The Pretender by Celeste Bradley

Author:Celeste Bradley [Bradley, Celeste]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Romance, General, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Historical, England, Missing Persons, Suspense, Regency, Regency Fiction, England - Social Life and Customs - 19th Century, Secret Service
ISBN: 9780312984854
Publisher: San Val
Published: 2002-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Seventeen

Simon must have seen it on her face, for he stepped forward to support her with one warm hand on her arm.

"I think my dear sister has had enough visiting for the day. If you ladies will excuse us…"

The ladies responded with a bustle of leave-taking, still casting fascinated glances at Simon. Mrs. Simpson left Agatha with a brief squeeze of her hand. "Do call on me, Mrs. Applequist, or send for me if you'd like a little quiet company."

Agatha struggled to smile at them all, then realized that in her pose as widow she needn't put on a cheerful face. It was a relief to merely nod in reply to the well-wishes until the room was empty and all the ladies were gone.

Then Simon steered her to the kitchen and sat her at the table. Cook, her face dusted with floury panic, rushed to fetch madam some tea. The kitchen was warm and very quiet after the endless chatter of her guests. There was only the sound of pots bubbling on the stove and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

"Drink," Simon ordered, pressing the hot china cup into her shaking hands. "You look exhausted. You haven't slept, I gather."

Agatha shut her eyes, for she couldn't bear to look at his handsome face so near, and drank deeply. The tea scalded her tongue a bit, but the heat loosened the tightness in her chest and allowed her to breathe easily once more.

Then she set the cup aside and laid her head down on her crossed arms. She would not look at him. She would not reach for him or beg him to hold her close against his warmth and strength.

He never loved me. He never loved me.

I love him.

How could she be so weak? So girlishly sentimental?

"How supremely annoying," she muttered into the table.

"I know you didn't expect me to return."

"Actually, I rather thought you might. I'm annoyed with something else entirely." Agatha gently banged her forehead on the scrubbed-to-satin wood. It didn't knock him from her mind.

"You expected me?"

"Oh, yes. One doesn't scrape off a leech that easily."

"Ah." It was a quiet sound, but she knew she'd hurt him. It hurt her to hurt him.

"I apologize. That was nasty of me. I seem to be growing nastier by the moment." She took a deep breath and sat up. Then she opened her eyes.

He looked rather terrible. Good. Why should she be the only one who was unhappy?

"I see you've already found something black to wear."

"Simon, I was two years in mourning for Papa. Practically all I own are black gowns."

"I still don't understand why it had to be Death By Drawers."

"I was—am—very angry at you. You weren't here, so I took it out on Mortimer."

He gazed at her for a long moment. "Have you any idea how peculiar that sounds?"

"Simon, I invented peculiar," Agatha said wearily. "I thought you knew."

He grinned, that swift and deadly slash of white. Did he never smile for

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