The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  She drew a pair of mallets and two balls from the cart and plopped them unceremoniously into Elliot’s hands.

  Lady Agatha darted a glance at him from beneath her lashes. She looked a little uncertain and suddenly quite young and quite shy; an attitude that contrasted strongly with her oft-repeated insistence that she was “a woman of the world.” In fact, several times now he’d seen Lady Agatha surprised into ingenuousness, making it seem ever less likely that she could be some hardened confidence artist.

  “I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she said.

  “It would be my pleasure, I assure you,” he said.

  “Dear Eglantyne, Elliot,” Catherine said sympathetically, “if Lady Agatha doesn’t want to play, I don’t think we should badger her into complying.”

  “Oh. Of course not,” Eglantyne agreed, at once red-faced and contrite. “I am sorry. I did not mean to insist.”

  Once more, Lady Agatha saved the situation. She laughed, taking Eglantyne’s hand between hers and giving it a little shake. “Don’t be silly, dear. I was simply being coy,” she admitted with charming artlessness. She dimpled adorably. “I am secretly all atwitter to learn the game. Because,” she straightened, “it’s always so much more fun to be in the game,” her gaze flitted over Catherine, “rather than sitting on the sidelines. Don’t you agree, Miss—oh! Excuse me! What a goose I am! It’s Mrs., isn’t it?—Don’t you agree, Mrs. Bunting?”

  “Yes,” Catherine clipped out, her body stiff and her face stiffer. “Come along, Anton, we’d best collect our gear while Elliot instructs Lady Agatha. Though I wouldn’t doubt she could teach him a thing or two— She looks very much the sporting sort, doesn’t she?”

  She turned to Letty. “I look forward to meeting you on the playing field, Lady Agatha.”

  “No more than I, Mrs. Bunting,” Letty replied.

  “Whatever is going on?” Eglantyne asked, watching Anton being led off by Catherine.

  “Nothing,” Lady Agatha said.

  “Well, then, I’ll leave you in Elliot’s good hands. You have a quarter hour to turn her into a prime player, Elliot. Ah!” She raised her head like a hound sighting a hare. “Dr. Beacon! I need another gentleman,” she called, taking off after him, “I say, Dr. Beacon!”

  Elliot turned to Lady Agatha; she was smiling after Eglantyne as though any minute she might shout an encouraging “tally-ho!”

  “That was most kind, what you did with the trifle.”

  “It was nothing.” She accepted the mallet that he held out to her. “How do you hold this thing? Like a golf club?”

  She was not being falsely modest. She really was discounting her generosity as a matter of no importance.

  “I beg to differ.”

  She looked up from swishing the mallet experimentally at some weed heads. Clearly, she’d considered the subject closed and he’d surprised her by pursuing it. A roguish glint appeared in her eyes. Her wonderfully mobile mouth pursed contemplatively. “Sir Elliot, I am a woman of the world.”

  Somehow he kept from smiling, but then his humor was supplanted by another sensation altogether as she placed one hand on her hip and in the other swung the mallet as a dandy would his walking stick. She sashayed toward him, her playful mood infectious.

  “Really, now, Sir Elliot,” she said, her eyes flashing, her hips… God, what those hips were doing! “What else should I have done? I looked over, immediately understood the situation, and—well, I saw at a glance that this proud, straitlaced darling would suffer from his comments far more than I was ever likely to do.” She stopped and leaned on the mallet, a comic caricature of a London dandy. “It seemed a little enough thing to save him from the torture he was bound to put himself through. Especially since his supposed ‘crime’ in no way warranted so grievous a punishment.’’

  “You are kindness itself, Lady Agatha,” Elliot said. “And you were correct in your estimation of Colonel Vance’s character. He would, indeed, have put himself through—”

  “Oh,” she cut in, “I wasn’t speaking of Colonel Vance.”

  It took a full ten seconds for her meaning to sink in, and when it did, he took one look at her naughty, lovely, teasing face, and burst into laughter.

  Sir Elliot’s many friends and neighbors looked around in surprise. They’d not heard such full-blown laughter from him in years, and seeing the smile on his face they found themselves smiling, too, for he was a great favorite in their community.

  A few dozen yards away, Eglantyne and Grace Poole exchanged glances as congratulatory as they were conspiratorial. Atticus, deep in conversation with the vicar, paused at the sound of Elliot’s rich amusement and smiled. And even Cabot, offering an uncharacteristically petulant Catherine Bunting a different glass of iced tea, hesitated before a grin flickered and vanished on his austere face.

  Only Lady Agatha failed to understand the rarity she’d produced. She grinned back cheekily in response to his laughter, as though they’d traded bon mots all their lives, and as she did, a breeze caught a tendril of her hair and whipped it across her face.

  Elliot, still smiling and before he could think better of it, reached out and brushed it away. As soon as his fingers touched her sun-warmed cheek, he understood his folly. Instantly, the casual touch evolved into something too like a caress for comfort.

  He stared into her eyes, suddenly wide and questioning and young and…frightened. His hand dropped. He stepped back and gestured for her to precede him. “Perhaps we ought to go to the playing field,” he said, despising the stilted tone in his voice.

  But she was having none of it. Her expression had smoothed out; her eyes glittered. “I could have sworn we were already on the playing field,” she murmured, invoking another laugh from him. Something inside of him struggled for expression.

  He was in trouble. He liked her, liked her enormously—which was far, far more worrisome than simply wanting her.

  Chapter 12

  If you trip, make sure the leading man

  is there to catch you.

  “Because the Bigglesworths have such a large lawn, they play a six-wicket game of croquet, though we do have to be careful on the edge of the field.” He gestured to a ridge of land across from where they stood. “It’s an embankment. There used to be marsh on the other side, but it filled in with sedge years ago.”

  Lady Agatha studied the layout of the playing field. “And the wicket is that wire arch there?” she asked.

  “Yes. The object of the game is to shoot our balls—these black-and-blue ones—through the wickets in a particular order and hit that peg at the end of the field there.” He pointed to where Hobbs was driving a stake into the ground. “Then return to the other end of the field in reverse order, our ultimate goal being this peg.”

  “It doesn’t sound very challenging,” she said doubtfully.

  He smiled at her with a touch of condescension. “The addition of other players provides the challenge. One tries to go through the pattern in as few shots as possible, each team getting one stroke per turn. However, upon driving your ball through a wicket, you get another turn.”

  She frowned and he decided not to complicate matters by explaining “taking croquet” and “roquet” until the need arose, or rather, if the need arose, which it very well might not. Little Bidewell society played a notoriously, if excruciatingly, civil game. “Very well,” she said. “What next?”

  “You hit the ball with the flat end of the mallet. May I suggest you take a few practice shots? Wrap your hands around the handle and swing it to get the feel of it.”

  She grasped the handle at the very end, like a walking stick. “Like this?”

  “Not exactly. Use both hands.” He gripped his own mallet in demonstration.

  She choked the middle of her mallet as though wringing some poor chicken’s neck. “Stand back while I hit the ball.”

  He obliged and she drew the mallet back and swung. The mallet flew from her hands, hit the ground, and cartwheeled across the
lawn. Her nose wrinkled. “I can safely assume not like that?”

  “Not quite.”

  She sighed heavily. “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly inept.”

  He regarded her closely. She’d been climbing up an ivy vine last night and now she claimed to be unathletic? He dismissed his suspicions. He’d not had an answer to the telegraph he’d sent to London this morning. Until he did, the wisest course was to take her at face value.

  And isn’t that a nice rationalization? his conscience taunted him as he kept his eyes from lingering on her feminine figure. Her brows rose to a saucy angle. She knew full well her impact on him—on him and all the rest of Little Bidewell’s male population. She was a woman accustomed to being ogled.

  “If you’ll allow me to take your hand?” He held out his own. Wordlessly she placed hers in his, her eyes guileless. “Here. You wrap this hand like so.” He positioned her fingers near the top, curling them around the handle. “And this hand like this.”

  His one hand nearly enveloped both hers. Her fingers were fine-boned; her skin was warm and smooth. “There.” He removed his hand and stepped back.

  “Thank you! This is much better,” she said, swatting ineffectually at a blade of grass.

  He frowned. Her grip looked more or less correct, but the manner in which she was swinging the mallet was wrong.

  “You’re frowning!” she accused him. “Pray, don’t spare my feelings, Sir Elliot. Above all things I loathe incompetence. What is the problem?”

  “It’s your swing.”

  “My swing.”

  “Yes. It’s not even. You need to lean over more, using your shoulders as the fulcrum from which your arms depend—no, no,” he said as she suited her actions to his words and hunkered inelegantly above the ball, like a hen preparing to roost. “Try standing farther back from the ball… On second thought, don’t. Please.”

  She’d taken a giant step back away from the ball and was bent at a right angle from her waist. The position thrust her posterior out and set it straining against the glove-tight fit of her skirt. His mouth had gone dry.

  She straightened. There was a hint of frustration in her pose, a frustration echoed by the line of her brows. But there was something else as well: amusement. She found the whole situation vastly entertaining, he’d wager his father’s library on it.

  “Well,” she said gruffly, “can’t you show me somehow?”

  Oh, yes. He could. It wouldn’t be proper, but he had the distinct impression she knew that and was daring him. In his youth he’d been quite fond of the games played between men and women. And he’d been rather good at them.

  “Well?”

  “I will need to adjust your person,” he warned her.

  “I see.”

  “And stand closer.”

  Her smile was confident. “I am a woman of the world, Sir Elliot. I can assure you I won’t read anything improper into your proximity.”

  “Of course not. Excuse me for being so gauche. But then, I am a simple country gentleman,” he added humbly, winning a sharp, assessing glance from her. “Would you please turn around?”

  She complied. He stepped behind her, moving his arms to encircle her. Immediately, he realized his mistake. His body tensed the minute his arms wrapped around her, and when she shifted slightly, her derrière inadvertently flirted with his loins. Tension became an ache. He ignored it, his jaw tightening. Grimly, he readjusted her grip. But in doing so he needed to press closer. His breadth encompassed her; his shoulders covered her.

  He covered her…

  He had been born and raised in farming country and the three simple words flooded his imagination with a hundred images of male and female, of primal want overriding every other drive. He tried desperately to douse them in the cold waters of restraint.

  But she…she brought passion to vibrant, fulsome life with her knowing eyes and her wide, lush lips. He could only hope the layers of her skirts kept her from discovering a great deal more than she would care to know about her effect on him.

  Still, shamefully, he could not keep himself from deriving pleasure from the situation. After a moment of fruitlessly trying to do just that, he gave up, tallying sensations: the warm, floral scent that veiled her skin, the jut of her shoulder blades against his chest, the silken feel of the tendrils of her titian hair that flirted with his lips…

  “Watch out!” someone shouted.

  Instinctively, he jerked her up into his arms, pulling her back and around just as a croquet ball whizzed beneath her feet. His first thought was that he didn’t want to release her. He wanted the feel of her crushed against him like this, her body tense.

  For one brief moment she was still and then she was struggling fiercely, her brows dipping angrily as she tried to free herself. He came to his senses at once, cursing himself for an utter cad. He set her on her feet.

  “I must beg—”

  “She tried to hit me!” Lady Agatha said in a stunned, furious voice. She whirled around, her skirts snapping angrily. She pointed. “You saw, Sir Elliot. She tried to hit me with that ball!”

  Catherine stood twenty yards down the field, her face a picture of contrition. Beside her stood Anton, wide-eyed with amazement.

  “I am so sorry, Lady Agatha!” Catherine said, hurrying over. “I was just practicing my swing and, well, I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty. I’m sure you understand.”

  Lady Agatha turned back around to face him. “Does she honestly expect us to believe—”

  Whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. She regarded him with an expression of increasing incredulity. He couldn’t begin to imagine why. Catherine had apologized for the accident.

  “Lady Agatha?” Catherine called tentatively. “You do forgive me?”

  Lady Agatha glared at Elliot before turning around. “Of course, I do, m’dear.” Amazingly, her voice sounded perfectly pleasant. Yet, Elliot could have sworn that she’d been about to call down curses on Catherine’s head not half a minute ago. Either he was mistaken, or Lady Agatha Whyte was more of an accomplished actress than he’d imagined.

  “I daresay one does find oneself growing rusty with age,” she went on, and then gave a little gasp. “Oh, my! That came out all wrong. Of course, I meant that one’s talents become rusty. And now I must beg your forgiveness.”

  Catherine’s lips curled into something that vaguely resembled a smile. “Of course.”

  Elliot watched the exchange in profound befuddlement. It had been a croquet ball, for God’s sake, not an artillery shell.

  “Once more, my pardon,” Catherine said. “And good luck to you in the tournament, Lady Agatha.”

  “Think nothing more of it. And good luck to you, too, Mrs. Bunting,” Lady Agatha replied and turned away as Catherine took Anton’s arm and went after her yellow ball.

  “I am certain it was unintentional,” Elliot said.

  In a flash, Lady Agatha’s expression went from calm to exasperation.

  “Catherine sews nappies for the parish orphans,” he explained. “She routinely brings beef tea and blankets to the poor. Why, she single-handedly set up a reading room for returning soldiers. Now, really, would such a woman purposely shoot a croquet ball at another woman?” he asked in the spirit of reconciliation.

  At least his words drained the ire from her. Her face reflected amazement. She stared at him a long minute before finally shaking her head and bending down to retrieve her mallet. And as she did so he heard her mutter one word: “Men!”

  The Bigglesworth croquet tournament would go down in memory as the longest and most fascinating match in Little Bidewell history. From the beginning it looked as though Sir Elliot March and Lady Agatha Whyte would win. Sir Elliot was a sportsman of some repute and, despite her earlier claims, from the outset Lady Agatha gave a good account of herself: She was as natural an athlete as the game had ever known. She had a marksman’s eye and an acrobat’s balance. Time and again she swacked her black-and-blue ball decisively, sailing it
through one wicket after another. It soon became apparent that no one could touch the team of Whyte and March.

  But then halfway through the game, after Lady Agatha had finished a lovely run of two wickets, Catherine Bunting hit Lady Agatha’s ball, knocking it ten feet. Lady Agatha, who’d been regaling a small group of gentlemen with a spicy tale of her exploits in Paris while she awaited her turn, turned toward the sound. She took stock of the situation and graciously called out to Mrs. Bunting not to fret over the incident.

  A decidedly unrepentant Mrs. Bunting snorted—a first, as far as Elliot could remember—and told Lady Agatha she didn’t intend to fret. With that, she repositioned her ball next to Lady Agatha’s and proceeded to take one of the longest stop shots Little Bidewell had ever seen. Lady Agatha’s ball flew and bounced and rolled to the very farthest corner of the field.

  Lady Agatha, who’d been watching Mrs. Bunting’s activity with increasing perplexity, stared in open shock. Only after her ball finally came to rest between the gnarled roots of an oak tree, did she turn to Elliot.

  “Can she do that?” she asked gravely.

  “Yes, she can,” Elliot said with a tinge of guilt. “It’s called a ‘roquet.’ When she put her ball next to yours in preparation for the shot, she did what is called ‘taking croquet.’”

  She nodded. “I see. Hence the name of the game.”

  “Yes.”

  “And,” she tried to smile, but had to settle for a stiffening of the lips, “why, might one ask, did I fail to be told of this rule?”

  He couldn’t very well tell her it was because Little Bidewell’s croquet players considered the roquet bad manners. It was one thing if one happened to hit an opponent’s ball, but to purposely set out to hit another’s ball was… Well, in Little Bidewell, despite what the rest of world did, it simply wasn’t done.

  At least, it hadn’t been done.

  “I should have told you,” he said. “I am remiss. I beg your pardon.”