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The Earl and the Reluctant Lady
by Robyn DeHart

Copyright © 2018 by Robyn DeHart. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Agnes Watkins stepped into the ballroom alongside her mother. To outward appearances, she knew people saw the resemblance. Aside from Agnes’s unusual blue eyes, she and her mother shared nearly identical features and the same lush curves. That was where the similarities ended, though. Where her mother epitomized the charming beauty, Agnes was shy and awkward.

Her first two balls last Season were admittedly a disaster, but that was only because she hadn’t yet learned how to interact in public. Small gatherings had always been easier, especially if there were only ladies present. Men were an entirely different ordeal. Their deep voices hinted at things she didn’t quite understand, and if they stood too close or expressed too much interest, her mother would swoop in and take over.

Initially, Agnes had been appreciative, believing her mother was trying to ease her into the situations and prevent her from making a faux pas. But at the close of her first Season, it became clear that her mother was intentionally overshadowing Agnes, leaving her daughter to stand in a corner like a wallflower.

She had received one proposal at the end of her debut Season, but from an earl old enough to be her grandfather, and thankfully her mother had agreed with Agnes that it wasn’t a good match.

Tonight would be different. If for no other reason than she’d come to the conclusion earlier this year that she did not wish to marry. Choosing to remain single might be unorthodox for a viscount’s daughter, but for Agnes, it was the right choice. It meant no longer feeling as if she were competing with her mother for a gentleman’s attention. Also, it alleviated the burden built into these social gatherings. Now she knew what to expect from a ball, and without the added pressure of trying to lure the attentions of a suitor, she could be more confident, friendlier, and perhaps, in doing so, she wouldn’t have to work so hard to compensate for her lack of social skills.

“Agnes, stop frowning. Smile and roll your shoulders back. It enhances your décolletage,” her mother said as they stood waiting to be introduced into the ballroom.

Agnes fought the urge to roll her eyes. If her décolletage was enhanced any more, she’d be bare breasted. Instead, she glanced to the right side of the ballroom and caught sight of another group of mothers and daughters. The mothers stood together behind their daughters, smiling and talking to one another behind their fans. Men approached the younger women, seeking dances and introductions.

After she and her mother were announced, they made their way into the large room. The throng of people stifled the air and a bead of perspiration slid down Agnes’s back. She swallowed hard against the nerves and pasted a smile on her face.

The moment her mother stopped to establish their spot, the men began to arrive. Her mother effortlessly smiled and flirted, never once turning the men’s attention to Agnes, but began filling her own dance card. Agnes tightened her jaw in an effort to ward off the tears. Why did she even care? None of these men seemed remotely interested in her, and if they were, she’d likely say something odd or boring.

“Is this your daughter, Lady Darby?” one gentleman said. His leering gaze slid down Agnes as if she’d invited him to touch her.

Agnes repressed a shudder.

“Yes, this is Agnes,” her mother said.

“You look more like sisters than mother and daughter,” he said.

Agnes tried to think of something to say. Anything. But words failed her.

“She’s far too young for you, Lord Wilbanks.” Her mother winked saucily.

He gave Agnes one last look, then turned back to her mother. “I suppose you’re right. Shall we?” He held his elbow out to her mother and they walked to the dance floor.

Agnes released a pent-up breath, her shoulder nearly sagging in relief. He hadn’t seemed that old. Though admittedly he was older than Agnes, he was quite obviously younger than Mother. Without another thought, she worked her way around the room to the refreshment table. She secured a lemonade for herself, then moved into the shadows to walk back to where her mother had left her.

“She’s really so disgraceful,” a woman whispered.

“Who?” another responded.

“Lady Darby. Did you see how she shunned her own daughter to steal that man’s attention?”

Agnes’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. It was one thing for her to recognize what her mother was doing; she’d certainly heard the rumors about her mother’s affairs. Humiliation spread through her as she heard the words from someone else’s mouth. She hurriedly moved away from the gossip so she wouldn’t have to endure any more.

She could no longer pretend people might believe she and her mother to be the same as most of the mothers and daughters in this room—working together to secure a good match for the daughter. It hadn’t happened last year in Agnes’s debut Season, so there was no reason to hope this year would be any different. That scenario was not her reality.

Where most mothers worked tirelessly to ensure their daughters shone to garner the attention of eligible men, Agnes’s mother did her level best to upstage her daughter. Agnes had always known her mother was beautiful and charming, though that had been the extent of her knowledge. Like most well-bred ladies, Agnes had spent most of her formative years in the country with her governesses and tutors. Her mother, however, much preferred the city and tended to only visit for short amount of times, and primarily when they hosted parties. Her mother was nothing if not the consummate hostess. And when there was an audience, she was a brilliant mother, funny and adoring.

That limited exposure had led Agnes to create ideals in her mind about the type of woman her mother was. Now three balls into her second Season, and it was impossible to ignore the truth of Lady Darby. She was selfish and often cruel, and for reasons Agnes could not understand, her mother saw them as romantic rivals. Not only did Agnes have no desire to compete with her mother, she also wasn’t equipped to do so. Despite the fact that her husband, Agnes’s father, was alive and well, her mother seemed to crave the attention of every attractive man in London.

It was unclear to Agnes how much beyond harmless flirting everything went. Now that she was in London, she’d certainly heard the rumors of her mother’s many lovers. It was doubtful her father hadn’t heard the same tales, yet he seemed to ignore them. He didn’t attend parties with them; instead, he busied himself with his parliamentary duties and his collections. He was far more interested in purchasing another antiquity than in the goings-on in his own home.

Men often asked Agnes to dance and she dutifully obliged them, but more than one had taken the opportunity to ask questions about her mother. It seemed as if the woman’s prowess was legendary. Humiliation heated Agnes’s cheeks. This year would be different, though. Agnes did not need, nor want, a husband. She was perfectly fine all on her own.

A gentleman approached, and she recognized him from a previous introduction, but she couldn’t recall his name. He hadn’t been interested in her. Still, he smiled as he reached her, bowing slightly.

“Miss Watkins.”

She tried to offer him a smile, but found herself incapable of the expression. Without being on the husband hunt, the point of these parties did seem lost on her. Someone should put her out of her misery. Perhaps she would speak to her father. As soon as he returned from his trip to the coast to retrieve a weapon from the Crusades that he was most enthusiastic about. He wasn’t an indulgent sort, so it seemed unlikely he’d accommodate any of her requests. Though he was more inclined to tolerate her presence when she showed her interest in his collection. The antique weapons were fascinating; she didn’t even have to feign interest.

“My mother is already dancing,” she said abruptly.

The man chuckled. “Yes, I can see that.”

“You can wait for her here.” Agnes glanced at the man, then quickly looked away. He was handsome with light-brown hair and light-colored eyes. He seemed closer to her age than her mother’s, but evidently none of that truly mattered.

All of this would be easier if she had made friends, but she’d spent so much of her life out in Yorkshire that she truly didn’t know many people in London. And her mother hadn’t bothered trying to introduce her to anyone. In fact, her mother seemingly had few to no friends. Agnes suspected this had to do with envy from other women. But it also could be largely due to her mother being selfish and unwilling to be a true friend.

Then another man approached. This one older, but still obviously here to wait for her mother. By the time her mother returned from her current dance, she’d have a line waiting for her. Agnes chuckled at the thought. Yes, deciding to remain single was going to make this Season far better and infinitely more entertaining.

…

Fletcher Banks, the Earl of Wakefield, surveyed the ballroom looking for his next dance partner. Even though he’d spent the last fourteen months on the Continent, he’d come home to discover these events were still mundane and banal. But being an active participant at societal gatherings gave him an up-close view of the people he was supposed to be watching. He’d been a member of the Seven, an elite spy organization, for the last two years. But his last assignment had ended in a disaster and he’d been blamed for the entire debacle. Now he was on probation and would likely spend the next several months with similar tasks to the one at hand.

Tonight’s assignment would have him dancing and flirting with the widowed Lady Fairbanks, in an attempt to woo information out of her about her brother-in-law. He had yet to find her, and instead his eyes were repeatedly drawn to another woman, a younger woman. She was most likely a debutante considering he’d never before seen her. Two men stood near her, but they didn’t seem to be interacting with her.

Fletcher watched her now, as she stood across the room wearing a fashionable pinkish-orange gown. The dress was modestly cut and featured no accents other than the ruffled cap sleeves and the part of the bodice that looked to be a bow tied across her breasts. Her hair was swept up atop her head, with chocolate-brown curls framing her face. Her skin was flawless, creamy, pale, and perfect.

But the thing he could not look away from were her eyes. Even from this distance, he could see them clearly. They weren’t almond shaped, but were more rounded, giving them the appearance of being large, and their color was unlike anything he’d ever seen before: a piercing blue. He’d heard tale of the unique color of the Caribbean Sea, though he’d never seen it himself. But the descriptions of that clear blue water reminded him of this woman’s eyes.

He glanced around the room once more, searching for a sign of Lady Fairbanks, but again could not find her. Fletcher was no stranger to charming people to get what he wanted. He’d always suspected that had been the primary reason he’d been recruited to join the ranks of the Seven. So it was that he found himself instigating an introduction from the hostess to the blue-eyed debutante.

“Miss Watkins, I’d like to introduce you to Lord Wakefield.”

The debutante smiled, but he couldn’t help but notice none of the friendliness lit her striking eyes. Still she curtsied. “A pleasure, my lord.”

“I can assure you it is I who has the pleasure.” He smiled at her and in doing so could’ve sworn he saw a weakening in her defense.

Their hostess left them, and he eyed the other men standing near her, but not precisely with her.

“My mother should return momentarily. You can wait with the others,” she said softly, nodding to the men behind her. Her voice was sultry and rich and immediately did things to him, yet her words made no actual sense.

“I’m sorry?”

“My mother, Lady Darby. She is currently dancing, but shall return.” Then she leveled those piercing blue eyes on him. “I apologize, my lord, but I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a bad evening and I simply don’t have it in me to pretend to entertain you while you wait.”

“Miss Watkins, I have no notion who your mother is. I sought out our hostess for an introduction to you. I wanted to ask if you would do me the honor of dancing the next waltz with me.”

She eyed him suspiciously, glanced down at the dance card hanging from her wrist, then rose those cerulean eyes to his. “My lord, that is the very next dance.”

He chuckled. “Then it would seem I have impeccable timing.”

He held his arm out to her and she accepted. Her body immediately tensed and he looked up to find an older woman walking directly for them. She was quite obviously Agnes’s mother. The resemblance was startling.

“My my, what do we have here?” the woman asked, her voice low and sultry.

“Mother, this is the Earl of Wakefield,” Agnes said. “My lord, Lady Darby.”

“Lady Darby, a pleasure.” The older woman’s eyes shamelessly traversed the length of him and he repressed a shudder. Because of certain assignments when he’d had to feign interest in a woman to obtain information, he easily slid into the role. However, where he thought most women to be somewhat attention seeking, this woman demanded it. Craved it.

Now Agnes’s words after he’d first walked up to her made sense.

“Lovely to meet you,” Fletcher said. “I am very much looking forward to this dance with your stunning daughter.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Indeed. How charming of you. I do believe I could make room for a dance with such a dashing man.”

“Perhaps another time.” And with that, he pulled Agnes onto the dance floor. Thankfully, the music began to play.

With his hand resting on her hip and the other cradling her hand, he could feel her curves just below the surface of her gown. Miss Watkins was, in a word, gorgeous, a perfect specimen of beauty.

“I feel as if I should apologize,” she said.

“For what?”

“My mother.”

He chuckled. “I get the sense she is quite the force.”

Agnes shrugged. “I hope she didn’t make you feel uncomfortable.” Then her forehead furrowed. “Or perhaps now that you’ve met her, you’d prefer a dance with her.”

“I’m right where I want to be.”

She smiled up at him and the effect was so genuine, so lovely, he could have sworn his heart cracked open. He released a low breath.

“I’m certain you must hear this again and again, but your eyes are breathtaking,” he said.

“Thank you. I have been told they’re unusual.”

“As blue as the flowers that grow in the fields by my family estate,” he said. “Bluebells.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I should hope so, as that is most assuredly my intention.” Their dance was coming to an end, but he was not ready to let this woman go. “I wonder if I could persuade you to walk in the gardens with me. I’m told there are none in London quite as lovely as Winthrop’s.”

She bit down on her lip, then resolve steeled her features. “I would love to, my lord.”

As soon as the song ended, Fletcher maneuvered them into the crowd so if her mother was keeping a watchful eye, she would lose them. Were it anything akin to protectiveness that he thought her mother felt toward her, he’d be more inclined to indulge the older woman. But he’d seen it in her face, a deep and spiteful jealousy, which likely made her rather unkind to Agnes.

“Tell me, Miss Watkins, have you ever heard anything said about my grandfather, the Duke of Harcourt?” He knew if she’d been in Society any length of time, she would have heard rumors. He was a vastly powerful man, but an overbearing bastard to all around him.

Agnes’s eyes rounded. “I have heard the name. He is persuasive in Parliament.”

“He is a tyrant,” Fletcher said simply. “Obsessed with bloodlines and other such nonsense.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“I want to ensure that had you heard anything about him that it didn’t affect your thoughts on my person. One should never be judged based on the members of his or her family.”