The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  The girl paled, but did not argue. She nodded. “That’s a girl, Angie,” Letty said kindly. “You’ll make a fine marchioness.”

  Angela gave her a tremulous smile. “I’ll try,” she promised.

  “Good.” Letty patted a place on the bed next to her. “Come and sit by me. I was just writing down some suggestions for your party.”

  “Oh?” Angela said, settling down beside Letty.

  Letty flashed her a crooked grin. “Come on, Angie. You’ll have to try harder than that. The bride-to-be, in transports over her upcoming nuptials, waxes enthusiastic over their preparations,’” she quoted the stage directions from a curtain raiser she’d appeared in last year.

  Caught off guard by Letty’s supercilious tones, Angela burst into a chuckle. “How’d you do that?”

  “Oh, I am a virtual trove of undisclosed talents,” Letty said piously. And I’d better be careful that those talents don’t land me in the clinker.

  “What sort of things were you thinking of?” Angela asked.

  “I was considering possible entertainments.”

  “Entertainments?” Angela asked in surprise.

  “Yes,” Letty said “An orchestra is all very nice for your run-of-the-mill Society wedding, but the really au courant wedding celebrations feature more interesting divertissements.”

  “They do?” Angela asked, round-eyed.

  “Definitely,” she replied, patting Angela’s hand.

  At least this one would, if Letty had her say. Once Letty Potts gave herself over to an endeavor, she gave herself fully over to it. In for a penny, in for a pound, Veda used to say. Well, she was in for a good sight more than that.

  The first thing she’d decided was that three hundred people, many of whom were strangers and most of whom came from wildly different strata of Society, some country gentry, others worldly sophisticates, needed more than a few waltzes to occupy them. Anything less didn’t seem wise or, more to the point, fun. While Letty was willing to concede that the wedding ceremony itself ought to be formal and reverent, she felt strongly that the celebration afterward ought to be…celebratory. “Most definitely.”

  “What sort of entertainment?”

  She knew a troupe of performers who’d starred in the variety acts at the Grandeur Theatre. Since it had closed this past winter—due to liquor license troubles—they’d been out of steady work. They’d come cheap and at short notice, and they were very, very good.

  “Well,” Letty said, drawing out the word. “How do you feel about midgets?”

  Chapter 20

  No one ever fell in love gracefully.

  Elliot looked up and found her watching him from the billiard room doorway. Their eyes locked, and for a moment he had such an acute sense of her that she seemed much closer. He could have sworn he saw the dark pools of her pupils dilate, the soft flush spread up her throat, the light spangled in her hair.

  After she left he had a hard time returning his attention to Will Macalvie. Even now he didn’t know what he’d promised he’d do, but it must have been enough to satisfy Macalvie for he’d gone away mollified.

  Henry Smith immediately filled the vacant chair. But Elliot wasn’t about to make any more rash promises, and arranged to meet Smith at his office Monday next. From there he went in search of Letty.

  He found her in the drawing room, surrounded by people—primarily male people, he noted with grim amusement—being scintillating. Which she did with amazing ease.

  He paused, rethinking his course. If he were wise, he would keep a nice, safe distance from her, because dressed in buttery soft satin, her white bosom swelling above the shimmering fabric, her eyes flashing, her laughter teasing… Well, frankly, he didn’t know whether he was up to the task of resisting her tonight.

  One more hour of wanting her and forcing himself to obey Society’s rigid rules of courtship, and he would likely be driven to his knees. She didn’t know that, of course. She had no idea how viscerally she affected him.

  Not that that was any excuse. He was more than willing to exercise every bit of willpower he owned on her behalf, though it would be a good sight easier if she gave some slight indication that she understood and appreciated his efforts. She didn’t, though. She didn’t seem the least bit flattered by his restraint. Mostly she seemed confused. Even a bit irritated.

  She looked up and caught his eye. Something was wrong. He made his way to her side, where she acknowledged him with a bright, false smile and continued to charm the men standing three deep around her. He studied her profile. Though her playfulness was general and her coquetry without a specific target, he was definitely being excluded. He disliked it.

  The dinner bell sounded, signaling that the buffet was ready. The group around Letty melted away as the gentlemen left looking for their dinner partners and the ladies positioned themselves to be found. Letty was left standing beside him in strained silence.

  “Are you going in?” he asked.

  “Perhaps in a while. I’m a bit overheated.” For some reason, as soon as she said this she blushed profusely. “May I wait with you?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He frowned. Surely, he’d heard her wrong. “I assure you, it won’t be a matter of necessity on my part. I’d be indulging myself.”

  She turned a hard gaze on him. “I owe you an apology, Sir Elliot.”

  “How so?” he asked in surprise.

  “When I arrived, I thought the residents here would be quaint, provincial, and uncomplicated. But you, sir, are as adept with words as any cit.”

  He regarded her closely. “Adept or facile?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I would not judge.”

  “But I think you do and I think you have and I would very much like to know on what grounds I have so tumbled in your estimation.”

  “Tumbled? You’ve risen in my estimation, sir. I am most impressed by your eloquence.”

  “It’s not your estimation of my eloquence to which I’m referring, Letty.”

  Though he’d never yet seen her shy away from candor, she did now. “I don’t know what you mean. We barely know one another. In fact, I don’t really know you at all.”

  He stared at her, confounded. He felt he’d known her all of his life, that he’d simply been waiting for her to appear. To give a face to the woman he’d been seeking his entire adult life. It had never occurred to him that she might not feel the same.

  “I am most eager to rectify that,” he assured her.

  A challenging light kindled in her eyes. “Are you?”

  “Indeed. And if you allow me to escort you in to dinner, I shall spend the duration of the meal striving to make you familiar with me.”

  “What of your unfamiliarity with me?” she asked with a toss of her head.

  He moved a step closer. The scent of jasmine enveloped her like a veil. Her warmth shimmered between them. “But I know you,” he said. “I know you.”

  She shivered and backed away. “No. You don’t.”

  She sounded frightened and that had never been his intent. So he let her retreat. “Then dinner will correct both oversights.”

  She hesitated. He could sense her vacillation, and for an instant she seemed heartbreakingly defenseless and uncertain. And then the vulnerability disappeared, hidden by a thin, hard veneer. “I have a better idea. I’m not in the least hungry and it’s a lovely evening. I’ve yet to see Mrs. Bunting’s famous rose garden. Would you like to accompany me?”

  She threw out her proposal like a challenge, which, he realized, it was. He could either let her go alone—ridiculous, as it was dark—or he could accompany her—ridiculous, as it was dark. And she was a single woman and he a bachelor. This wasn’t London. It was a small, provincial town where Society, and its rules, hadn’t changed that much since mid-century.

  “Well?”

  “Perhaps we might find some others—”

  “I don’t want to find some others, Sir Elliot. But I don’t wish to impo
rtune you. Please, don’t let me keep you from your dinner.”

  She was courting scandal. He ought to refuse her for her own good. But the alternative was to allow her to go out there alone, thereby opening herself to all sorts of speculation.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said grimly. “I am delighted to accompany you. Here.” He thrust his arm out.

  “You sweet-talker, you!” She dimpled, taking it. “How can I resist such an offer?”

  He shook his head helplessly. She was headstrong rash, and incorrigible. And despite the folly of this, he found himself relaxing. He might as well enjoy what he could of this ill-advised walk. He had the notion that any man who spent much time with Lady Agatha should get used to the feeling of walking a tightrope.

  She sailed past the few stragglers left and headed toward the French doors at the back of the house. Outside, the leaves and grass were dusted with twilight, their colors indistinct and smudged against the twilight sky. He led her down the crushed-shell path. “You are fond of roses?”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “Do you have a rose garden yourself?” For some reason this elicited a burble of laughter from her.

  “The only roses I’ve ever had were the ones on my wallpaper,” she said, and then, sobering, “I haven’t really had the time for roses or gardens. I lead a very busy life.”

  “Ah. A pity. And yet,” he paused, eyeing her closely, “I don’t see you tending a rose garden.”

  “No?”

  “No. It seems too,” he searched for the right word, “too mannered a hobby. Too formal.”

  “And I am not a formal woman?” Her tone was careful.

  “You are perfectly natural,” he answered in just as careful a voice.

  “I am surprised yet again, Sir Elliot.”

  “Elliot, please.”

  She shot him a sharp glance. “Elliot.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Usually—Oh! Forgive me. I shouldn’t use that word in reference to you and me.”

  “What word?” he asked in confusion.

  “My dear boy,” she said in false, sophisticated tones, “we haven’t known each other long enough for there to be a ‘usual’ between us.”

  She leaned close to him. It was a blatantly defensive affectation. She didn’t want intimacy, and perversely—and effectively—used feigned intimacy to achieve distance.

  She was maddeningly elusive. Valiantly, he strove to remind himself of the vulnerability that had touched him so deeply only moments before.

  “What were you saying about me surprising you?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the feel of her breast pressed against his arm.

  “Oh, that. Only that usually I would expect a gentleman such as yourself to apologize for making such a personal comment.”

  He tensed. “I do apologize if you feel I have overstepped myself.”

  “Good God,” she breathed, the unctuous accents dropping from her voice. “Are you always first and last a gentleman? Does ‘what’s done’ and ‘what’s not done’ mean more to you than what you feel?”

  There. Finally. This was Letty. This was the real woman. Her voice was spiced with disappointment. Her one-sided smile was rueful.

  He didn’t answer her because he couldn’t think how to do so. She was being ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly think he valued manners above emotion…but, didn’t he? For the last few years hadn’t he subjugated his emotions to his intellect?

  She stared at him a long moment before looking away, her expression filled with exasperation. She unlinked her arm from his. He should let her go so that she’d return to the house before anyone remarked their absence.

  “Letty—” He clasped her wrist, halting her.

  She swung around, coming back to him at once and resting her free hand against his heart. He stared down at her, trying to read her expression, unable to concentrate. Every nerve seemed attuned to the shape and warmth of her hand. He could feel the imprint of each finger, the way her palm rode his breast on each ragged breath.

  “Yes?”

  He’d told himself he hadn’t kissed her again because he did not want her to have any doubts about his intention, any reason to spurn him. It had been only partly true.

  He hadn’t kissed her again because he was afraid. Afraid that her passion would create a spark, setting ablaze a fire that could consume them.

  He’d bent her over his arm five days ago and kissed her, and it had taken all his self-command to stop. Somehow he’d conspired to make a jest of it, but he hadn’t been able to keep himself from the knowledge that desire had roused like a sleeping beast within him, ravenous and dangerous.

  He sensed it. Now. Here. He stood in the mild night air, her hand barely touching him, and he shivered with want. He, who’d never shivered with wanting anything before.

  “Yes?” she repeated softly, her breath caressing his throat.

  He covered her hand with his and somehow pulled it away from his chest. “Letty. We should be getting back.”

  “Should we?” Her voice was teasing; he could just make out her smile. Her hand worked its way free of his clasp and flew like a nesting bird to his chest, slipping beneath his shirtfront, her fingertips against his skin.

  Her touch galvanized him. Petrified him.

  “Don’t.” It was all he could say, a hoarse invocation against overwhelming temptation.

  She hesitated. For a minute he thought she’d withdraw her hand, leaving them both embarrassed, and him a good deal more. She didn’t.

  “Mrs. Bunting says you are cool.”

  “God.” He couldn’t believe this.

  Her fingers pushed deeper under his shirt. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  “And unemotional.”

  He hadn’t any words, yet he sought desperately to find them. “Please. Letty.”

  “And she says that you are interested in me because I am a duke’s daughter.” She stumbled over the words. Not that it made much difference. He barely made sense of them. His entire body, every one of his senses, was focused on the swirling patterns her two fingertips were making on his chest. “That a duke’s daughter would be an asset to you.”

  He heard the rich, swishing sound of her petticoats as she stepped between his legs.

  “Is she right?”

  “No.”

  She was standing inches away from him, and this close he could make out the dark seam of her lips, the wide cheekbones and sharply angled jaw. She tilted her head back.

  Unwise, he thought. His heart beat like a drum in his chest.

  “You aren’t only an intellectual?” Her fingernail skimmed over his nipple. He shuddered.

  “Or an automaton?” Her lips brushed his chin.

  He seized her shoulders, crushing her to him, his mouth covering hers.

  One minute she was caressing a chest as hard as rock and just as immobile, the next he’d lifted her in his arms and carried her behind the screen of a rowan tree. He set her down, pushing her against the tree, his mouth already open over hers, kissing her hungrily, passion pouring out of him, drenching her in his heat, his urgency. His tongue swept deep within her mouth, mating with it, insistent, willing her compliance, her own participation.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and he dipped down, lifting her up, holding her pinned between the hard wall of his body and the tree behind. The bark scratched her naked shoulders. She didn’t care.

  He wanted her. Her. Nothing could take that away from her. Ever. He wanted her, not the status he thought her purloined name could bring him. He pulled his mouth away, dropping his head into the lee of her shoulder and throat, tremors migrating along his back and arms.

  She clung to him. He was big, bigger than she’d realized. Taller and stronger. Heavy shoulder muscles bunched beneath her hands. The bulge of his biceps, the long taut sinew in his thigh, all of his masculine, hard body had been hidden by his perfectly tailored white shirts and flawlessly pressed trousers. But n
ow she felt the breadth of him, his hardness and urgency.

  “I expect you to withdraw your charge as soon as you’ve slapped my face,” he said against her throat. His voice was ragged.

  “All right,” she said breathlessly. “You aren’t cold or unfeeling.”

  His laughter was frayed with desperation. “Dear God, no. Not where you’re concerned.”

  She raised her hand and cupped his jaw. He turned his mouth and kissed the center of her palm. Electricity swirled from under the contact and speared along her arm, pooling in her belly. It was a good thing that he held her, because her legs felt too weak to stand.

  He eased himself away from her, and the cooling night air rushed between them like a vigilant chaperone. He was coming back to himself; she could sense it. His momentary loss of self-control was over. All that masculine power was once more his alone to command.

  “But you are controlled,’’ she said accusingly.

  “Not as much as I’d like to be,” he said ruefully, his palms skating down her bare arms. She wanted him back. Wanted his arms around her and his mouth open over hers, his body straining.

  She stood on tiptoe, bracing herself with her hands flat against his chest. His heart belied his calm mien. It thundered, thick and resonant beneath her palms. She nipped the hard angle of his jaw delicately.

  “I could make you lose that control.”

  He closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

  He hadn’t denied it, and she took a perverse pleasure in that. He felt something. Something that he hadn’t felt for Catherine Bunting. Maybe something he hadn’t ever felt for another woman. She would cherish that. Remember that. That an honest, noble, good man had once wanted her so much that he trembled for her.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

  His beautiful lash-banked eyes opened, dark glittering gems in the dim light. His smile was touched with sadness. “No challenge,” he said. “Too easy.”

  The light wind died. A lark bunting fluttered from the branches of a rowan tree. The sound of distant voices, the clink of glassware, seeped from open windows and carried across the garden. She stared up at his shadowed face, trying to read his expression.