The Bridal Season (14 page)

A masculine figure stood near where she’d gone over, his back
to her. There was something familiar about his silhouette, the breadth of those
shoulders, the dark clipped hair that brushed the stiff white collar... Sir
Elliot. Of course.

She held her breath and prayed for him to go away. She’d
rather Catherine Bunting saw her than him.

He was looking up and down the field. “I don’t believe she’s
here,” he called back. “Hm. She’s apparently left you the field, Catherine.” He
bent over and picked up the yellow croquet ball. “Here’s your ball. Ah, well.”
He laughed, bouncing it lightly in his palm. “I guess she realized she was
outmatched.”

Only by supreme effort did Letty choke back a growl. She
didn’t hear Catherine’s words, but she didn’t need to. Her tone conveyed her
gloating quite clearly.

She heard Elliot again, answering some man’s query. “By all
means. I’ll just wait a bit for my father. He’s nipped down to the stables to
see Taffy’s latest litter and shouldn’t be but a few minutes.”

The sound of other voices droned on a bit more and then faded
altogether. Letty counted to a hundred and then to five hundred. A cricket
scurried across her arm and she caught back a gasp. Her legs began to itch.

Finally, Sir Elliot thrust his hands in his trouser pockets
and began walking down the ridge toward the house. Letty released a soundless
sigh of relief. He stopped.

“I say.” He turned his head and looked directly into her eyes.
“Would you like some help climbing out of there?”

If it’s got a beard or a battery,

you’re going to have trouble with it.

LETTY HAD ONCE PLAYED THE PART OF A girl who fainted whenever
confronted with a dicey situation. Right now, she couldn’t think of a better
response. So she raised the back of her wrist to her brow and closed her eyes.
“Oh,” she moaned softly. “Oh... dear me. Can you? Please? I... I feel a bit...
light-headed....”

Sir Elliot’s skeptical expression vanished, replaced by one of
gratifying concern. He plunged down the steep hill and dropped to his knees
beside her. She started to rise, but he pressed her back, his distraught gaze
roving over her.

“Just lie still,” he said, and his voice held such honest
concern that she felt an odd, unpleasant sensation prickling her... her what?
It took her a second to identify the source of her discomfort and when she did,
she was amazed.

She was, she realized,
ashamed.

She had no compunction about using a man’s vanities and
pettinesses to finesse him into acting the way she wanted. But a gentleman
shouldn’t be penalized for being... well,
decent

Besides, she thought defensively, she didn’t want the grass
staining those perfectly tailored trousers.

“Should I fetch Dr. Beacon?” Elliot asked.

“No.”

“But you just fainted.”

She acceded to her stupid conscience with poor grace,
struggling up to her elbows, and blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “No,
I didn’t. Not even a little bit.”

“But you said you were light-headed.” He looked so
uncomprehending. But then, she reminded herself dolefully, he was just a simple
country gentleman, magistrate duties notwithstanding, and no match for the
wiles of a sophisticated, worldly woman such as herself.

“Wishful thinking.” She flipped her skirts down over her
knees. “If my sensibilities were a bit more accommodating, I would have nipped
off into la-la land as soon as I realized my petticoats were showing.
Unfortunately, they’re not and I’m not.”

She smiled lopsidedly at him and, instead of chastising her as
she fully expected him to, he started laughing. She liked the way he laughed;
she liked the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners and how the thick fringe
of his eyelashes then hid his blue-green eyes and how deep dimples scored his
lean cheeks. But most of all she liked the sound of his laughter, the surprised
pleasure in it.

He held out his hand to help her up, and she took it. His hand
was big, his fingers long. It engulfed hers.

“I suspect you think me a terrible romp,” she said.

“No. I think you are charming.” He pulled her to her feet. She
came upright, promptly tripped on a divot, and fell straight into his arms. Her
hands flattened against the hard wall of his chest and were caught between
their bodies.

She looked up. His smile faded. His heart beat slow and
powerfully beneath her palms. The heat of him sank into her flesh and coursed
up her arms. She was holding her breath, she realized, and he was going to kiss
her.

He bent closer. Her eyes drifted shut. Yes! She wanted to kiss
him, only... only... A needle of panic plunged through her anticipation.

Only how the bloody hell did a
lady
kiss?

If she kissed him in the manner her body and her mouth and her
heart—and the rest of her—clamored for her to do, he would find her out for a
fraud as soon as their lips touched. No gently bred lady kissed the way she
wanted to. Her response was sure to betray her. But how
did
a—

His lips brushed hers with exquisite gentleness. They were
warm, firm, and velvety. Her fears stepped back, thrust into a corner by the
sweetness of the sensation.

So, she thought vaguely as his lips burnished hers, this is
how gentlepeople kiss. He molded his mouth more firmly to hers. She sighed,
wanting to open her mouth, just a bit, just enough to experience his kiss with
the sensitive inner lining of her lips. The desire seemed so natural....

But a lady
wouldn’t
open her mouth, she told herself
severely, and clamped her lips tightly together.

He laughed against her mouth.
Laughed!
Gently. Like his
kiss. Tantalizingly. Like his kiss.

He swung her lightly around, supporting her with his arm,
bending her backward and following. He teased her with his gentleness, while
the same gentleness taunted her with wicked promises. He cupped her chin with
his free hand and brushed his thumb lightly over her lower lip while nibbling
along the edge of her jaw, working his way inexorably toward her lips. Then he
touched the very corner of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.

Sensual shocks jolted through her.

Her resolve to be ladylike shimmered like mist, insubstantial
and weak and fast-fading. He kissed her again, a full, open-mouthed kiss this
time, demanding and hungry. It burned her thoughts to cinders, leaving only
wonderful awareness of the strength of his arms, of the desire that rippled and
spread between them even as her mouth opened and... oh, Lord!

His tongue swept between her lips, stroked her tongue with
masculine possessiveness, plundered her mouth with infinite skill. Nothing in
all her vast, urbane experience had ever felt so wanton. Pinpricks of light
exploded across her eyelids as she sank unresistingly into pleasure.

Mouth and heat, thundering heartbeat and steel-banded arms.
And sounds! Sweet sounds of abandonment. Inarticulate, intoxicating, purring
sounds rose from deep within her throat. She clutched his tense upper arms,
seeking an anchor because any minute she’d be swept away, lost in him.

He lifted his head, his rapid breath sluicing over her heated
face. She raised her hands and combed her fingers through that silky, clipped
hair, trying to draw his head back down to hers. He resisted.

She opened her eyes, feeling woozy and dull-witted and
sensual, but mostly just anxious to return to kissing: innocent, wicked, wondrous
kissing.

“Forgive me, Lady Agatha.” His voice was rough. His chest rose
and fell in deep, harsh cadence. “I am, after all, a simple country gentleman
and most unused to the temptations of a worldly woman such as yourself.”

She blinked uncertainly up at him, still drugged by passion.
Simple
country. . . ?
She frowned. He smiled.

Understanding plunged through her.
He was mocking her!

She pushed against his chest as hard as she could, but he only
smiled more broadly. That was the worst of it—his smile wasn’t sardonic or
cruel! It was indulgent and... and
gentle!

Ah!

“Let me go! Release me this instant!”

His amusement disappeared. “Agatha, please, I didn’t mean—”

“No!” she demanded shrilly. “If you are the gentleman Little
Bidewell seems to think you are, you will unhand me at once!”

He looked shocked.

Ah, yes! she thought bitterly, he could mock a poor girl all
he liked, but let anyone cast aspersions on his all-holy gentleman’s honor and
that
made him blanch!

At once he lifted her to stand upright. As soon as she was
upright, his hands dropped to his sides and he stepped back.

“Agatha—”

It was too much. He hadn’t even been kissing
her!

“Do
not
call me Agatha!”

He inclined his head. Whatever emotions he was feeling by now
he’d hidden behind a grave, unreadable mask. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady
Agatha. I know you have no reason whatsoever to believe me, but I give you my
word I am not in the habit of forcing my,” he swallowed, the only sign he felt
any real regret, “my attentions on unwilling women.”

“Oh?” she asked haughtily. “You generally force your
attentions on willing women? How noble of you.”

He flushed but continued doggedly on. “I suspect I deserved
that.”

No, he didn’t. She hadn’t resisted his “attentions” at all.
She resented his mocking her after she’d so apparently enjoyed those blasted
attentions. Of course she couldn’t tell him that.

“Please, try to understand,” he said. “I am—”

Her glare cut off his words as effectively as a muzzle. “If
you
dare
tell me you are a simple country gentleman again, I shall... I
shall... I don’t know what I shall do, but it will be very, very
loud!”

His brows drew together. He scowled. He opened his mouth,
clamped it shut, gave her a quick assessing glance, and opened his mouth again.
“Excuse me for being dull-witted. May I ask whether I am apologizing for
kissing you or for teasing you?”

“Teasing?” she echoed disbelievingly.
“Teasing?
I’d
call it jeering, sir.”

“I am an unconscionable cad. I should never have teased you
except—” He didn’t look like an unconscionable cad. He looked delicious, his
dark hair tumbled, his mouth relaxed—not a bit of mortification to him. In
fact, he looked a touch predatory. Satisfied.

There was more that he wanted to say. She’d have staked a
month’s pay on it. If she’d had a job.

“You should never have teased me except what?” she prodded.

He leaned in toward her and lifted her chin with two fingers.
Drat her treacherous body; she shivered. His smile was lazy but his gaze was
piercing. “Except that I couldn’t resist.”

“Resist what?” she asked, and cursed the high, breathless
quality of her voice.

“Resist demonstrating that your worldliness was more fiction
than fact,” he whispered. “You, Lady Agatha, in the common parlance with which
you are so fascinatingly familiar, ‘ain’t so tough.’ “

“Mother of Mercy!” Grace Poole breathed, bending out of the
second-story window, Master Bigglesworth’s binoculars pressed to her eyes.

“Lemme see!” Merry demanded, tugging at the cook’s sleeve.
“Your turn is up!”

“Oh, dear,” Eglantyne murmured, wringing her hands. At her
feet, dear little Lambikins yawned. “It’s not only improper, it’s possibly
immoral, spying on them like this.”

“T’aint really spying, mum,” Merry explained. “We’re only
gaugin’ how effective our methods is been to date. How’re we to know what to do
next if’n we don’t know how far things is progressed?”

With a sudden preemptive thrust of her hip, Merry knocked
Grace Poole away from the window and at the same time snatched the binoculars
from her hand. Grace, eyes ringed with circular dents, didn’t even protest. She
staggered back from the window, her hand pressed to her chest. “I got me
palpitations!” she whispered.

“They’re not fighting, are they?” Eglantyne asked.

Merry didn’t appear to hear. She stood in the window, staring
through the binoculars, murmuring, “My. Oh, my. My,” over and over.

Eglantyne vacillated over what to do.

The party had moved inside and were enjoying a lovely buffet.
When she’d noticed Agatha’s absence, she’d gone in search of her. Instead, she
had discovered her wayward staff in this upper bedroom, spying... or rather
gauging the success of their matchmaking plans. Eglantyne still wasn’t quite
sure how she’d become part of their schemes.

Doubtless it was the result of all these wedding plans. No one
seemed to be able to converse about anything but brides and
happily-ever-afters. No one seemed to realize that there weren’t
happily-ever-afters for those the bride left behind. That the child one had
loved and adored, whose hair one had braided and whose scrapes one had bandaged,
that that child would walk out of the only home she’d ever known and never
return.

Eglantyne sniffed and felt a preemptory paw beat against her
skirts. She looked down. Lambikins was grinning up at her, his pink ribbon of
tongue curling foolishly. He tapped at her hem again. Why, he wanted to be
picked up! She bent and scooped him up. He gave her a quick lick on the cheek.
She smiled, oddly comforted by his warm weight in her arms.

She hitched her shoulders, forcing her melancholy away. Of
course, she’d agreed to help Grace and Merry with Sir Elliot and Lady Agatha.
She was most fond of Elliot and always had been.

He’d been a charming rapscallion in his youth and had matured
into an honorable and conscientious man. Sometimes she wondered if he wasn’t
too conscientious. Sometimes he looked so vulnerable in his gravity, and so
alone.

What better woman to chase away somberness than the vivacious
Lady Agatha? Certainly her bohemian ways had provided a tonic to Elliot. She
couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so wholly and pleasurably immersed
in the moment, or laughed so openly.