Page 31 of Charity

Simon didn’t budge.

Prewitt frowned at him then smiled smoothly. “My dear, you look lovely among those thorns. You’d do much better on a gentleman’s arm.”

All of Agatha’s senses came alert. “I am content where I am, my lord.”

He hung his arms over the fence, and a pretty necklace slipped through his fingers to dazzle in the sunlight. “A pretty girl requires something pretty about her neck to show she is appreciated. Something costlier than the two-penny bauble you currently wear.”

Agatha resisted the urge to place her fingers over her necklace. The gift from Oscar was a mere trifle beside the finery Lord Prewitt dangled. But she knew its worth. What Prewitt offered was payment for services she must render to him in the future most likely. Distasteful service, judging by the way he leered at her. What Oscar had offered came solely from friendship.

Beside her, Simon fidgeted. He tugged on her hand, silently urging her to come away from Lord Prewitt and return to the safety of the dwelling.

Agatha squeezed Simon’s hand. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must get back to my charges. Good day to you.”

Unease prickled Agatha’s back until Simon whispered that Lord Prewitt had gone.

The sleepy village of Staines was a place of great comfort for Estella Carrington, even if they didn’t know who she truly was. To her servants and neighbors, she was Mrs. B—Thomas’ second wife. After so many years, she was used to the lie. As she pushed open the front gate, she drew in the clean scents of her garden—so missed and longed-for throughout the season.

“Welcome home, Mrs. B. We are so pleased to see you return safely.”

“Thank you, William.” Estella glanced back at her weary companion. “I’ll see to any mail in the morning, but please send up a light supper for my husband.”

“Of course.” The butler backed away, returning to the depths of the house.

Thomas Birkenstock slipped her arm through his. “I do like to hear you address me that way, even if it’s not true.”

Thomas drew her through the front entrance and upward to their bedchamber without a glance left or right. There would be time enough to enjoy the house tomorrow. Once secure in their room, he let her go and poured himself a brandy.

“Do you think they suspect us of subterfuge?”

He set his glass down and let out a sigh. “I imagine so.”

That thought wasn’t pleasant. She’d been playing at being Thomas’ wife for the past few years, maintaining the fiction that they traveled extensively, but always returning to this house for brief interludes. It was an imperfect arrangement, but it was the best compromise they could reach.

Estella slipped her arm around Thomas’ back and held him tightly. He turned his head and smiled down at her, but a little frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You do understand that I couldn’t let you marry beneath your rank.”

She squeezed him tighter. “And I never wanted to marry again. There is no discord between us, is there?”

Thomas slipped out of her grip and sank into a chair. “You know as well as I that any marriage between us would have embarrassed your son. But we do not get to choose who we love. I would have been content with just your smile on occasion.”

A lump formed in her throat. “And you shall always have them.”

A knock sounded on the door and their punctual servants settled a heaped supper tray before Thomas. Once they departed, Estella slipped off her shoes, sat with her legs curled beneath her on the bed, and nibbled at some bread.

Thomas picked at his food.

“Were you not hungry?”

He pushed the plate away. “It seems not. Perhaps I’ll eat more later tonight.”

Estella climbed to her feet again and approached him. He seemed more worn down by his concerns tonight than usual, so she pulled him to his feet with the intention of undressing him.

Amusement arched his brow as she unpinned his cravat and slowly tugged it from his neck. She removed his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, then bent to undress the rest of him. As she stood, she let her hands slide up his sides until she could meet his eyes. Instead of the desire she expected to see, there was an unguarded weariness to his features. Without a word, she led him to the bed and tucked him between the sheets.

Thomas didn’t protest at her mothering, so she left him to remove her own gown, thankful she’d chosen one where she’d not require his assistance. When she was bare, she slipped into bed, only to find Thomas was already fast asleep.

Estella watched him for a long time, concerned by his fatigue. His light snore reverberated around the room. She tucked her arm beneath her head and listened. He was growing older—so much more quickly than she realized. At nearly four and sixty, Thomas Birkenstock was still a powerfully built man, still strong enough to lift her into his arms for a night of lovemaking. But not tonight, apparently.

Estella rolled to her back and stared up at the shadows flickering around the ceiling. He had bought the house because she liked to garden, but couldn’t do it in London where very little flourished. He’d also purchased the house so they could pretend, for just a short while, that the differences in their class, their stations in life, didn’t matter. Estella had never thought much about it before she met him all those years ago. But over time she had come to see integrity and strength of will were not confined to the aristocracy. Such characteristics belonged to the man.