Nothing to Commend Her (10 page)

"You could not want to—” Unable to finish the words, he clamped his eyes closed against the pain of the truth. No woman wanted to be with the monster he'd become. Women hadn't particularly wanted to be with him before the fire, for that matter.

"I wanted to be with you since that evening in the gallery when you were searching for my glasses,” she said.

His heart pounding, his breathing strained, he opened his eyes. “You knew it was me all along, and you say you didn't marry me out of pity."

"I have never pitied you. I hate what happened to you, the pain you suffered, but I do not pity you. As to knowing it was you, I learned that later while you danced with Miss Hayden. You looked at me—
intently
. Men never look at me that way."

"I wanted to dance with you,” he said lowly.

Her eyes grew damp and her sweet smile nearly ripped his heart from his chest. She deserved more than a monster for a husband, a man who could never love her as she deserved to be loved, but he could not give her up.

"Yet you did not ask,” she said.

"After what those harpies said in the gallery, I didn't want to cause a scene or embarrass you."

"Also the reason for our quick wedding in the village,” she surmised.

He nodded. “Will you stay?"

She took a deep breath. “You are my husband. If you choose to, you could force me.” She stepped closer, her skirts covering his boots. “But I stay because you want me to. Because I want to, although I am concerned about the recent incidents."

"I'll not let any harm come to you.” He lifted his hand and brushed the edge of his thumb across her mouth, aching to taste her rose colored lips. He wondered if he would ever have what he desired most.

A soft knock at the door barely registered, he was so enraptured by her.

"Come,” he called, not taking his gaze from her sweet face.

But Agatha pulled away to stand at the hearth, her back to the room. He could see her trembling, her hand covering the lips he yearned to taste.

"Lord Crittenden is here, my lord,” Barstoke said.

"I'll see him in the library."

"Yes, my lord,” Barstoke replied, and disappeared.

Had she pulled away out of disgust from the touch of his scarred hand?

"Agatha, I—forgive me,” he said, and left her, fearing the look upon her face when she turned. He was a monster, his touch had to be unbearable to her. And his kiss. He'd taken her roughly in his arms when they'd argued, she had to be appalled. His wanting her may be what she preferred, but that did not mean she truly wished for his touch.

He closed the study door behind him then strode down the hall. And yet she'd said she wanted to stay with him. That she'd chosen to marry him of her own accord, and that she'd wanted him to kiss her on their wedding day. But how could that be?

With a shake of his head, clearing the questions from his mind, he continued down the hall. She was staying, and that was all that mattered at present. If she didn't want his touch, he would deal with that later, but something had caused her to tremble.

He walked into the library, a forced grin on his face. “Good to see you, Crittenden,” he said, and took his friend's hand

"I wasn't too sure you would be.” He chuckled. “It's only been a few weeks, old boy. But I was on my way to Haverton Hall, and thought I'd stop in and see how the newlyweds were doing."

Magnus moved to the tray in the corner of the room and poured himself another brandy. At this rate, his wife would have him sotted on a regular basis.

"Things are fine,” he said, handing Crittenden a glass.

"A bit early, isn't it?"

With a sheepish grin, Magnus shrugged.

"Well then, to the happy couple.” Crittenden lifted his glass and tipped it to his lips.

"Indeed.” Magnus nearly drained his. What was she thinking? Feeling?

"Excuse me, my lord. Lady Leighton would like to know if Lord Crittenden will be staying for luncheon."

"I'd be delighted,” his friend said. “And if it's not too much trouble, I'd like to stay a night or two."

Magnus nodded. “You heard the man, Barstoke."

With a nod, the old gent left, leaving Magnus wondering all the more about his wife. She'd recovered from his brutal kiss that morning, a fall from her horse, then his horrid touch, and was now playing the hostess. He should be relieved...glad, but found himself more bemused.

Crittenden cleared his throat. “Kind of you to let me barge in like this."

He turned to note his friend's unease. “There's a purpose to this visit."

With a grim nod, Crittenden sighed. “I'm afraid so.” He paced to the window, a humble look about him. “I'm in hiding."

Magnus couldn't hold in his chuckle. “Sorry,” he said, and cleared his throat, but didn't mean the apology in the least. “Your mother, I presume?"

"This isn't a laughing matter,” he said, his face a stern frown.

"No, no, of course not,” he choked.

"I knew coming to you, a newly married sod, would bring me no peace."

He gripped his friend's shoulder, a grin on his face. “I apologize. But it would make matters much simpler if you'd just choose a wife and be done with it. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't follow you abroad."

"But I don't wish to be married!"

Magnus’ grin wavered as his own situation teased his thoughts. “It isn't a death sentence,” he ground out, although he wondered if Agatha saw it as something just as dire. He'd taken so much from her.

"Just because you like being married, doesn't mean the rest of us want the experience."

He turned at that. “Why do you think I like being married?"

"Well, it's obvious, man. You've done the deed twice.” Crittenden sipped his drink and studied him over the glass.

Magnus nodded, and averted his gaze to stare blankly at the scene outside the window.
Done the deed twice.
Twice, he'd taken away a young woman's life. The first, with deadly results, and now Agatha. How could he be so selfish?

"Honestly, I can't see the appeal,” Crittenden said. “Why not a mistress? They're much less troublesome. Of course, Elizabeth was a beauty."

He jerked his head around, his temper simmering. “And Agatha isn't, is that it? You want to know why I chose a wife who's been on the shelf for some time, one not stamped out like a repeating bad pattern of the popular ladies of the season."

Crittenden slowly lowered his glass, his brow furrowed. “I meant no insult, Leighton."

He stomped to the corner, set his glass down hard alongside the decanter of brandy, and gripped the edge of the table. Taking several deep breaths, he reined in his temper. “No, I'm sure you didn't."

"I only meant that she's nothing like the skirts we chased in our youth,” his friend said.

It had been Crittenden doing the chasing, although Magnus scooped up the leavings when there were any, which wasn't often. Even in his youth, he'd been a dour sort of fellow and not popular with the ladies. Elizabeth had been a rare gem who'd paid him attention. He'd thought himself so lucky.

"No, she's not like them,” Magnus muttered, shaking his head, but dare not meet his friend's gaze. They'd known each other far too long. Even with Crittenden's absence these past years, he would see the torment and regret mixed with hope and longing in his eyes.

"So,” Magnus said, clearing his throat. “How long do you need to hide?"

"A few days, at most. Until my mother's spies report back to her that I am not at Haverton House.” He chuckled, lifting the tension from the room. “I don't wish to be a sudden host to a slew of matchmaking mamas and their offspring."

Magnus grinned at the picture of women, in various shapes and sizes, descending on his estate for a long and torturous unplanned house party. “Surely she wouldn't go that far."

With a groan, he dropped into a chair. “You've no idea."

A chuckle burst forth. “Sorry. Well, you are welcome to stay for as long as you like."

A worried frown marred Crittenden's features as he looked up. “Are you quite sure I wouldn't be a nuisance? I truly meant it when I said I didn't wish to interrupt your newly married—bliss,” he said, waggling his hand while barely containing his grimace.

A laugh, albeit forced, echoed in the room.
Bliss
. It would be bliss to hold his wife, to make love to her, to give her all the things she desired and deserved. But that was one emotion Magnus would never know.

"Nonsense,” he said. “I'm sure my wife will be delighted to entertain company other than mine."

Crittenden laughed. “Well, naturally. I'm ever so much more charming than you, old fellow."

Agatha had to have something to do, her nervous energy would be the end of her if she didn't. At least Lord Crittenden would be in attendance at luncheon. She needed time to recuperate, to regain her composure. It had taken all her strength of will to control herself after Magnus had admitted to wanting her. The sensation was rather heady, and yet just as disheartening.

They could never live as man and wife, not in the true sense of the word. They would never have any children, it would be just the two of them throughout the remainder of their lives. It was a sobering thought, one that, if she allowed it, would make her quite angry. It wasn't fair to have never been given the facts up front before accepting his offer. And yet she suspected she would still have agreed to marry him if she'd known.

"Strange,” she muttered, as she made her way to her rooms to clean herself up after her fall.

Why would she have agreed? She really aught to look at it logically, but for some reason she couldn't seem to formulate a single reasonable answer.

She hurried to the desk for pen and paper and sat down to right out the various reasons for and against, but before she could place a drop of ink to the page, she sat back with a sigh.

"It really doesn't matter now,” she said to herself. She was married, it had been her choice, one she felt certain she would've made regardless of these new facts.

Her gaze strayed to the window, and she rose to look out upon the estate, green and lush with summer. This was her home, this view from the window belonged to her now. Her gaze slid to the connecting door to Magnus’ rooms. And Lord Leighton was her husband, a strong, noble man, with a kind heart and a sad past. And he wanted her, the wallflower, the spinster bluestocking.

Agatha smiled and wrapped her arms around herself. She had more than she'd ever dreamed of having and refused to allow the lack of children in her future to ruin it.

She changed into her work dress, her thoughts finally in some sense of order, tidied her hair, then made her way to the potting shed to prepare her latest experiment. She wouldn't get too involved, not with company in the house. It wouldn't do to be caught at her work, smelling like a horse stall in need of mucking, and embarrass Magnus. They'd taken a very big step in their relationship, one she hoped would lead to a somewhat fulfilling marriage.

Stepping off the servants’ steps into the kitchen, the quickest and least visible way to the potting shed, she caught sight of the cook receiving a buss on the cheek from Mr. Roberts. She'd suspected they were sweethearts, but to actually see them was a bit of a jolt.

Agatha immediately retreated into the shadows and pressed her back to the wall, not wanting to embarrass them, but in all honesty it hurt to witness such affection.

Her fingers stole over her mouth, touching her lips, as she recalled Magnus’ kiss. She remembered too well his strong arms wrapped around her, his scent swirling through her senses, the deft parry of his tongue as it teased and tormented hers.

Why hadn't he kissed her in the study? He looked as if he'd wanted to, and the way he touched her lips with the tips of his fingers—her heart skittered across her chest. Oh, how she wished he had.

But perhaps it was painful for him to indulge in such affections. She knew something of the male anatomy and procreation. Not that kissing had much to do with it, but she knew that it could lead to other things. Things Magnus was incapable of. Perhaps he merely wished to spare her feelings, not get her in an amorous way.

"Oi, get on with yerself,” Cook said with a giggle. “I've work ta do."

Agatha heard the outer door close on Mr. Roberts’ hearty chuckle, jarring her from her thoughts. She took a steadying breath and entered the kitchen. With a passing greeting to Cook, she made her way out the door to the shed. She really needed to concentrate on her work, not on kisses or the lack thereof. It was a complete waste of energy.

And yet, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever kiss her again.

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Magnus and Crittenden entered the dining room, but Agatha was nowhere to be seen. He supposed she had to be regretting her situation, what woman wouldn't?

"Have you informed Lady Leighton?” he asked Barstoke.

"Yes, my lord. She was—involved, but said she would be along shortly."

"That sounds ominous,” Crittenden said with a chuckle as they took their seats.

"She has unusual interests that keep her occupied."

"Really? What sort of interests?"

"I am so sorry to be late,” Agatha said, bustling into the dining room.

Both men stood, but Magnus couldn't quite meet her gaze, fearful of what he might see there.

"Not at all, my lady,” Crittenden said, and took it upon himself to escort her to her chair. “Lord Leighton was just about to tell me of your unusual occupations."

"My—” Her gaze shot to Magnus and he glanced elsewhere.

"Riding without a saddle, for one,” he muttered, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

"That is unusual,” Crittenden said, taking his seat. “Do you enjoy riding, Lady Leighton, sans saddle?"

"Um, not normally, no,” she said, her face flushing furiously, bringing a grin to Magnus lips.

"I sense a tale there,” his friend said with a chortle. “But I shall be a gentleman and not press you for it."

"Thank you, my lord,” she said with a nod.

They chatted amicably, Crittenden doing most of the talking. Magnus had no doubt he sensed the hovering tension in the room, but it could not be helped. He wanted his wife, craved her, and would forever curse his soul for the bland future he'd forced upon her.