The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance Page 18

  Her shoulder against his! What a chaste touch to crave, he thought in silent mockery of himself. Never in his life had he sought such innocent contact. His encounters ran toward experienced women of the demimonde whose expectations were as limited as his own, and having yet to resolve to marry, he had never sought the affections of a suitable young lady. He had always assumed respectable courtship would be a dreary and dull undertaking, like fishing in a placid lake, but he was prepared—eventually—to submit to his duty, for what he said about his heir was true: The gentleman was a country squire with no style or sense.

  But that fissure of awareness he’d experienced at the mere touch of their shoulders was far from dreary and the almost exquisite pleasure he felt at the thought of it happening again was the opposite of dull.

  Then again, Addleson reminded himself with humor, what they had here was hardly respectable. The deserted library, the dastardly villain, the injured innocent, the wretched wig—it was a farce, not a courtship.

  As amusing as he found the situation, the viscount knew his desire for Lady Agatha Bolingbroke was anything but funny—inconvenient, improper and poorly timed, yes, but definitely not funny. It was, he thought wryly, proof of his perversity, for how else was it that this Lady Agatha Bolingbroke, dressed like an American yokel in some gentleman’s garish coat, could arouse him to an outrageous degree, while the other Lady Agatha Bolingbroke, elegantly attired in the height of fashion, had provoked only his interest. If he had thought about her frequently in the two days since the Paddleton affair, it was because he found her impossible to understand. Everything about her hinted at hidden depths, and he had discovered within himself a need to plumb them.

  And now, suddenly, he knew it all. With a minimum of fuss and a surprising amount of grace, Agatha had revealed her secret torment and accepted his offer of help. Although he had actively sought her trust, he hadn’t actually expected to receive it, for he knew what she thought of him: Viscount Addlewit takes up his seat in the House of Lords.

  He was humbled by her faith.

  Determined to prove himself worthy of it, he had settled on a tone of measured detachment and even-keeledness. What she needed from him was a cool head and clear thinking so that he could objectively examine the facts in order to arrive at the best solution to her problem. Railing against the treachery of Townshend or commiserating over the misery of Miss Harlow would just cloud the discussion with emotion. Feelings would not further their investigation; only facts would.

  It was a simple enough rule and yet he, unthinking fool that he was—takes up his seat indeed!—had been unable to abide it. I take pleasure in your company, Agatha. What a patently stupid thing to say. Now he was unnerved and she was embarrassed and Townshend’s chances for succeeding in his evil endeavor increased tenfold.

  Damn his unruly tongue!

  Addleson knew it fell to him to restore their footing, and all he had to do was come up with something clever to say. In fact, it didn’t have to be clever, merely different from an announcement that he took pleasure in her company. Returning the conversation to the general matter of Townshend’s villainy would suffice. Such a comment should not be difficult, especially for someone with as agile a brain as his.

  “Coercion,” Lady Agatha announced loudly, the unexpected sound echoing throughout the silent room.

  The viscount, who was ready to concede to an overestimation of his brain’s agility, drew his brows in confusion.

  “Coercion,” she said again in a quieter voice. The pink on her cheeks suggested her discomfort with his statement, but when she looked him in the eyes, she seemed perfectly composed. “I believe Miss Harlow engaged in coercive tactics in order to convince members of the society to vote for her. For example, she traded two social events with her sister the duchess for my father’s support. Her illustrious company was supposed to make me fashionable.”

  Having resolved to keep the conversation focused on the facts—and only the facts—Addleson found himself breaking his own rule yet again. This time, however, he knew exactly what he was doing, for he could not let such a disagreeable sentiment, though indifferently stated, stand. “But you do not want to be fashionable. You want to be left alone to draw and paint.”

  He had surprised her. Truly, he had, for the look on her face was of awe, as if he had just made the table levitate.

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  Addleson shrugged as if this accomplishment were not at all impressive, but he relished the light of admiration that gleamed in her eyes and wanted to see it again. “You should be prime goods on the marriage mart, for you are pleasing to look at, come from an excellent family and are possessed of a generous dowry, and yet you haven’t gotten a single offer in four seasons, not even from a fortune hunter. That, my dear, is no little achievement. Clearly, you’ve worked very hard to discourage all comers. Figuring out that part of the equation was easy enough. What puzzled me was why you would wish to remain unmarried. But now that I’ve discovered your talent for drawing, it makes sense. You would rather devote time to your art than to a husband.”

  Agatha stared at him long after he had completed his explanation, her eyes blazing with astonishment at how simply and adroitly he had summed up her London career.

  “You don’t need to look so surprised by my ability to reason,” he said good-naturedly. “Despite your opinion of me as Lord Addlewit, I’m really quite clever, as I keep telling you.”

  As before, this playful reminder of sins she had committed against him caused her cheeks to turn pink and she rushed to offer an apology. Once again, he would not let her finish.

  “I assure you, Lady Agatha, my ego is not so frail that it cannot handle a little gentle ribbing, especially when it is so skillfully delivered,” he said, his eyes focused on hers because it was important to him that she believe him, for eternal apologist was not a pose that suited her. “What I do take offense at, however, is your continued belief that my ego is indeed that frail. As I said at the time—to you, in fact, though I did not know then that I addressed the artist—I admired the cartoon, for it concisely sums up the general view of my tenure in the House of Lords. So as not to disappoint, I shall make my first order of business the introduction of an act that outlaws the wearing of gold buttons with yellow waistcoats.”

  “No, you will not,” she said, shaking her head decisively. “Rather, you will oppose the Corn Laws and propose measures to improve the working conditions of climbing boys. You may utter all the inanities you’d like, my lord, but I’m alive to your game now. I don’t know why you choose to play it, but I am hardly the appropriate person to question another’s social conduct.”

  Although the question was not asked, he chose to answer it anyway. “Utter boredom, my dear. I find a little nonsense enlivens even the most tedious occasion.”

  For the first time that afternoon, she smiled. “Like a tête-à-tête with Mr. Petrie? You were the perfect audience for him, quiet and attentive. I kept expecting you to interrupt with some nonsense about the root system of the sunset hyssop resembling the pattern on your favorite waistcoat. In fact, I was hoping you would, for the gentleman is incapable of comprehending any form of rebuke, which I know from extensive personal research.”

  Addleson laughed, recalling his unnatural forbearance of the unknown American naturalist. At the time, the encounter had been mildly torturous, but he was grateful for it now, for it had led to this conversation. “We must come up with a signal, you and I, so you may alert me when nonsensical blather is called for and I will immediately strike the blow. May I suggest an abrupt ear tug like this?” He quickly demonstrated, tilting his head to the side and pulling his left lobe with his right hand.

  Agatha laughed at the display, just as he intended, and shook her head. “No, no, that will never do. You look like you are trying to clear it of water.”

  “I would suggest rubbing your nose, but a lady does not admit to having a nose in public,” he said.

 
“For that matter, I’m pretty sure she does not have ears, either.”

  “What if you waved your dance card?” he asked.

  Now Agatha giggled. “Can you imagine the picture that would present? It would appear to all as if I were begging gentlemen to sign it.” She raised the small notebook she had brought with her and waved it aloft. “Here it is, beaus. Right here! Now who hasn’t requested a dance with me yet? You, Mr. Pearson? I’m sure that’s an oversight. You can add your name right here next to Lord Peters’.” She giggled again, an infectious sound that rang gaily through the empty room. “My mother would have paroxysms, although I’m not sure out of despair at how poorly her daughter is behaving or delight at how her daughter is finally desirous of dance partners. I suspect she wouldn’t know either. On that point, it is probably best that we can’t come up with a signal, for my mother would interpret your attentions as the interest of a suitor and that would be disastrous.”

  Knowing her as he did—and that was, Addleson realized, fairly well by now—he understood that she thought it would be as much of a disaster for him as it was for her. No bachelor wanted an overly optimistic matchmaking mama nipping at his heels, and yet he did not find the idea as repellent as he ought. He was not a suitor and did not want to be treated as such, but there was still the matter of his outrageous attraction. Somehow, Lady Agatha, her head topped with an elderly gentleman’s castaway wig, was the most desirable woman he had ever beheld.

  It made no sense, and yet there it was. He would not try to reason it away, for even though he might delight in being a nonsensical blatherer he took no joy in being a fool.

  He did, however, see the immediate value in changing the subject and observed, “Your mood seems improved.”

  As if surprised by the notion, she paused for a moment to consider it. “It is improved. My panic has subsided, and I feel hopeful that we will figure out a solution that will extricate both myself and Miss Harlow. I am very grateful for your help, my lord,” she said, impulsively taking his hand and squeezing it. He felt the heat rush up his arm at her innocent touch, felt it sweep through his body, but he kept his expression unchanged. Agatha was not as skilled at hiding her feelings and he saw the exact moment when the impropriety of the act occurred to her. She abruptly dropped his hand and looked down at the table, as if utterly fascinated by its teak finish. “The, um, only other person I could turn to for help is my maid Ellen. She, ah, knows my identity, for she is the one who conveys my drawings to Mrs. Biddle, and she is, um, far too kind to come up with a truly diabolical scheme.”

  Addleson found her reaction charming. “I am deeply gratified that you find me debased enough to be of use.”

  Amusement tinged his voice, but Agatha, still embarrassed by her recent indiscretion, heard only the words. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Before you annoy me with yet another attempt at an apology, let us return to Townshend,” he said, adopting the businesslike tone of earlier as a matter of necessity. If he didn’t get himself under control, he would spend the entire day laughing with her and they would be no closer to saving her reputation. “What you said about coercion is likely, for I recall now my cousin mentioning a cheating scandal at Oxford, which Miss Harlow threatened to disclose to my uncle. Edward was all out of sorts about the ultimatum, dithering about what he should do, which I found truly entertaining. He is twenty-seven years old and should not worry quite so much what his father thinks.”

  Agatha checked the minutes for an indication of how Mr. Edward Abingdon voted, and noting he had supported Miss Harlow from the very first tally, decided paternal approval had prevailed over personal aversion.

  “Perhaps Miss Harlow did not discover information about Townshend, for his voting record indicates no fear of reprisal,” she said, her voice dipping into discouragement as she reviewed the ballots. “In practical terms, it would be impossible for one woman—two, if her sister helped her—to uncover useful information about the entire membership of the horticultural society. Not counting Trent and Huntly, whose support was assured, that is twenty-four men. It would require an entire team of Bow Street Runners.”

  Privately, Addleson agreed with her assessment, but he had heard the disappointment in her tone and did not want to exacerbate it. “Perhaps, but his animus, as you pointed out, is personal, which implies Miss Harlow did something to spur it. Unless he is unbalanced, and I don’t think he is, he would not seek such malicious revenge if she had merely gained entry to the club over his objection. There is something there and we must keep looking for it. Have you read the minutes preceding the vote? There might have been previous debate on the matter.”

  The viscount reached for the record and flipped through its pages until he came across an earlier date. To improve his vantage, he shifted his body forward and found himself once again in alarming proximity to Lady Agatha. Their shoulders were not touching, nor any portion of their arms or legs, but he was so close he could feel her breath on his cheek and, startled, he looked up to see her face mere inches from his.

  Her lips were so near he barely had to move his head to touch them.

  Oh, what a terrible idea that was. What an awful, horrible, atrociously terrible idea it was. But her lips—those lovely, temptingly sweet lips, red like berries—were parted invitingly and her dark, mysterious eyes stared into his with an innocent need he would defy any man to resist.

  It wouldn’t be a real kiss, not truly, for it would not be that frenzied feasting that sent waves of inexorable heat coursing through one’s body. No, not at all. Rather, it would be a tepid brush of the lips, a mere taste to satisfy a curiosity, a bagatelle that would be over almost before it began.

  Really, there was no reason to scruple. All he had to do was tip his head forward and—

  “Pardon the interruption,” Mr. Berry announced as he entered the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Agatha never imagined she would feel grateful for an itchy wig and a poorly constructed tailcoat that had torn the moment she had stretched it across her flattened chest. What a humiliating turn that had been—causing a tear in the tailcoat of one’s footman. The poor fellow didn’t even know he had lent her his clothes, as Ellen had snuck into Williams’s quarters to remove the items without permission. Agatha knew it was underhanded and inconsiderate to steal from the servants, but she couldn’t very well walk up to the Bolingbrokes’ third footman and request the loan of his pantaloons and waistcoat.

  If only Lord Bolingbroke weren’t so tall and stout! Then she could have just taken the clothes from his wardrobe, which would have felt considerably less felonious. But her father had been unable to contribute anything to her disguise, not even one beleaguered old wig. For that, she had had to root around the attics in a trunk of her late grandfather’s clothes. The wretched thing had not seen the light of day since the introduction of the powder tax and had required a significant grooming to make it less of a relic. Regardless, no amount of trimming and styling could make its fiber any less itchy.

  Gathering the clothes, however, had been only half of the struggle, for putting them on proved to be almost as difficult. Her maid had tried to help, smoothing out the wrinkles, finessing the fit and sewing the tear, but Ellen’s familiarity with men’s clothing was as limited as her mistress’s and she was unable to perform miracles. Agatha, her buttons in awkward places and her pantaloons in danger of sliding off, feared she looked like an actor in a theater company with a limited supply of costumes.

  Fully dressed, she had turned her attention to her face, using her artist’s eye to subtly adjust the shape of her features with her mother’s face paints. She thinned her lips, widened her jawline and added an unappealing beauty mark to the tip of her nose to draw attention away from her eyes. She realized the result wasn’t entirely convincing, but she also knew from her experience as Lady Agony that people see what they expect to see. Mr. Berry would not be looking for Agatha Bolingbroke under the coarse, speckled wig of Mr. Clemmons.


  To ensure a swift exit and minimal parental interference, she had slipped through the window in her studio, a subterfuge she had never practiced before but had thought about with alarming frequency since her come out. How easy to just disappear through a hole and be free.

  Now, however, as the clerk of the British Horticultural Society strode into the room, she gave thanks for every itchy fiber of her horrendously uncomfortable disguise, for the efficient clerk noticed nothing untoward in her proximity to Addleson. Thinking her to be a man, he had no cause to suspect inappropriate behavior and naturally concluded their nearness was merely a matter of efficacy. How else were two people to read the same book?

  And it was merely a matter of efficacy, Agatha told herself, even though for a moment there, for the most fleeting second between breaths, she had believed it was something else. Her heart had raced in unbearable expectation as she waited for Lord Addleson to kiss her.

  Even as her blood pounded, she had known her anticipation was misguided. The urbane viscount with the razor-sharp wit did not have romantical feelings toward her. Yes, he had admitted with startling candor that he took pleasure in her company, but how quickly he had regretted those words! A mix of horror and panic swept across his handsome features so swiftly, even a besotted schoolgirl would have known the truth, and she could almost see his brain scrambling to figure out the best way to explain he’d meant as a king would enjoy a jester’s company.

  It was actually very funny because in her wig and face paints and Williams’s finery she was practically dressed as a court jester. Even without the costume, she was like a character in an allegory: Lady Agony, who illustrates how a young lady ought not to behave. She did not doubt that many matchmaking mamas used her as a cautionary tale to keep their daughters in line.