The Bridal Season (6 page)

He’d returned to his seat and was lowering himself into it
when he found his arm being supported. With his usual unobtrusive manner,
Elliot eased him into the chair.

“I was just thinking of having a whiskey and soda, Father,”
Elliot said. “Can I tempt you into joining me?”

“I’d like that,” Atticus replied.

Elliot moved to a small credenza and busied himself with
decanter and soda bottle. The problem, thought Atticus, watching his son, is
that Elliot made
having
problems so easy. He simply shouldered any
difficulties, whether or not they were his own. The result was that little was
required of a person in Elliot’s care, except to graciously cede his troubles.

Had Elliot always been so bound by duty?
Atticus
wondered, watching his last surviving child. He thought not. Oh, Elliot had
always been attentive and conscientious, but it was only after Terry’s death
that he’d acquired that genteel polish, a polish so smooth that one could not
easily see past its brilliant surface to the man beneath. It was an insidious
sort of thing, Elliot’s gentility.

After Terry had died, Elliot, filled with misplaced guilt, had
abandoned his budding legal practice and joined the army. He’d returned wounded
and covered in honors—not the least being a knighthood.

Since then, he’d not once deviated from the course on which
circumstance and fate had set him. He’d funneled all his considerable energies
into judicial reformation. Then, a few weeks ago, word had arrived that the
Prime Minister had recommended that Elliot be made a baron. Which meant that
Elliot would be able to take a seat in the House of Lords and eventually win
his way into the appeals court.

Anxiety over the new pressures his son would face had given
Atticus sleepless nights. Not that Elliot resented the burden; he considered it
an honor and his duty to accept that honor. Atticus was vastly proud of his son.
It made no sense, this feeling of dissatisfaction that arose when he thought of
Elliot’s future.

There was no reason for it. Elliot was well liked and
respected, and though some would say he was too private and self-possessed,
Elliot himself seemed content. Nothing wrong with contentment. Atticus
considered it a fair compensation for a long life. And perhaps that was the
problem. He was seventy and Elliot was thirty-three, far too young to have
abdicated passion for contentment.

Elliot’s appearance at his side postponed Atticus’s troubled
musing. He handed Atticus a whiskey and took the seat opposite, stretching his
long legs out before him. He scowled slightly, his expression distracted, his
thoughts filled no doubt with the demands of the day.

Atticus remembered that Elliot had fetched Eglantyne’s wedding
planner from the train station. He hoped Angela understood the difficulties
she’d be shouldering upon wedding a marquis, with a termagant like his mother
for an in-law. She was so young, barely eighteen. At church last Sunday she’d
looked pale and fatigued.

“How is she, do you think?” Atticus broke the silence.

Elliot looked up, his expression baffled. “Who can say?” he
said slowly.

“One could ask her, I imagine,” Atticus answered in surprise.

“I barely know her,” Elliot muttered. His gaze fixed inward on
some image he alone could see, one that amused as well as troubled him, for his
mouth softened into a grudging smile.

Atticus watched him, puzzled until he realized he was speaking
of the wedding planner.

“She’s not at all what one would expect,” Elliot said.

“No?” Atticus asked, feeling his way.

“She’s too young and too—” Elliot lifted his hand in a gesture
of frustration, looked for a word, failed to find it, and repeated, “She’s not
what one would expect.”

“She’s young?” Atticus prompted, intrigued by the emotion this
young woman who was “not what one would expect” had inspired in his son.
“And... beautiful?”

Elliot shot him a frustrated glance. “No,” he said. “Yes. No.
I don’t know. Not beautiful like Catherine.”

“But attractive.”

“Lord, yes.”

Atticus’s brows shot upward.

“There’s something in her face that makes it unusual,
riveting. A sort of rueful joy. And the way she moves... like a dancer. But not
a ballerina. Like a
Gypsy dancer.”

“Doesn’t sound like any lady of my acquaintance,” Atticus
admitted regretfully. He despised the stiff posture imposed by whatever
contraption women currently wore under their garments.

“No,” Elliot agreed slowly. “But she speaks well. Her voice is
perfectly modulated and her accent is aristocratic.”

“But
...?”
Atticus prompted.

“But she uses some extremely modern cant.”

“Vulgar?”

“No, not exactly. But there are other things as well,” Elliot
said slowly. “She doesn’t have a maid. She had no one with her except a little
dog.”

“What is this amazing woman’s name?”

“Agatha. And I’ve never seen a less likely Agatha,” Elliot
muttered discontentedly.

“Anything else...
interesting
about her?”

“Only her singular animation...” He trailed off and shut his
eyes for a moment.

His son was a handsome man, Atticus thought, and yet seemed
completely unaware of it. True, Elliot paid attention to his appearance, but
Atticus knew this to be a demonstration of his respect for others rather than
any desire to impress.

Suddenly Elliot shoved himself to his feet.

“What is it, Elliot?”

“I have completely forgotten Lady Agatha’s personal luggage.”

“I thought a dozen trunks of hers had arrived a few days ago,”
Atticus said in surprise.

Elliot smiled. “Apparently those were but the tools of her
trade. Her personal effects came with her.”

“I see.”

“They’ll have unloaded it by now. I promised Eglantyne I
should retrieve it as soon as I deposited the ladies at The Hollies. I ought to
fetch it and bring it there at once.”

“At once, I’d imagine,” Atticus agreed.

With a nod, Elliot rose and strode across the room, pausing
before the small gilt-framed mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with
his palms, frowned at the shape of his tie and quickly retied it, adjusted his
cuffs, and turned. He grinned—yes, a decided grin—at Atticus. “I’ll be back
shortly.”

“Take your time. It’s a very nice evening,” Atticus said. He
smiled into his glass of whiskey when he heard the front door shut a moment
later.

The excitement surrounding Angela’s marriage had never particularly
interested him, but in the last few minutes, he’d become positively fascinated.

No director directs as well

as a rapt audience.

LETTY STUDIED THE LIGHTED WINDOW ABOVE. She knew it was her
bedroom because she’d put her hat on the sill. She wrapped her hand around a
good, thick vine snaking up the stone facade and gave it a hard yank. It held.
Of course, there was only one way to be truly certain.

She wedged the toe of her boot amongst the leaves, gripped
tighter, and pulled herself up onto the stout branch. She bounced up and down
experimentally.

“Lady Agatha?” It was
his
voice—deep, incredulous, and
wary.
Of all the vile luck!

She swung about, holding onto the vine with one hand and
pivoting on her foot, a smile already plastered on her face. He was standing a
short ways off, the night swallowing up his dark clothes and midnight-hued
hair. No wonder she hadn’t seen him.

He’d changed into evening attire. Only his shirt was easily
visible, bleached blue-white in the moonlight.

She, by contrast, had not changed. She still wore the lavender
frock.

“Why, Sir Elliot!” she called breezily. “Lovely evening,
what?”

“Quite.” Hard to read anything into his tone, and she had only
a vague impression of his features. “May I assist you in... in whatever it is
you’re doing?”

The question was implicit; what the devil
was
she
doing? Only the fact that he was a gentleman and therefore must eschew anything
that even remotely resembled an accusation kept him from asking her flat out
what she was up to.

“As a matter of fact, you can,” she answered brightly. “What
is the name of this extraordinary plant?”

“Ivy?” His incredulity was only slightly evident. Of course,
he couldn’t very well say “bullroar,” as he must have longed to.

“How interesting,” she mused. “Do you know, it cleaves so
tightly to this brick that it actually bears my weight? I can scarce credit it,
it looks so fragile.”

“Hmm. Deceptive.”

“Ivy, did you say? I simply couldn’t resist climbing up to
test its strength. In the spirit of adding to my store of knowledge on natural
history, you understand.”

“Bullroar,” he said under his breath. She was quite sure of
it.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he came to stand below her and
looked up. The light from inside gilded the planes and angles of his face. His
thick lashes laid crescent-shaped shadows on his cheeks. His dark hair gleamed.
He inclined his head and she had the oddest notion he was trying not to smile.

“Perhaps you’d like to come down now that you’ve tested the
vine?”

She nodded. It was hard to act the grande dame while clinging
like a bat to the side of a house. She lowered one foot, seeking the ground,
and—

His hands wrapped about her waist and he lifted her, lowering
her slowly to the ground. He released her but did not step back. She did,
however, warned by the little shiver of alarm that began when she looked into
his eyes. Dusky and mysterious and compelling.

She took another step back and bumped into the ivy-covered
wall. Her breath came rushing out on a little whoosh of nervous laughter. His
brows tipped in silent inquiry. Desperately, she sought a way to regain mastery
of the situation, running through her trove of maxims until she found one that
answered: A befuddled man is a malleable man.

“Now, then,” she said in a chill tone, “what exactly brings
you lurking about The Hollies after sunset, Sir Elliot?”

His beautiful eyes narrowed. “As you may have already divined,
I was ‘lurking about’ in hopes of encountering you, Lady Agatha.”

Drat.
It would take more than a few words to muddle Sir
Elliot’s brain.

“Really?”

“Well, I may not have come with the express idea of strolling
about the grounds. I had, in fact, driven in all blessed innocence to the front
door.” His smile was vulpine and gentlemanly all at once. “I collected your
personal effects from the train station and had just unloaded them with
instructions that they were to be taken up to your room when I saw you
disappear around the corner of the house.

“In short. Lady Agatha, I came to tell you your things had
arrived, not to
spy
on you.”

His forthright attack left her slightly breathless. He wasn’t
playing by the rules! He was cheating. A gentleman wouldn’t accuse a lady of
accusing him of spying on her! Even if she was! Damnation!

She laughed, not quite as lightly as she’d intended. “La! What
a fanciful notion. You’re teasing me, of course. I’m sure you realize that I
lead an entirely boring and blameless life. If you
were
to spy on me,
you’d be bored to tears.”

“Oh,” he said, his mouth still smiling but his eyes hard, “I
sincerely doubt that.”

“You are too kind.” And this was too dangerous to continue.

She moved past him, intending to lead him back into the house
where others could dilute the tension between them. He fell into step beside
her.

“And you, Lady Agatha?” he said, his tone conversational and
therefore doubly suspect. “You were simply taking the night air when you were
overcome with this horticultural curiosity?”

“Exactly.” If she moved any faster she’d be trotting. The
realization brought her up sharply.

Maxim number two: A person who runs away always looks like
they have a reason to—Her foot caught in her hem and she tripped. Immediately,
his hand was beneath her arm, setting her back on her feet. She forced her eyes
forward and kept walking.

He did not release her arm. His clasp was light and she liked
it. And she disliked that she liked it.

“I couldn’t think of dining after such a long trip and, too,
the thought of being inside on such a lovely night was unconscionable,” she
said, pleased with her explanation.

“It is a most lovely night,” he agreed. Then, after a long
moment’s hesitation, “Would you care to continue your walk... with me?”

“Yes.” It popped out before she’d stopped to think. He smiled,
his gaze averted. He looked disconcerted and a little flattered. Amazing. What
was wrong with the women of Little Bidewell that this man was still walking
about unclaimed?

Oh, yes. It wasn’t what was wrong with Little Bidewell women,
it was what was wrong with Sir Elliot: Catherine Bunting. The thought soured
Letty’s mood.

“I trust you’re finding everything to your satisfaction at The
Hollies?”

“Oh, perfectly delightful.”

“And you have met Anton?”

“A charming fellow.”

They walked a ways farther, Letty fearful that any topic of
conversation she brought up would lead to her unveiling and Sir Elliot, for
whatever reasons, just as mute. The air had cooled since she’d come out and dew
had developed on the lawn, soaking through the thin soles of her boots.

“Your absence from London for such an extended period
presented no difficulty?” His voice broke the silence.

“No. I was actually quite eager to be off.”

“Ah, you enjoy the country.”

She could think of no reason to answer dishonestly. “I lived
in the country as a child, and all in all I must say I prefer the city. I am,
you see, a woman of the world.”