The Bridal Season (13 page)

“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 derričre
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, gay 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.”

She gazed at him with an odd combination of composure and
resolution. The look was familiar—rather like the expression on the faces of
men about to ride into battle. “Quite all right. Just tell me when it is my
turn.”

The rest, as they say, was history. By the end of that famous
game, croquet as played in Little Bidewell had been forever transformed.

At first, the two women made at least a cursory effort to go
through a wicket on their way to hunting down each other’s balls. Soon,
however, both had abandoned all pretenses, and long after even the worst teams
had hit the final peg and retired, they charged from one end of the field to the
next, smacking into each other’s balls. And they did so with smiles like rictus
and voices dripping equal parts honey and venom, every civility attended.

“Ah, Mrs. Bunting,” one gentleman heard Lady Agatha say,
“however
do I conspire to keep hitting your most unfortunate ball?”

Mrs. Bunting replied with a shrill little laugh. “I dare not
venture a guess, Lady Agatha, but whatever imp of perversity guides your ball
must certainly be incensed by my own amazing inability to shoot past your ball
without striking it!”

And so it went.

Despite initial heroic efforts by both Anton Bigglesworth and
Sir Elliot March to bring the game to an end, eventually the two male factions
surrendered to the inevitable and withdrew from the field altogether, leaving
it to their partners.

By six o’ clock the other members of the party were milling
about the back entrance to The Hollies. Eglantyne, with Lady Agatha’s
disreputable little dog Lambikins curled in the crook of her arm, flitted
nervously about, casting worried glances toward the kitchen where Gracie Poole
could be heard to make increasingly loud comments about overcooked food.

By this time, only Sir Elliot seemed to have any real interest
in the outcome. He’d appropriated a folding chair and set it on the edge of the
playing field. There he sat, boot on his knee, his expression mildly quizzical
and totally masculine.

If not for Squire Himplerump, the contest may well have gone
on until dark, what with polite Little Bidewell society not willing to offend
either Lord Paul’s saintly wife or the vivacious, highborn Lady Agatha.

The squire’s appetite would not be gainsaid. He’d gone
foraging for leftovers under the empty marquee when he’d spied Lady Agatha’s
abandoned trifle. Unfortunately, it was on the far side of the trestle table.
Unwilling to exert himself, he’d stretched across the table for it, lost his
balance, and pitched forward.

The poor table was no match for his two hundred and fifty
pounds. It broke with a loud crack and the squire crashed to the ground.
Immediately everyone turned in the direction of the squire’s howls, hastening
to offer aid.

Everyone but Letty Potts.

She was standing on the embankment, having stalked Catherine
Bunting’s yellow ball there. She’d been anticipating sending it careening
across to the other side, but as soon as she heard the sound of splintering
wood Letty, ever quick to recognize an opportunity, decided the time had come
to end the game—as the victor. After all, she reasoned, you can’t win if you
can’t find your ball.

With these thoughts chasing one another in less time than it
takes to draw breath, Letty raised her mallet between her shoulder blades and
hauled off with a stupendous swing, a swing so marvelous and so powerful that
the momentum of it pitched her clean off her feet and over the edge of the
embankment—even as it missed the yellow ball.

She somersaulted down the hillside like a wheel of cheese,
head over heels in a flurry of ruffles, tumbled hair, and flying limbs before
coming to an abrupt stop at the bottom. She lay flat on her back in the thick
green sedge, her breath coming in ragged jerks, the clouds overhead spinning
madly. She moved her hands gingerly down her torso. She was unbroken but
indecent, her skirts rucked up under her bum.

She tried to sit up to adjust them but fell back with a thud.
Stars rollicked across the black backs of her eyelids. Far off she heard a
woman call, “Where did Lady Agatha go?”

The blood drained from her face. She’d die of mortification if
that spoiled, pasty-faced Catherine Bunting caught sight of her like this,
smelling of sedge, legs bare, hair mired with grasses and twigs. With a wince,
she gingerly turned her head and squinted up the hill.