Page 26 of Six Nights to Marry a Marquess

“Your mother told us you wouldn’t let her in,” Frances said. “Please open the door for us.”

Agnes sighed and looked away from the door, wiping the tears that rolled down her cheeks. This was her burden to bear alone, and she felt no need to involve her friends. Yet, the lump in her throat swelled. How she wanted to open the door for them, and she fought back the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm her once again.

“Agnes Young!” Emma called again. When she didn’t answer, Emma added, “At least let us know that you are still alive.”

Raising her pen, Agnes aimed it at the door and tossed it. It hit the wood before falling to the carpet, giving Frances and Emma the answer they sought. After a while, she heard them retreat down the hall.

With a resolve as fragile as glass, Agnes remained steadfast in her seclusion. She knew Theodore would not offer for her. He had made it very clear when they met that he had no intentionof marrying her. Why would he need her to pretend they were courting otherwise? This was the reason her despair was growing.

Just as the cloak of despondency seemed to tighten around her, a new voice reached her ears. “Agnes, please open the door for me,” implored George. She heard a small knuckle rap gently against the wood before he added, “I have your breakfast with me. And I promise my friends wouldn’t be joining this time.”

“Oh, Georgie,” a little sob wrenched forth unbidden from her as a tear rolled down her cheek. In that moment, she realized the depth of her affection for her brother—his simple, earnest attempts to comfort her pierced through the shroud of her sorrow. She couldn’t bear to deny him, not when he was offering such a token of love. Gathering her strength, she rose from her position at the window, pausing briefly at the door to dab at her eyes with her sleeve, striving to present a semblance of composure.

Upon opening the door, the sight that greeted her tugged at a smile she thought she’d lost. There stood George, and a step behind him, a footman held a tray laden with the breakfast George had mentioned.

“You did not come down for breakfast. So, I thought to bring it to you,” George explained as he brushed past her into the room, his tone matter-of-fact.

Following a nod from Agnes, the footman deposited the tray on the center table near the fireplace before excusing himself.

“Mother mentioned you weren’t feeling your best,” George began, his brows knitting together in a facsimile of adult worry. “Are you ill, Agnes?” he inquired, his young mind no doubt trying to reconcile the news of her indisposition with his sister’s appearance.

Grateful for her brother’s concern, Agnes shook her head with a weak smile, attempting to steer the conversation away from the shadows of her troubles. “Thank you for the breakfast, Georgie,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Unperturbed, George continued, parroting the wisdom of their governess. “Miss Tate always says breakfast is the most crucial meal of the day, insisting it should never be skipped.” As he spoke, he couldn’t resist swiping a sausage from the tray.

Amused despite herself, Agnes served him some food on a plate, playing along with his sudden interest in the meal. “Oh, but I am not hungry. I had my breakfast already,” he protested lightly, even as his hand wandered to pluck some berries from the assortment before him. “I had eight of these earlier,” he claimed, popping them into his mouth with the enthusiasm only a child could muster.

“I can see that,” Agnes chuckled softly, finding a small measure of comfort in her brother’s simple presence and the innocent curiosity that seemed to fuel his every action.

“You’re not eating?” he asked her, his brows furrowed.

“I will,” she lied, forcing a smile. The truth was that food was the last thing on her mind; her appetite had vanished long ago.

“Mother and Father will be more worried if you do not eat,” George said with a serious look. “They’ve been worried about you all morning,” he added, his attention momentarily drifting as he surveyed the tray for his next target, ultimately settling on a piece of toast.

“Would you like some orange juice with that?” Agnes offered, trying to play the part of the caring hostess, if only to maintain a semblance of her former self.

“Oh no. This is your breakfast, Agnes. I’ve had mine. What manner of a boy would I be if I finished it for you?” he protested even as he reached for a cube of cheese.

“A hungry one,” Agnes chuckled again, her heart warming slightly at his words, even as he proceeded to slather his toast with marmalade.

“Do you think snails like marmalade?” George suddenly asked, his curiosity taking a whimsical turn.

“I’m sure they make their own marmalade, Georgie. So no need to offer them any,” Agnes responded quickly, half-amused and half-dismayed at the prospect of her brother embarking on a culinary adventure on behalf of the garden’s snails.

“Truly?” Georgie’s eyes sparkled with intrigue, though Agnes sensed a mischievous undertone to his wonder, a sign that his mind was already weaving fantastical tales from her playful deception.

“Do you think they’d be so generous to share some of their marmalade with me?” he asked, his imagination clearly captivated by the idea of a snail’s marmalade.

“Oh dear, snails and humans have quite different diets, George,” Agnes tried to steer him back toward reality, hoping to quell his burgeoning fascination before it led to some unexpected escapade.

“Nonsense! Marmalade is marmalade. And everyone likes marmalade,” he declared, scooping an almost comical amount of it onto his toast before taking an enthusiastic bite.

George bounced happily in his seat as he chewed, his spirits unaffected by the somber mood that had enveloped the household. He regaled Agnes with his grand plan to coax the garden snails into a marmalade-sharing arrangement. “...and I’m not sharing it with Harry,” he finished with a decisive nod.

“I daresay Harry would have little interest in partaking of marmalade produced by snails,” Agnes responded, affectionately ruffling her brother’s pale blonde hair, a soft smile gracing her face.

“Pray, might I claim the last sausage?” George inquired, eyeing the solitary piece left on the plate with an earnest gaze.

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