Page 46 of In a Rake's Embrace
Agatha had become dangerously good at everything, often making him lean into her allure before snapping back when she gleefully exclaimed that she’d seduced him with her newfoundwiles. When her mock frustration surfaced at failing to captivate him, she’d flutter her lashes comically, and he’d laugh despite himself.
She had a sharp mind for cards, too, and the revelation that her father had taught her, using those moments to practice his card-sharp techniques, had saddened her. Agatha had real talent—she could likely win a fortune if she played at the gambling dens. But he’d seen the deep disgust in her eyes when she spoke of those places, and he understood. If it weren’t for the predatory nature of the gambling halls, her father might not have spiraled into such dishonor, unable to tear himself from their grasp.
“Lord Radbourne and Lady Belladonna,” the butler announced as they entered.
Agatha made a small, startled sound. “You gave me a name that’s a deadly flower.”
A ripple went through the crowd, and Thomas watched the visible reaction of many to her beauty. Covetous male eyes watched her all around the room, and she seemed oblivious to all.
“Goodness ... this home is magnificent,” she whispered, awe lacing her voice.
The chandeliers above, adorned with hundreds of glowing candles, bathed the ballroom in a warm, golden light. Thomas knew Agatha must find it all excessive. He imagined that affording even a few candles for the year had been a struggle for her family. They strolled leisurely around the fringes of the ballroom, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
“Quite a few people seem to be staring at you, their alarm and curiosity barely concealed behind their fans,” Agatha said.
Thomas chuckled. “It has been a few years since I last attended a society ball.”
“Why the absence?”
“Many assume that a bachelor’s presence at these events signals he’s ready to marry. I am not interested in the nonsense that comes with their assumption.” His eyes landed on his good friend Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose, and his wife Lily. Thomas guided Agatha toward them, noting the subtle tension in her posture. Only because he had spent so many hours observing her did he catch the fleeting moments of nervousness. To others, she was the picture of cool elegance, an untouchable beauty with a quiet air of hauteur.
“Thomas,” Lily said warmly, her face lighting up with a smile as they approached. “It has been too long.”
He did not mention that he saw her only a few weeks ago. “Lady Ambrose,” Thomas said, bowing over her hand with a practiced charm. “You grow more beautiful with every meeting.”
Her golden-brown eyes sparkled with humor. “You are ever the charmer.”
Thomas turned to Agatha. “Allow me to present my friend, Lady Belladonna. Agatha, this is Lily, the Countess of Ambrose, and Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose.”
“Oh, how beautiful you are,” Lily exclaimed, her eyes widening in admiration. “I would love to design and make a gown for you.”
“You sew?” Agatha asked.
Oliver stiffened, his blue eyes flicking to Agatha in warning. A brief flash of discomfort passed across Lily’s face. She perhaps thought Agatha would judge her for being a seamstress, a part of her past that society did not easily forget, even if she had married one of London’s most eligible bachelors.
“I do,” Lily said, her tone carefully measured. “Though I am a marchioness, it is a passion of mine. I am overseeing the opening of an exclusive boutique that ladies will shop from only by invitation. We’re creating gowns more beautiful than those in Paris.”
Agatha’s smile bloomed, transforming her poised beauty into warm radiance. “That’s wonderful. I sew, but I’m not as talented as my sister, Maggie. She dreams of becoming a premier modiste.”
Lily’s eyes lit up. “You sew ... and make clothes for others?”
“Yes,” Agatha said with an eager nod. “But I am not skilled enough to rival those gorgeous Parisian gowns.”
“I daresay I shall invite you to model my latest creation. Many will sigh with envy and send me many lettersbeggingfor a similar style.”
Thomas exchanged a bemused glance with Oliver, watching their women engage in a lively discussion about fashion. He stiffened slightly.She’s not my damn woman.
Still, as he observed Agatha’s ease and joy in conversing with Lily, he felt inexplicable satisfaction even as Thomas rejected the reason—Agatha’s contentment.
Agatha never imaginedshe would have such fun at atonball. The room was elegant, aglow with hundreds of candles suspended from crystal chandeliers. A twenty-piece orchestra filled the air with music, mingling with laughter, light chatter, and the delicate fragrance of ladies’ perfumes. She felt a thrill of success throughout the night. Thomas introduced her to several people, and though some recognized her name as a fabrication, they were too polite to ask. It titillated Agatha to know she didn’t belong, yet they couldn’t tell, or this notion of propriety prevented them from prying. Some lifted their fans and whispered she was a mistress, and only Lord Radbourne would dare. Others whispered she was a distant cousin, and some said she was an actress.
She laughedandcharmed, and many seemed to fall under her spell. Still, it was exhausting, for the only people she could be her true self around were Thomas, Lily, and her husband Oliver. The love and tenderness in the marquess’s gaze as he looked at his wife nearly made Agatha blush. That tender yearning on Lily’s facewhenever she stared at her husband brought a hot lump to Agatha’s throat. It was a rare and beautiful thing to witness. She had been careful to avoid the main floor of the pleasure palace, but she recognized a few gentlemen in attendance tonight. One particular man caught her attention, for Ellen often spoke about him, wishing he would ask her to be his mistress.
Thomas handed her a glass of champagne. “What is that look on your face?”
Agatha discreetly lifted her chin to a couple dancing. “Is … is that not Lord Eglinton?”
“It is.”
