For the briefest instant something akin to compassion flickered in the arctic blue depths of Mrs. Vandervoort’s eyes. “Good. Three day dresses, two skirts, five waists, and two—no, best make it three— evening gowns. That should do,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, opening the door.
Francesca and Merry were sitting on the small divan in the outer office, their heads together in a profoundly conspiratorial manner. Doubtless, they were plotting Francesca’s new autumn wardrobe.
Francesca gracefully unfolded from her seat. “And you’ll keep me well apprised of how things get on?”
“You will be as if on my shoulder,” Merry assured her.
“Good.” Francesca smiled before turning her attention to Mrs. Vandervoort. “Ma’am, I hesitate to act on such short acquaintance, but would you care to join me for lunch?”
“Why, Marchioness,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, “how kind. I’d be delighted.”
Chapter 6
NORTH CROSS ABBEY occupied a small fold in the forest on the East Sussex–Surrey border. The church itself was gone except for a few skeletal arches and only the monastery still stood, expropriated long ago to the domestic purposes of the Powell family.
Looking at it, Evelyn wondered about the original opportunist who had finagled Henry VIII out of this prime piece of real estate. Now, however, time and taxes were finally having their way. The house was built roughly in the shape of a U, the moss-covered eastern façade housing the main entrance before which she stood.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Merry breathed. “Isn’t it?” she insisted, clambering down to stand beside Evelyn and staring round-eyed. Merry felt keenly that all romance was better shared. In spite of being raised by stolid Parisian parents, Merry was prodigiously impressionable. It had been her curse.
Unfortunately, Evelyn had no romantic inclinations. She eyed the structure critically. Having spent her childhood in similarly picturesque places, she had a good idea of what to expect inside: Cold and dark. Maybe mold. She studied the green base again. Definitely mold.
Still, there was no reason to disillusion Merry. She put her hands on her hips and nodded. “I am confident we’ll be able to produce a wedding worthy of the Whyte name.”
Though just how they were to accomplish that remained to be seen. Only a bit over thirty miles from London’s outskirts, North Cross Abbey might as well have been two hundred. The area was severely depressed. For years the farming population had been migrating to the city, lured by the promise of work. She hoped Justin Powell had a decent staff—though, as the stairs were upswept and leaves piled against the outer walls, that seemed unlikely.
“Where’d you like your luggage, Miss?” Buck Newton, their driver, asked.
“That depends. Do you know whether Mr. Powell has arrived yet?”
“Aye,” Buck replied.
“Ah. Good. Wait here, while I find him,” she said, “and then you can bring those inside. If you’ll wait with Mr. Newton, Merry?”
Merry bobbed her head and giggled, drawing Evelyn’s alarmed glance. Ever since Mr. Newton had met them at the railway station, Merry had been primping and tittering. Now Evelyn, in spite of a dearth of firsthand experience, wasn’t naive. Merry was, she recognized, in the process of winning yet another “admirer.” Apparently men were fatally drawn to women who acted feeble-minded.
She only hoped Merry would keep her priorities well established. But as there was nothing Evelyn could do about it now, she approached the front door, her step muffled under a layer of decaying leaves. She rapped sharply. She waited. No one answered. She rapped again.
Five minutes later, when there was still no reply, she took hold of the handle, twisted, and shoved. The door swung inward on a groan. Apparently, country habits dictated that doors remain unlocked. How charming!
“’Allo!” Evelyn called. Her voice echoed down a dim corridor. She stepped inside. Silence, ripe and stagnant, retreated before her. Her heel struck the barren flagstone with cacophonous impatience. Something furtive scuttled in a far-off corner.
She felt her spirits fall. She could not envision a more dismal setting for a wedding party. Unless one was a ghost—“Dear heavens!” A dark figure in murky robes materialized before her.
“Ah, the intrepid Miss Whyte,” the apparition said. “Silly me. I should have realized I needn’t bother answering the door.”
“You!” Evelyn gasped.
Beverly regarded her stoically. “Perhaps you’d prefer to enter through the window? I could leave one open and pretend I never saw you, if you wish.”
“Evelyn!” Merry appeared breathless in the doorway, Mr. Newton hovering close behind. “Mon Dieu! Are you all right? I thought I heard you squeak, and . . .”
At the sight of Beverly she trailed off, looking askance at Evelyn.
“This is him,” Evelyn pronounced coldly.
“Beverly him?”
“Your servant, mademoiselle,” Beverly stated dryly. “May I be so bold as to suggest that you try ‘Beverly’ should ‘him’ fail to elicit the desired response?”
“Where is Mr. Powell?” Evelyn asked haughtily, ignoring his sarcasm.
“I don’t suppose ‘not here’ would suffice?” Beverly suggested morosely.
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Well, he isn’t here. He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Bird-watching.” He offered each ort of information as reluctantly as a glutton gives away cake.
Normally, Evelyn would have simply waited for her host’s return. But the idea of sitting in this dank place under Beverly’s basilisk glare was distinctly unappealing. “Which way did he go?”
“Out there.” Beverly’s accompanying gesture encompassed roughly one hundred and eighty degrees.
“Where out there?” Evelyn felt tension setting her jaw.
“In the woods.”
“Listen, Beverly. If you—”
“Evelyn!” Merry launched herself between Evelyn and the stone-faced butler. “Perhaps we should have Mr. Newton bring our things in, and Mr. Beverly can tell him which rooms he has readied for us?”
Evelyn recovered her aplomb at once. “Capital notion, Merry. You and him,” she glared at the butler, “see that all’s shipshape in our rooms. After he points out the direction in which he saw Mr. Powell go. And be advised, Beverly,” she continued, “I am an accomplished woodsman. I will not get lost. I will, however, know if I am being deliberately misdirected, and your employer will hear about it if I am.”
Beverly sniffed. “Madame, I resent the inference that I would deliberately conspire at your discomfort.” Without awaiting a reply, he pointed. “Mr. Powell went that way.”
“Thank you, Beverly,” Evelyn said, gliding serenely in the opposite direction he’d indicated.
It was with decidedly piquant pleasure that she heard him mutter, “Drat!”
Evelyn had lied. She wasn’t much of a woodsman. Happily, the area around North Cross Abbey wasn’t much of a wood. After stumbling blindly around for half an hour, certain landmarks began to seem familiar even to her: a patch of bluebells; the beech whose doubled-up trunk reminded her of Quasimodo; a flinty shelf above the path.
She considered going back to the abbey—she was relatively certain of the direction—but ruled against it as being far too likely to delight Beverly. Instead, she took measure of her situation and began a slow, methodical sweep.
Thus she went, finally reaching the edge of the weald. The latticed dome of budding branches overhead gave way to bright sky, and a gentle slope unrolled before her like a carpet. She stopped and raised her hand, shading her eyes and scanning the dell.
Not far below, a tidy little cottage stood at the end of a primitive lane. As she watched, the door opened and a heavy-limbed man emerged, pulling on a cloth cap. Good. Perhaps he’d seen Justin, or at least could tell her how to get back to the abbey.
She raised her arm to hail him. “Yoo—!” A hand clamped over her mouth and an arm lashed around her waist,
snatching her against a hard body. She struggled, and her glasses flew off as the man dragged her beneath the forest canopy.
She tried to scream, to bite him, but he was too powerful. Suddenly he dipped, caught her behind the knees, lifted her in his arms, and dumped her flat on her back on the soft forest earth. The air left her lungs in a whoosh and her hair tumbled over her face as he followed her down. Once more his hand covered her mouth—as the rest of him covered her. She could feel him, over her, on her, his body hard and tense.
“Quiet! He’ll see you!”
She twisted frantically, trying to free her mouth. If she could just scre—She frowned. His voice had seemed familiar. She jerked her head, dislodging just enough hair to be able to see, and found herself staring up at Justin Powell.
He was so close she could see the grain of his skin, even to the pale skin behind his ears that betrayed a recent haircut. He was looking out past her, his expression fixed, his hand all but cemented in place.
“Mider Powwow, ta yo han offma me,” she commanded. He glanced down and lowered his head until his lips were mere inches from her ear.
“You must promise not to make a single sound. Not one.” His breath was as soft as a sigh. “Do you promise?”
She nodded, and he slipped his hand from her mouth.
“Good girl. Now lie very, very still for a moment. Just a moment more . . .”
He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He’d lifted his head again, captivated by whatever it was he was studying. He groped by her side and came up with a pair of binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes. He tensed, and dramatically her attention shifted to the rest of his body.
He was lying on top of her. One of his legs sprawled across her thighs; the other knee was planted by her hip. His elbow was braced on the ground alongside her head to support the binoculars, and his free hand, the hand that had been clamped over her mouth, rested on her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her collarbone. He didn’t appear to notice her. She wished she was similarly unaffected.
All right, she told herself, struggling to marshal her scattering thoughts. It wasn’t unusual that she’d find this unsettling. After all, she’d never had such close contact with a man before. No wonder he roused—ah! Bad choice of words!—piqued? Yes, yes, no wonder he piqued her interest.
And why not learn something from the encounter? If God provided an experience, who was she to deny it? Yes, she thought virtuously, clearly the Good Lord meant her to be lying under Justin Powell’s large, hard body, soaking up knowledge.
Knowledge such as that his breath was unexpectedly sweet. That up close, his skin was clean and fine-grained. That the tips of his lashes gleamed bronze in the slanting afternoon light. That he smelled soapy and heated and living and masculine. And he was warm. He radiated heat. It seeped into her, as potent as a drug.
“Mr. Powell?”
Without looking, he pressed his forefinger gently over her lips. “Quiet.”
The finger on her lips was lightly callused. She fought an overwhelming urge to touch it with the tip of her tongue to see if “masculine” was a taste as well as a scent. It was certainly a tactile quality, for she felt a change the instant whatever had held his attention vanished. He relaxed, no less hard, but somehow more pliant.
He lowered the binoculars and looked down at her. “Why, ’allo, Evie,” he said in a tone of pleased discovery. His gaze played over her face, hesitated at her eyes, and moved to her mouth. It was interested and amused. It unnerved her, the way he looked at her mouth.
“What was it?” she asked faintly. He hadn’t taken his finger from her mouth yet. The corners of her lips had begun to tingle.
“Hm?” It seemed—and she wasn’t at all sure of her perceptions; everything seemed a bit confused—but it seemed as if his fingertip swept along her lower lip.
“Whatever you were watching. What was it?”
“Oh.” His gaze sharpened. He gave her a lopsided smile before tapping her lips once and withdrawing his hand. “Lesser Bolshevikian Toadeater.”
“Is it rare?”
“Rare enough in these parts,” he replied, rolling away and leaping to his feet. He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. Unceremoniously, he hauled her to her feet.
He pulled her toward him, twirling her like a dancer and bringing her to a halt with her back pressed against his chest. She looked up over her shoulder at him, startled. He winked and let go of her before bending down and casually slapping the leaves and bits of grass from her skirt.
She went still as stone, astounded.
Finished, he came round the front and studied the effects of his endeavors. He put his hand under her chin and tilted her head this way and that.
“Something’s different,” he murmured. “Something’s not . . .”
“My glasses,” Evelyn suggested with a touch of alarm. She hadn’t brought a spare pair and, while she wasn’t blind, she felt naked without them.
“That’s it!” He spun around, spotted them gleaming amongst the fiddleheads, and retrieved them.
She held out her hand for them, but he bypassed her hint, opening the wire bows and hooking them over her ears. He stood back, reached out, and straightened them on the bridge of her nose.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “Now I recognize you. Evie, that is you, isn’t it? But what is this you’re wearing? Is it a dress?”
She blinked. “Why, yes.”
“Should have stuck with the knickers.”
“You find something wrong with my dress?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“No, not a thing,” he said. “I just thought you utterly fetching in the knickers is all. Perverse, ain’t it? What is that color, anyway? Puce?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It just seemed like a good, serviceable shade. One that wouldn’t show dirt.”
“Being the color of dirt, you mean.”
“I guess so.”
“Aren’t you hot under all those layers and buttons and such?”
“A little,” she allowed.
His expression grew suddenly pitying. “Is this . . . do you . . . do you like that dress?”
Like? She’d never thought about liking a dress. One liked a friend, liked a pet, liked a child, liked a book, liked one’s chances. One did not like a dress.
“It serves its purpose.”
She glanced up and caught him regarding her strangely.
It suddenly dawned on Evelyn that he didn’t like her dress, and that caught her very much off guard. Except for Mrs. Vandervoort, and some very occasional and very mild advice from her mother, to her knowledge no one had ever noticed anything about what she wore or how she looked. But Mr. Powell clearly thought her dress was ugly.
She felt an odd combination of emotions, a little gratification that he’d noticed her, a little embarrassment that his notice had been uncomplimentary, and a touch of affront that he was presumptuous enough to be uncomplimentary. Added to which, she was struggling against the urge to explain how silly it would be to dress in one of the lovely gowns Mrs. Vandervoort had insisted upon her having just to ride in a dusty train.
“I am sure it is most utilitarian,” he said kindly.
She frowned at his patronization. He wasn’t exactly a picture of sartorial splendor himself. Once more, he’d eschewed his jacket and wore a rumpled dun-colored shirt and a pair of dark, grass-stained trousers held up by brown suspenders. His hair was tousled and there was a red scratch on his hand and why did being unkempt look so delicious on him when it would only look slatternly on her? It wasn’t fair.
“I don’t design the dresses. Merry does,” she explained grudgingly.
“Your aunt will be prostrate with gratitude,” he said under his breath. But she’d heard him.
Her head snapped up, her momentary abashment fleeing before righteous indignation. “Is this an example of your way with words, Mr. Powell? Because if it is, I am amazed you should ever have had any success as a womanizer.”
&nb
sp; It was his turn to be affronted. “I could turn a pretty phrase if necessary.”
He frowned. Then, as if something pleasing had suddenly occurred to him, he announced righteously, “Besides, I told you I had reformed. Honesty, candor, and frankness are my bywords. ‘The truth, blemishes and all,’ is my motto. Flattery, blandishments, and sweet talk be damned.”
“Hm.” Her tone was far from impressed. “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘blunt, tactless, and brusque’? And what was that motto? ‘The truth, bludgeon them with it’?”
He almost gave in to a smile; she saw it in his eyes. But then he gave her a wounded look. “I am a changed man, Evie. I thought you’d be relieved Mrs. Vandervoort’s lady friends will be safe from me.”
“I wasn’t overly concerned,” she replied dryly. “I begin to suspect that your past conquests were of unsophisticated females. The women at the Vandervoort wedding will be mature, worldly, and sophisticated.”
His eyes widened. “My, Evie. That sounds awfully like a dare.”
Her father often claimed she was constitutionally incapable of backing down from a challenge. She knew she ought to keep mum, to let this pitiful example of masculine posturing slide by without comment. Instead, with a faint feeling of doom, she heard herself say archly, “Did it?”
To Evelyn’s heightened imagination, it seemed little copper flashes exploded in the blue-green of Justin Powell’s extraordinary eyes. He smiled wolfishly and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?”
She hadn’t heard a thing. “What?”
He cupped his hand around his ear. “I distinctly heard the sound of a gauntlet being thrown down.” He sketched an elegant, old-fashioned bow. “And, of course, I accept the challenge.”
Dear heavens, were all men such competitive little boys at heart? she wondered, ignoring the fact that she’d deliberately goaded him. The answer was clearly “yes.” And knowing that, she decided she’d best do what she could to fix the situation. “Need I remind you, Mr. Powell, that you have made a promise?”
“Ah, yes. I recall. I promised not to import or importune any guests with the purpose of—how did you so quaintly put it?—‘tryst, rendezvous, criminal converse, or liaison.’ I am more than willing to renew that vow.”
Bridal Favors Page 7
