Read Online Nothing to Commend Her by Jo Barrett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jo Barrett
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wore.
"Nonsense,” he grumbled, and resumed his steady stride to the house.
If it had been she on the other end of her statement, she'd say the same, so she couldn't fault him in that. It was rather ludicrous when studied from a logical perspective. Why would anyone want to kill her? What would they have to gain from her death?
Did Magnus have a mistress? Was she trying to rid him of his wife so she could have him for herself?
No, that made no sense. If he'd wanted his mistress, and the feeling mutual, he'd need only to have asked for her hand. Instead, he'd asked for Agatha's. But someone had pushed her. Of course, there was always the possibility that his mistress was of a lower class, a woman he could not marry.
She glanced at the strong cut of his jaw, wondering if he loved this person who wanted her dead. A chill stole down her spine.
Agatha shivered again, and Magnus tightened his hold. At least she wasn't struggling to get away from him, she seemed almost content in his arms.
He shoved the absurd thought from his mind as he traversed the ground and made his way to the house. Upon reaching her room, he gently lowered her to the settee, not daring to go near the bed, and instructed Tess to tend her.
Her large brown eyes, peering at him through her rain-spattered spectacles would follow him into his dreams. Vulnerable, frightened, and yet determined to be strong. It was all there in those hypnotic eyes. He had to turn away before he said or did something he'd regret.
He paused and left her letter on her writing desk, then went to his rooms, using their connecting door for the first and likely only time he ever would, and quickly changed into some dry clothes.
Once dry, he ignored the urge to check on her and made for his study. Barstoke brought in a small dinner tray, but he couldn't find the desire to touch the food, and instead, paced the room like a caged cat, his mind a torrent of thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
She'd felt so right in his arms. He'd wanted to carry her straight to his bed and make slow sweet love to her. Warm her trembling body with his, ease her scrapes and bruises with his lips, and fall asleep wrapped in her sweetness.
He paused and stared into the flickering flames, and for the first time in years, he saw not his dead wife and her accusing glare, but Agatha's sweet smile. She had saved him, driven out his ghosts, and he felt the monster all the more for it. He could not give her what she deserved, nor would she want it from him. Her work was her one true passion. That he would grant her, all the freedom she needed to do what pleased her most...while he died inside for wanting her.
Barstoke appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Lady Leighton wishes to speak with you, if you please."
"Tell her I'll be there shortly,” he ground out. He'd hoped to be saved from more torture, but as was his wife's nature, he was learning, she was resilient. She'd obviously come to her senses about the happenings by the cliff and wished to change her claim of being pushed.
He climbed the stairs, his feet leaden. Seeing her fresh from her bath with damp tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face would test his resolve beyond measure.
His brow furrowed as he reached her door. Perhaps she wouldn't look as fetching as he imagined. She had suffered a terrible fright that evening, and would likely be tucked away in bed beneath piles of covers, a nightcap upon her head, looking as prim and proper as a nun. With renewed courage, he twisted the knob and entered.
The vision that greeted him was not like he'd imagined, nor did she resemble a nun. Perched at the edge of the settee, her steady hands pouring a cup of tea with firelight framing her in a warm glow, she appeared more an angel. Her dark hair hung down her back, glistening with the few remaining drops of moisture from her bath. Her robe displayed each delectable curve of her body. No corsets or stays, no female frippery, only simple cream-colored
"Nonsense,” he grumbled, and resumed his steady stride to the house.
If it had been she on the other end of her statement, she'd say the same, so she couldn't fault him in that. It was rather ludicrous when studied from a logical perspective. Why would anyone want to kill her? What would they have to gain from her death?
Did Magnus have a mistress? Was she trying to rid him of his wife so she could have him for herself?
No, that made no sense. If he'd wanted his mistress, and the feeling mutual, he'd need only to have asked for her hand. Instead, he'd asked for Agatha's. But someone had pushed her. Of course, there was always the possibility that his mistress was of a lower class, a woman he could not marry.
She glanced at the strong cut of his jaw, wondering if he loved this person who wanted her dead. A chill stole down her spine.
Agatha shivered again, and Magnus tightened his hold. At least she wasn't struggling to get away from him, she seemed almost content in his arms.
He shoved the absurd thought from his mind as he traversed the ground and made his way to the house. Upon reaching her room, he gently lowered her to the settee, not daring to go near the bed, and instructed Tess to tend her.
Her large brown eyes, peering at him through her rain-spattered spectacles would follow him into his dreams. Vulnerable, frightened, and yet determined to be strong. It was all there in those hypnotic eyes. He had to turn away before he said or did something he'd regret.
He paused and left her letter on her writing desk, then went to his rooms, using their connecting door for the first and likely only time he ever would, and quickly changed into some dry clothes.
Once dry, he ignored the urge to check on her and made for his study. Barstoke brought in a small dinner tray, but he couldn't find the desire to touch the food, and instead, paced the room like a caged cat, his mind a torrent of thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
She'd felt so right in his arms. He'd wanted to carry her straight to his bed and make slow sweet love to her. Warm her trembling body with his, ease her scrapes and bruises with his lips, and fall asleep wrapped in her sweetness.
He paused and stared into the flickering flames, and for the first time in years, he saw not his dead wife and her accusing glare, but Agatha's sweet smile. She had saved him, driven out his ghosts, and he felt the monster all the more for it. He could not give her what she deserved, nor would she want it from him. Her work was her one true passion. That he would grant her, all the freedom she needed to do what pleased her most...while he died inside for wanting her.
Barstoke appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Lady Leighton wishes to speak with you, if you please."
"Tell her I'll be there shortly,” he ground out. He'd hoped to be saved from more torture, but as was his wife's nature, he was learning, she was resilient. She'd obviously come to her senses about the happenings by the cliff and wished to change her claim of being pushed.
He climbed the stairs, his feet leaden. Seeing her fresh from her bath with damp tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face would test his resolve beyond measure.
His brow furrowed as he reached her door. Perhaps she wouldn't look as fetching as he imagined. She had suffered a terrible fright that evening, and would likely be tucked away in bed beneath piles of covers, a nightcap upon her head, looking as prim and proper as a nun. With renewed courage, he twisted the knob and entered.
The vision that greeted him was not like he'd imagined, nor did she resemble a nun. Perched at the edge of the settee, her steady hands pouring a cup of tea with firelight framing her in a warm glow, she appeared more an angel. Her dark hair hung down her back, glistening with the few remaining drops of moisture from her bath. Her robe displayed each delectable curve of her body. No corsets or stays, no female frippery, only simple cream-colored
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