Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) Read Free

in turn, but they didn’t come.
                  Alone again, Spencer pulled the glove from his pocket and buried his face in its cool satin, inhaling her scent. “Mrs. Rowan,” he whispered into the darkness. A voice whispered back, for him to put her away, to leave it alone. It insisted that their moment was over, its fleeting magic something he couldn’t recapture.
    A pointless argument. She was a mystery now, a puzzle to be solved. Spencer knew himself too well to believe they were truly done.

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
    Oakvale, the Reed Estate -- Derbyshire
     
                  Two days later found him less convinced of going out into company in order to find her. There were no masks for protection at Oakvale, and the calling cards were never-ending. In the bustle of activity from waking to sleeping, Spencer began to convince himself that perhaps his garden encounter could never be more than a memory.
    Few admirers were deterred by the twenty-five-mile journey from London to Oakvale. He’d muddled through tea with Lady Frances Webster, endured supper with the Duke of Cumberland, and ground away back teeth tolerating Lady Jemma’s roving hands and stifling perfume with his virtue intact. The social calls showed no sign of stopping, and nowhere seemed far enough away to escape.
    When had he become such a solitary creature? His frustration was compounded by a doubt which at first had tinged the edges of his confidence, but then had taken root, convincing him that the whole Mrs. Rowan affair was a fool’s errand. Against his better judgement, he’d retreated to his study under a black cloud, secure in the knowledge that his brother Bennet would not leave him unmolested for long. He could confess himself to someone who would offer no quarter.
    Finishing his tale, Spencer settled deeper into a leather wing-back chair and rested his boot on the clean white hearth, scowling at his brother's obnoxious grin. “It isn't amusing, Bennet.”
                  “It is, actually.” Bennet leaned forward, bottle in hand, and replaced the whiskey in Spencer's abandoned glass. “Poor Reed. Famous in two countries, hounded by beautiful women. What a struggle.”
                  “It's not amusing,” he repeated, scrubbing hands over his face. “I nearly plowed my best friend's kin. In his garden.”
                  “But you’d have taken her without reservation, had she been a stranger? Hair splitting.” Bennet's handsome features bent into a scowl, a perfect imitation of their father's, and he waved a hand. “I know you enjoy torturing yourself over everything, but it sounds as though you had some help.”
                  He had. Her hands inside his coat, that look in her eyes haunting him for days now. Spencer groaned, sinking deeper in the chair. “You’re muddying the water.”
                  “Stop being such a baby,” snapped Bennet, draining his tumbler. “Just go and speak with her.”
                  “About what? Waking up in a sweat, or the poor fit of my breeches when she comes to mind? Which is more appropriate conversation?”
                  It was a genuine question. John had sent an invitation every day, and he was running out of reasons to decline. What would he say to her? Had she puzzled him out? Could they sit stiff-backed across the table from one another and make mindless conversation?
                  Bennet shrugged, propping up his boots and folding his hands, a posture that signaled return fire. “How true and straight your infantry marches. How many medals you have.” He winked. “The size of your artillery .”
                  “Stop speaking, Bennet.”
                  Bennet shook his fist. “Just go to John's, see her. This is beyond ridiculous. See what happens, what she says. So you'll have to press some hands and suffer