Bridal Favors (10 page)

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.”

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.”

She sighed with her relief. “Good. Now, might I suggest we return to the abbey before poor Merry sends for the local militia? I’ve been gone over an hour.”

“Of course,” he agreed pleasantly. “It’s not far as the crow flies.” He ushered her forward. “After you.”

She smiled, pleasantly surprised by his gracious attitude, and moved ahead to a thinly marked footpath. She hadn’t gone ten steps, however, when she heard him say in light, reasonable, and perfectly conversational tones, “You know, Evie, strictly speaking, there is one potential—what shall we call her? Victim? Beneficiary?—who, by the terms of my vow, is not precluded from my attention.”

She should have realized he wouldn’t back down so easily, not with all that male ego on the line.

“Oh?” she asked. “Who?”

“Why, Evie, you.”

Chapter 7

JUSTIN WATCHED EVELYN bolt like a rabbit up the path. In a few seconds, however, dignity overcame impulse and she settled into a half-trot, her heavy skirts sweeping the path as she launched into garbled speech, pointedly ignoring his provocative statement.

Not that he had
any
intention of seducing her. But she needn’t know that.

“We must be nearing the house. I seem to recall passing these toadstools,” she babbled. “I remarked them because they were such an unusual color and their gills are so deep. But perhaps all toadstools are of such a hue in this area, and all toadstool gills are equally deep. In my native county we have several varieties of toadstools, their color ranging from . . .”

He let her go on without interruption, reflecting that a few more minutes of uncertainty would probably do her a world of good. He smiled. He only wished his sisters were here to see how effectively he’d rattled Evie.

Justin was not given to self-delusion. In his profession, a man needed to be certain of his strengths and equally aware of his weaknesses. Thus, while he knew a susceptibility to members of the fairer sex was
not
one of his weaknesses, he also knew that charming them was just as assuredly
not
one of his talents.

But then, he’d never tried to be a ladies’ man. Men who used women were cads. So why, he asked himself thoughtfully, had it provoked him so much when she’d snickered at him? Now, there was a poser.

“. . . will be wondering where I am.” Evelyn was still chattering frantically on. “I hope she’s not too distressed, but wouldn’t you be distressed if a friend of yours disappeared in an unfamiliar woods for over an hour? I would. I would be having kittens, as I very much fear Merry is. Oh! Look! There’s Merry!”

Evie burst from the edge of the wood like an agitated partridge, arms flapping, skirts snapping, her thick black hair brandishing leaves and twigs. “Yoo-hoo! Darling! Here we are!”

Justin trailed her into the clearing, looking in the direction she pointed. On the back of Buck Newton’s farm wagon a buxom, redheaded woman sat swinging her legs. She was not having fits. She was blushing and giggling as if she’d been named Queen of the Dairy at some county fair.

The object of all this girlish attention was shuffling in place, crushing his soft-brimmed hat in his huge paws and swatting it against his thighs.

Evelyn, either ignoring or failing to recognize a flirtation when she saw one, raced the last ten yards and grabbed hold of the older woman’s hands. “Oh, Merry! I am so sorry, darling!” she cried. “You must have been scared out of your wits! Forgive me for frightening you! I . . .”

She stopped. Her tinted lenses magnified the widening of her eyes. She looked like some sort of bug, what with those huge eyes and the twigs sticking out of her hair like antennae.

“Oh!” She laughed nervously. “See, Mr. Powell? I told you not to fret!”

“I never fret.”

She ignored him. “And we weren’t gone as long as you thought. But then, time can drag so when one is lost.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

“Misplaced, then,” she muttered.

“Perhaps you were misplaced, but I certainly—”

“Mr. Powell!” She swung around, smiling at him with determined brightness. “I don’t believe I’ve introduced you to Miss Merry Molière, the
couturière
genius behind Whyte’s Nuptial Celebrations. Merry, this is Mr. Powell, who has so graciously rented us his abbey.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Molière,” Justin said.

The redheaded woman slid off the back of the open wagon and bobbed once. “
Enchanté,
Mr. Powell.”

“Did Beverly tell you which rooms we are to have?” Evie asked.

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Merry answered in a small voice.

“Oh? Why didn’t . . . ?” Evie stopped. “Oh! Well, maybe you could ask him now?”

“I will at once,” Merry agreed, and steamed off in the direction of the abbey, leaving Evie smiling uncomfortably at Buck Newton.

She was altogether unexpected, this Evelyn Cummings Whyte, thought Justin. She was so painfully unadorned. To the point where one was almost embarrassed for her, she seemed so naked.

None of the usual physical embellishments for Evie, none of the froufrous and gewgaws most women stuck to their persons, no frippery or frills or lace or bows. No enhancements of any kind to draw a chap’s eye and get him to offer the sort of gallantries ladies liked. It might have been rather pitiful if one didn’t realize that Evie had other weapons, potent ones, like intelligence and imagination and enterprise.

And
why,
Justin asked himself as Evie began dragging a valise toward the front door, why was he spending so much time thinking about Evelyn Cummings Whyte when—he took the valise from her without asking permission, tossed it over his shoulder, and carried it into the front hall—he had more important fish to fry? Like the pair of eelpout currently occupying the Cookes’ cottage.

Yesterday, Justin had spent the afternoon chatting up the local lads at the town pub, where he’d heard the interesting news that the Cookes had rented their summer cottage to a pair of foreign brothers who’d come to partake of the fresh country air.

When Justin voiced his surprise that the Cookes had advertised their cottage for rent, he’d been quickly corrected. The Cookes hadn’t advertised; they’d been approached and offered a windfall, if you like. And just where had that wind originated? Justin wanted to know.

The “brothers” could be foreign agents sent to intercept the crate being shipped to the abbey. As long as he knew where they were, they posed little danger. One of the wisest adages that fit his profession was an old one:
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Just to make sure they were staying put, each day he’d spent an hour or so in the woods “birding.” Evie’s arrival this afternoon had nearly betrayed his presence.

After he’d trapped her beneath him and effectively stifled her yells, he had been too distracted to pay much attention to the men he’d spent days trying to catch a glimpse of. He still couldn’t explain why. Yes, he found the young woman attractive. All right, desirable.

Still, he’d experienced desire before and managed to keep his focus. But then, he’d never had the focus so formidably challenged. He could still feel her beneath him, the slender body, light, tensile, but still pliant and accommodating, the fragrance of her hair, the velvety texture of her lip under his fingertip.