Page 25 of In a Rake's Embrace
Bea had nodded. “Good.”
Agatha shoved aside the coverlets as she slowly sat up. Could she do what was required without getting lost in the illusion of affection and desire? The answer was far from clear. But one thing was certain—she couldn’t be swept away. No matter how tempting the idea or how warm and thrilling the sensations might grow, she had to remember why she was here.
Agatha’s thoughts drifted to Thomas. She cringed, remembering her tipsy antics in the hallway, the way she’d pinched him to see if he was real, called him the ‘devil of temptation,’ and—oh dear—how she’d curled up against his chest, snuggling into his arms.
She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “What did I do?”
And then, a small, treacherous part of her mind whispered that she had liked it—that his scent and the strength of his arms had felt too good, too comforting. Earlier, when he asked about her day, she felt a deep longing to talk with someone without the weight of expectations. She had never been able to share her fears with Gloria or Maggie; they relied on her strength, and if she faltered, they would crumble, too. At that moment, Agathahad been so tempted to return to Thomas, to sit in his lap and talk.
Absurd and nonsensical.
Agatha pushed herself out of bed, her feet touching the cool floor. Today, her journey continued. But she would face it with a more guarded heart.
Thank you for the warning, Bea.
Nearly an hour later, a servant hastened to inform her that Lord Radbourne had sent his carriage. Dressed in one of her best gowns, Agatha gathered her composure and stepped into the waiting equipage. The ride through London was brief, and soon they arrived at High Holborn, where the streets bustled with elegant carriages, well-dressed ladies, and gentlemen strolling in the afternoon light.
As she descended from the carriage, she saw the earl framed in the doorway of a shop. He looked impeccable, every inch the powerful, commanding figure she had come to expect. His coat was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, and his sharp and assessing gaze held an air of quiet authority. Agatha’s pulse quickened as she moved toward him, following his silent beckon inside.
Once within the shop, she was greeted by a woman dressed in a sleek, dark blue gown that perfectly highlighted her fashionable figure. Her hair was pinned up in soft waves, and her sharp eyes immediately began appraising Agatha with the keen precision of someone who had mastered their craft.
“There are no other patrons today,” Agatha remarked, glancing around the quiet, luxurious shop.
“I arranged it that way,” Thomas said, his voice cool and measured, his expression as aloof.
Agatha nodded, feeling a slight flutter of nerves. The modiste introduced herself as Daphne, her movements fluid as she gestured toward the plush fitting room. She led Agatha to atable to look at fashion magazines. She trailed her fingers over the pages of the fashion print, her eyes widening at seeing the stunning ball gowns on display. The colors were exquisite—soft pastels and rich jewel tones, each gown more breathtaking than the last. There was a delicate lavender gown with silver threadwork along the bodice, a deep emerald creation that seemed to shimmer in the light, and a soft blush-pink gown with intricate lace detailing on the sleeves. The high-waisted gowns were carefully arranged to give the gowns a sense of elegance and grandeur. Every detail, from the scalloped hems to the delicate embroidery, whispered of wealth and refinement.
“They are all so lovely; I could not choose!”
Agatha had never worn anything like them before. She had been clothed in simple, serviceable, plain dresses made for practicality. But here, in this private room with the finest gowns displayed before her, she could hardly believe she could wear these luxurious garments.
“How many gowns are there?” Thomas murmured.
“Seven,” Agatha said, “Will you help me choose?”
“We will take all of them.”
“All seven?”
“Yes.”
“Surely that is too extravagant,” she gasped.
The earl merely lifted his chin to Daphne.
The modiste looked delighted. “Remove your gown, dear, so I can take your measurements.”
Agatha hesitated, feeling Thomas’s gaze on her. He sat in a comfortable chair, a glass of brandy in hand, watching her with an intensity that quickened her heart. His posture was relaxed, but something in his eyes made her feel exposed before she’d even removed a stitch of clothing.
“Remove your gown and shift,” he commanded. “Remain only in your stockings.”
The modiste’s face remained impassive, giving nothing away, which only made Agatha more certain that she was used to such intimate scenes. There was no shock, no discomfort—just quiet efficiency.
Taking a steady breath, Agatha slowly unbuttoned her worn gown and slipped it off, the fabric whispering against her skin as it pooled at her feet. Her hands trembled slightly as she removed her shift and thin chemise, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. She was grateful she had worn her best pair today, conscious of how the holes in yesterday’s stockings had made her feel so exposed. With deliberate movements, she reached up and unpinned her hair.
She heard the sharp intake of Thomas’s breath.
The heavy tresses tumbled down her back, falling like a dark waterfall to her waist. Agatha gathered some of it in front of her, letting the thick strands cover her breasts. Only then did she peek at her tutor. His fingers tightened visibly around the glass, the tension in his body betraying the calm expression on his face.
