made her smile.

"An understatement, madam."

With no other topics to discuss, they finished their dinner in relative silence, but Agatha felt a distinct difference in the very air of the room. They'd made positive progress, not much, but every inch forward was an improvement.

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"Where ye be wantin’ this, yer ladyship?” Mr. Roberts, the gardener, asked a barrow full of manure in his grip.

Shaking off the previous night's unusual dinner conversation, Agatha stepped out of the little potting shed. “Next to the pile I've marked ‘A', Mr. Roberts."

She'd managed to secretly set up her laboratory, and had been quite content to spend her days working on her experiments, as her husband had no need of her otherwise. And yet last night at dinner had been a beginning, of a sort, and had her hoping beyond hope that she would one day be able to tell him about her work.

She followed Mr. Roberts around to the back of the shed, another sign in her hand labeled ‘B'. She'd made a good deal of progress in her work, considering she had to start from scratch due to the fact that manure in the countryside was vastly different than that of what she'd accrued in the city. Not to the naked eye, of course, but to the trained eye of a scientist. Free grazing livestock versus stabled pleasure horses produced a different affect, one she hoped would bring her closer to her goal. And of course, she had to start with new seedlings.

"I don't begin ta understand yer work, ma'am, but I have ta say, by the looks of them plants, ye know what yer about,” Mr. Roberts said.

The wheat and corn, crops commonly grown on the estate, were her test subjects, and even she had to admit all were showing signs of improvement over the specimens she'd not used her latest formula on.

"Why thank you, Mr. Roberts. I will admit they're coming along nicely, better than I'd hoped for in so short a period."

Magnus watched from a secluded spot amid the bordering gardens as her face lit up with a beaming smile. He wanted to share in their conversation, to learn more about his wife's work, but kept his distance.

He'd learned directly from Roberts what she was doing. The man was near to beside himself with anxiety. A proper miss working with manure was wrong. Plain and simple.

Magnus had held in his chuckle at his gardener's discomfort, but made it clear that his wife was to do as she pleased. But the conversation had sparked his curiosity, and for more than a week, he had watched, listened, and learned more about Agatha than he'd ever imagined.

He now knew why she'd wanted to tour the estate and why she'd dug in the dirt and taken notes. His wife was a scientist. He knew her to be intelligent, but this far exceeded his expectations, and he reveled in it. No simpering miss, no incessant shopping, or parties, she wanted none of that.

Sadly, she wanted none of him as well, but a grin stole over his lips as he recalled dinner the night before. He could hardly believe she thought him upset with her behavior. On the contrary he couldn't be more proud to call her his wife, he thought, and turned away to make for his study. If only he could claim her as such.

At least he'd granted her one thing in this new life, the freedom to work on her experiments. The sheer joy in her eyes as she spoke with Roberts pained him and pleasured him. He wished she could look on him like that.

And yet she had smiled at him at dinner the previous night. But the nagging question of whether or not it had been forced for his benefit, had kept him from dining with her at breakfast or lunch.

Settled behind his desk, he opened his ledger and studied the numbers, attempting to drive his wife and her damnable smile from his thoughts.

Barstoke appeared with the day's post. In a vein attempt to accomplish something in the course of his day other than think on his marriage, he flipped through the various letters until one in particular caught his attention. It was addressed to Agatha, forwarded from her father's townhouse in London, from one K. Reynolds of America.

As much as he wished to open the letter, he set it aside and continued with the remaining correspondence. Agatha's letter, however, stayed on his mind for the rest of the afternoon.

Did she have a lover?

Nonsense, she was innocent, her behavior was exemplary, not to mention she didn't seem the type. But the small sense of satisfaction with his reasoning didn't allay the jealousy eating as his soul.

Head pounding, he slammed the ledger closed. Dinner would be served within the half hour, he surmised, glancing at the mantel clock, and made his way to the small drawing room for a libation, knowing full well she rested there in the evenings, but had never intruded on her privacy. He'd always remained in his study with his ledgers until dinner was announced. But tonight, he would break his self-imposed rule, if for no other reason than he simply wished to look at her, and to deliver her mail personally so he might gauge her reaction.

He walked down the hall and across threshold into the drawing room only to find it empty. Pondering her absence, he poured himself a drink, and waited, albeit not patiently, for her to arrive, but she never came.

At the announcement of dinner, he asked of the butler, “I take it Lady Leighton is dining in her rooms this evening."

"No my lord.” He looked about the room, his brow faintly furrowed. “I'd assumed she was here."

"Send for her,” Magnus said, and finished off his brandy as Barstoke disappeared.

Tess, her maid, appeared a few moments later. Her worried frown, the tight fists she had on her apron, set off an alarm inside him.

"She's not in her room, my lord. She never came back from her walk."

"Her walk?"

Tess swallowed with a nod. “Yes, my lord. She takes a stroll every evening after she changes from—that is—"

"I know of her work in the shed,” he said, waving off her stammering. “Where does she walk?"

"Along the cliffs, sir."

He shot a glance toward the window and the increasing rain. “And you're sure she didn't return?"

Tess nodded as Barstoke appeared. “She's not been seen for some time, my lord,” he said. “I took the liberty of questioning the servants after finding Tess in her ladyship's rooms alone."

"Fetch lanterns, blankets.” He barreled toward the door, a muttered prayer on his lips. “God, please let her be safe."

He raced toward the cliffs, following the old path he'd walked as a child. Rivulets of rain seeped between his neck and collar, but he paid it no heed, his only thought on his missing wife.

Her fingers were growing quite numb where she clutched the vine, and her legs weak, but Agatha refused to give up. She would not die this way.

Her throat raw, she looked to the black sky above her, the rain pelting her wind-burned cheeks, and called out once more.

"Help!"

The soggy ground shifted beneath her feet, and with a gasp she pressed herself more firmly to the craggy wall. She cast a sidelong glance at the crashing waves below and prayed once more.

"Please, God. I've so much more I wish to do in this life.” A sound, faint to her ears but growing steadily, gave her hope. “Here! I'm here!"

"Agatha!"

A light appeared above her at the edge of the muddy cliff followed by her husband's face. His scars, although more prominent in the glow of the lantern beside him, was surely the most beautiful face she had ever seen.

"My God,” he rasped, and shoved the lantern to Mr. Roberts then fell to his stomach, his arms outstretched toward her. “Take my hand!"

She eased one hand from the vine and reached for him, but he was too far away. Tipping up on her toes, she stretched further and the ground gave way near her right foot.

"No!” he roared.

She swallowed her scream and grappled for a better hold on the vine. The ground ceased to crumble beneath her, and she took several shallow breaths.

"Hold on, Agatha. Hold on."

"What does it look like I'm doing,” she snarled.

He stood and stripped off his coat then lay down at the edge. “I want you to take hold of the coat, and I'll pull you up."

"It'll rip!"

"It will hold!"

"I'm not about to trust my life to your bloody tailor!"

"Then trust me.” His voice raw and pleading, tightened the band around her heart. “Please, Agatha."

She swallowed her fear and reached for his coat.

"That's it, now the other hand,” he said.

Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the coat as the ground fell away from beneath her feet. “Magnus!"

"I've got you!"

He pulled as she held on with the last of her strength. The mud and rocks scrapped against her damp skin, but she was moving upward, and would gladly take any beating to arrive atop the cliff in one piece.

Strong, warm hands grasped her beneath the arms and hoisted her over the edge. Together, they rolled across the wet grass away from the cliff, Magnus’ arms wrapped around her.

"I've got you,” he murmured against her forehead as he sat up. “I've got you."

A blanket settled over her, but she couldn't leave the warm haven of his body, not yet.

"I'll have a bath readied, my lord,” Tess said.

The sound of whispering voices met her ears, forcing her eyes to open. “Thank you. All of you.” She trembled and huddled closer to her husband.