The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (38 page)

The flush Agatha had gained from recent exertions immediately left her face, and she released her hold on the paper as she stared at her father. “You don’t understand. It’s not what you think,” she said, talking fast and thinking faster. “Lord Addleson and I were having a disagreement about the necessity of quality paper in maintaining one’s correspondence. I think good-quality stock is indicative of one’s regard, while the viscount believes it’s the sentiment expressed on the paper that matters more.” Her eyes darting around the room, for she seemed distinctly uninclined to look her father in the face, she walked over to him with a forced smile. “It’s a good thing you’re here to provide a decisive opinion.”

If Addleson had not already been top over tails in love with Lady Agatha, her desperate and yet oddly coherent performance would have won him over entirely. “We are drawing up a marriage contract and will need you to stand as witness to the document,” he explained.

Dumbstruck, Bolingbroke looked from Addleson to his daughter and then back again, as if unsure which one to believe. Both stories were equally implausible.

While his lordship bobbed his head back and forth in confusion, Agatha stared at the viscount in stunned silence, her expressive face half hidden by the shadow of the dimly lit room. It disconcerted him not to know exactly what she was thinking, but a man proposing marriage was supposed to be unsure.

Accepting the uncertainty, he picked up the pen and began to write. “Lady Agatha is afraid her love for me will undermine her commitment to developing her skill as a painter. Therefore, I am putting into the contract that she must pursue her art with as much dedication and single-mindedness as she would if she were not saddled with a husband.”

Although Bolingbroke’s bewildered look indicated he still didn’t comprehend what was happening, his understanding extended to grasping certain basic facts. “Naturally, as a wife and mother, she would put aside her hobby.”

Addleson shook his head with pronounced disappointment as he looked at Agatha, who had yet to step out of the shadow. “I see now where your reluctance comes from.” Then, to her father, he said, “I must remind you, Bolingbroke, that you are here as an official witness to the document. Your input is not being sought. Now, what else do we need to address? Ah, yes, your concern that I might feel embarrassed by your ardent pursuit of painting. Let’s add a paragraph stating that under no circumstance shall I feel a single, solitary moment of mortification at my wife’s chosen vocation. I will go one step further and mandate the particular amount of satisfaction and pleasure I must feel at her remarkable accomplishments. For good measure, I will insert here an addendum limiting the number of minutes in total I’m allowed to boast about her at a given social event, lest I become insufferable in my pride.”

The viscount wrote furiously as he spoke, ignoring Bolingbroke’s sputtered offense and looking at Agatha intermittently to observe her response. Her posture had not changed. Indeed, she was as unmoving as a statue in a garden.

Determined to provoke a reaction, for it was unbearable not to know what she was thinking, he added what he considered to be his masterstroke. “Furthermore, I am introducing a clause that specifies the size and location of your studio, which will go on the top floor of my town house on the south side of the building to ensure maximum exposure to the sun. And now I’m including a passage that stipulates the installation of a studio in every one of my homes, including the hunting box in Devonshire, which I’ve visited on fewer than a dozen occasions. Lastly, I’m adding a section requiring the inclusion of a comfortable chair for my personal usage should you deign to let me keep you—”

But he got no further, for suddenly she was there, near him, next to him, dropping to her knees and taking his face into her hands. She peered deeply into his eyes, her own velvety black ones shining with unexpected force and she smiled sweetly. Then she laid one gentle, precious kiss on his lips and said with ardent tenderness, “I deign.”

Deeply touched, Addleson pulled her into his arms for another kiss, this one considerably less gentle than the first. Although he knew it was not at all the thing to ravish a girl with her papa a mere two feet away, he could not stop himself from exulting in the feel of her lips and the press of her body and the joy that had pervaded every inch of his own.

Agatha seemed insensible of the faux pas as well, for her ardor was as ferocious as his own, and she pulled back only when she heard the triumphant tones of her mother cooing, “Now that that’s all settled, my loves, let’s talk about the wedding.”

While Agatha blushed and Addleson, unwilling to break all contact, sought his fiancé’s hand, Bolingbroke huffed and grumbled, “I have yet to hear anyone ask my permission.”

His wife smiled at him with female condescension, “Of course you did, my dear Bolly, you just weren’t listening. Now, I suggest we adjourn to the drawing room to have a proper discussion about your marriage. This paint-splattered closet is not at all suitable.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years,” Agatha muttered to Addleson’s delight.

“Don’t be absurd,” her mother scoffed. “No gentleman wants to climb up a tree and risk disaster to court the woman he loves. Trust me, there is nothing less romantic than a broken leg. Your father had a sprained ankle on our honeymoon, and it was very unpleasant.”

“I say, Judith, it was a stubbed toe,” Bolingbroke objected, “and a very minor inconvenience at that.”

Addleson laughed. “I appreciate your consideration, Lady Bolingbroke, although I am confident I could have managed several stories without incident.”

Deeply suspicious, Agatha looked at her mother through narrowed eyes. “You cannot expect me to believe that you meant for a gentleman to sneak into my studio through the window.”

Her ladyship dismissed this outlandish notion with a wave of her hand. “I’m a mother, darling, not a soothsayer. I simply saw no reason out to rule the possibility. Now, given your status as a newly engaged couple, I will permit you five minutes alone to cement the arrangement. Gregson will be positioned at the door with a watch and will knock at the five-minute mark and then open the door thirty seconds later. Is that clear?” she asked.

Agatha blushed again and assured her mother it was crystal clear. Having witnessed the earlier display of newly engaged behavior, Bolingbroke was less eager to leave his daughter alone with the viscount, and it required cajoling and then outright bullying from her ladyship to get him through the door. Even then, he insisted that it not be closed, and Addleson watched in amusement while Bolingbroke and his wife negotiated the precise number of inches the door was to remain open. The figure that satisfied both parties, though Lady Bolingbroke more so than her husband, was six.

As soon as they were gone, Addleson turned to Agatha intending to make a comment about Lord and Lady Bolingbroke’s antics, but as soon as he saw the glow in her black eyes, he realized their time was too fleeting to waste in discussion of her parents. He took her hands in his and tugged her toward him. “You won’t regret it,” he said seriously, brushing a tendril that had fallen on her forehead.

“No, I don’t think I will,” she said with equal gravity. “I want your body far too much, my lord.”

Surprised by the bluntness—very surprised, yes, that the Bolingbroke chit would announce her desire so plainly—he straightened his shoulders and raised his head.

Agatha laughed giddily at his reaction. “I have been hampered by convention and denied access to the actual male form. Every attempt I’ve made to study it has been thwarted. One of the stable hands kindly agreed to pose for me and, I assure you, Pryor has a very fine form, even if he is on the short side, but Gregson decided it would be beneath his dignity—Gregson’s, mind you, not Pryor’s. Pryor is something of a peacock and was looking forward to exhibiting his plumage.”

Although Addleson felt he should take at least some umbrage at his bride-to-be’s explicit discussion of another male’s very fine form, he was too charmed to make the effort. She was wholly outrageous and utterly inappropriate and entirely his. He was not worried about footmen, peacocking ones or otherwise. Nevertheless, he asked, “Will access to my body whenever you desire it stop you from observing the form of the servants?”

Her grin—wide and playful and unrepentant—made his heart stop. “No, but I promise to limit observations to three times a week. Shall we put that in the document as well?” she asked, her beautiful eyes full of mischief as she reached for the pen.

Although Addleson thought a few additional ground rules would not go amiss, lest his clever wife take shameless advantage of him, now was not the time to add them and he pulled her into his arms for another kiss. Knowing himself to be on the verge of more inappropriate behavior, he walked to the door and smoothly erased the painstakingly negotiated six inches. Then he took her hands in his own and kissed her palms. “Given the extent of your sacrifice, we must make sure you are fully satisfied with what you are getting,” he murmured softly before slipping her hands under his untucked shirt and pressing them against his hot flesh. “I do not want you to feel that you are making a poor bargain.”

Now it was she who was startled by the boldness, and her eyes flew to his. But even as she looked at him in slight bemusement, her fingers knew what to do, for they began caressing his chest with such slow, measured strokes, he found it difficult to breathe and impossible not to moan. Coherent thought was becoming a challenge.

“We have only four minutes left and there’s a lot of territory to cover,” she said, her voice husky in his ear as she leisurely glided her hands over the corded muscles of his stomach. “I’m not sure we have enough time for full satisfaction, my lord.”

As his fingers danced over—and then under—the edge of her dress, he assured her she had no cause to worry about the brevity of their allotted interval. He felt her heart leap when he brushed her nipples with his hands and then his tongue. “You are skilled in your chosen art, and I am skilled in mine,” he explained huskily before capturing her lips in a kiss full of sweetness and desire and joy. He had not expected such unfettered sensuality, such unselfconscious pleasure, from Lady Agony, and although he was surprised by its existence, he was certainly not disconcerted by its fervor. As he had boasted only moments before, he was a master of this particular art, and by the time Gregson swung open the door a few minutes later, they were both well satisfied with their bargain.

Epilogue

Given her pivotal
role in the creation of the great Adolphus Clemmons mystery, Lady Agatha felt obligated to listen yet again as Mr. Petrie struggled to comprehend what had transpired in his absence. In the twenty-seven hours since he had returned from Bath, he had raised the topic with her six times, which, she calculated out of boredom, averaged one conversation every four and a half hours.

“It’s simply inexplicable to me, for how could Clemmons change his appearance so radically as to alter the color of his eyes and where did he get a complete top row of teeth? More important, why would he make these changes? He has a perfectly presentable visage—a little rough, you understand, from all that boxing he did in his youth. The missing teeth, as I said, and the scar above his right eye and the misshapen ear that looks disconcertingly like a head of cauliflower. Certainly, sometimes he scares little children, but his able hand as a note taker and his excellent memory more than compensate for a few unexpected shrieks when you are walking home from a lecture late at night.” The American naturalist sighed and wrinkled his forehead. “And you are sure he did not come here looking for me? I am positive he had the address, as he made all the arrangements himself. The first thing he would do upon arriving to London would be to pay a call on the establishment at which I am staying. This is all so baffling.”

“He did not call here, I’m sure of it,” she said firmly, as she had a few dozen times before.

“It’s very confusing indeed. To alter his appearance and then appear at the horticultural society claiming to be under orders from me. I never instructed him to become familiar with the workings of the British Horticultural Society. Why would I? For years, various organizations have courted my membership and I have steadfastly denied them the pleasure because I believe organized horticulture ultimately stifles originality. Clemmons knows my opinion, so why would he make such an implausible claim? And then to simply disappear into thin air? What purpose can that serve? Perhaps he went to Bath to try to find me.”

At the mention of Bath, Agatha felt her sense of obligation weaken, for she knew what would come next: a protracted digression into Petrie’s disappointing exchange with Mr. Trundle. He had been so optimistic about the meeting, so confident that Worthy & Wormley Press was ideally suited to publish his collective works, that he couldn’t comprehend how he had been rejected—and on the grounds that his writing was familiar and derivative. Familiar and derivative!

This development presented Petrie with a second great mystery, for by what measure could his informative and inventive essays about the flora of North America be considered unoriginal? Who among the population of England had ever beheld
Ammophila breviligulata
in its natural habitat? Who among the inhabitants of this tiny island had the knowledge and experience to describe it as well as he?

The answer was nobody.

Agatha knew Petrie deserved an explanation. For all his boorish self-aggrandizing, he was still the innocent victim of a crime. Someone—and Agatha was not convinced it should be she—needed to sit down with him and give a detailed account of his assistant’s perfidy. The ideal person for the job, she rather thought, was Lord Bolingbroke, for it was he who had invited the American naturalist to their shores and exposed him to Townshend’s machinations. The only problem with her father telling Petrie the truth was he did not know the truth either. Sadly, the responsibility of enlightening that gentleman fell squarely on her shoulders, and she was happy to shirk it as long as possible.