Page 7 of Charity

At least her father, the Earl of Thorpe, hadn’t pressed for an actual wedding date as yet. Indeed, her brother-in-law, Lord Prewitt, was very quick to suggest a long engagement so they could become better acquainted. But how Oscar was supposed to do that, when Lady Penelope never left her family’s company, stumped him.

Oscar rubbed a hand across his face. He’d thought to make a proper marriage to the advantage of his family. He’d thought to marry a woman with impeccable breeding and decorum. What he got was being discovered in a state of dishabille beside Lady Penelope. But he’d not been the one to muss her prim gown.

No, that was the worst of it.

Lord Thorpe had concluded, quite wrongly, that Oscar had been responsible for his daughter’s state. Yet all Oscar had done was stumble upon her straight from having Agatha Birkenstock in his arms. But Lady Penelope had claimed firmly that he’d been the one to do the deed, as it were.

Of course, with no repeatable explanation for his less-than-pristine appearance, matters had quickly spiraled out of his control. He couldn’t very well say that he’d tumbled Agatha over Lady Archer’s pianoforte. So, his planned slow courtship of Lady Penelope had become a quick engagement, and then, to his shock, he’d lost something more precious than gold.

Agatha wasn’t fearless. Despite his extravagant offer of carte blanche, she’d refused to continue as his mistress. Instantly. The memory of that painful interview haunted him, because he had discovered that Agatha had presumed to be his wife in the making. Offering her the position of mistress, when she’d assumed otherwise, had turned her cold toward him. When she’d walked away without a backward glance, he knew he’d made a grave mistake.

Oscar leaned back in his chair and considered what he’d so foolishly thrown away. He and Agatha had become friendly not long after her arrival in her grandfather’s house. Her sad, pinched face and darkly hued mourning attire had tugged at his heart, sitting as she was, tucked into her windowsill. But when she had realized he was so close, she had hidden herself from view.

For a month of Tuesdays, he had placed a bag of sweets on her windowsill, determined to wipe the unhappy frown from the grieving girl’s face. When at last she didn’t throw the bags back over the railing, he caught a glimpse of her smile. After that day, he’d gained her trust, gained her friendship, and the desire to never see her so unhappy again.

He’d thought they had the perfect arrangement.

But then, he’d never spoken a word about their future, so he didn’t know they each had a far different plan in mind.

Now he was engaged to marry a woman he didn’t know, didn’t care for, and certainly didn’t trust, while the one he wanted shunned him. So far, he’d been unable to detect one glimmer of embarrassment in his future wife’s eyes over how their engagement had come about. If she suffered from a broken heart at her separation from her own lover, he certainly couldn’t sense it.

He stood suddenly, morose resignation weighing heavily on his shoulders. Perhaps he should attempt a fresh start after the wedding, away from Town. He couldn’t continue to live beside Agatha Birkenstock every day of his marriage. Despite her demand that he stay away, Oscar didn’t know if he could maintain a distance between them. That irked him.

And to hell with the betrothal clause stating he had to reside in the Earl of Thorpe’s residence upon his marriage to Lady Penelope. Such a restriction to his life was not to be borne without resistance.

Perhaps a home in the country would be best. The Berkeley Square townhouse was entailed, but his fortune was enough to purchase a little place in the country. Of course, given the townhouse’s position, he’d have no trouble renting it out during the season, freeing him of the temptation to return to London and see Agatha just one last time.

The thought gave him no joy.

These last months since the engagement were the worst of his life, and he could see no happy ending in sight.

Cast down, he made his way up the narrow staircase to an upper-floor rear door and stepped onto the dark balcony. He walked to the rail, slung one leg over carefully, mindful of the spikes atop the metal work, and stepped onto Agatha’s adjoining balcony.

Someone moved about inside her bedchamber. Objects clanked against wood, or was that a scraping of a chair? Was Agatha still attending to the poor maid?

He tapped on the glass once, dropped a sack of sweets on the windowsill, and then settled in to wait until she doused the light.

After a little while the window rattled, and then Agatha’s head popped out into the night. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Come out, precious.”

The sack of sweets landed at his feet. “I can’t.” She ducked her head back inside.

“Please, Agatha. We need to talk, and then I’ll leave you be for good.”

She huffed another breath. “Oh, all right. But you must mind your manners.”

The window inched higher and, after a slither of sound, she stood beside him. Oscar reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. Her smooth skin and the sweet scent of her perfume made his blood run hot. He quickly led her to the rail, stepped over, then turned to help her, intent on swinging her nightgown clear of the spiked rail.

As his hands settled about her waist, desire made his palms sweaty. When she was on her feet on his balcony, he was very quick to lead her inside before they were seen together.

Despite his earlier decision to leave her in peace, Oscar gathered Agatha into his arms to hold her tight against him. After a moment’s hesitation, Agatha returned his embrace, wrapping her arms low around his hips.

God, he was so unbelievably stupid.

Giving up Agatha was going to kill him. He let her go with reluctance, clutched her hand in his, and led her to his bedchamber, where a fire burned hot enough to ward off the chill of the foggy night.

As they crossed the threshold, Agatha’s hand slipped free of his. “What do you want, Oscar?”