The Bridal Season (16 page)

“Oh, come on, ducks,” Letty said, chucking her under the chin.
“You must admit you’ve piled it up a mite high, eh? I’m sure that even if your
Hughie does read your little note—”

“He mustn’t! Really, he’ll be so... so hurt!”

“Oh, Angela.” Letty shook her head. “He won’t. Believe me. As
a woman of the world—”

“But that’s just it. He
isn’t
a man of the world. He’s
sweet and honest and trusting. He isn’t like you at all!”

The unintentional slap instantly sobered Letty. Why, even now,
the poor girl was so distraught over her marquis’s potential disillusionment
that she didn’t realize what she’d said. But the condemning words chimed loudly
in Letty’s mind. And it wasn’t a faulty judgment, either. She deserved that.
Far more than Angela knew.

But Lord, it hurt.

She rose to her feet, still holding Angela’s hands. “You may
be right, ducks,” she said softly. “But even kind, cloistered, unworldly men
aren’t going to condemn a girl for being human.”

“You don’t understand!”

Letty released the girl’s hands and stepped back. Once more,
the girl was spot on. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? For Angela and
everyone else in Little Bidewell, this was all real. The emotions, the
loyalties, the trust, and even the betrayals.

But for Letty, it was play-acting.

And as long as she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, it
always would be.

“But I do understand,” she replied softly.
“Because
of
the sort of woman I am. I’ve known men like Kip Himplerump. Don’t encourage him
by running to do his bidding as soon as he snaps his fingers. You’re only
setting yourself a pattern.” She placed her hand on the doorknob, eager to be
gone.

“Won’t you help me?” Angela asked tragically.

She stopped. “I thought I did.” What more could she say? Why
was she even giving advice? Angela wasn’t the one who’d had to run away from
her home and her life because of her own stupid choices.

Still, she disliked this sense that she was failing the girl.
She cast about, trying to buy some time. “I’ll consider what you might do. But
you must promise to think about what I’ve said.”

Without waiting for Angela’s response, she unlocked the door,
pulled it open, and hastened out into the corridor, hurrying down the hall,
feeling breathless and undone.

The play had gone on too long; the plot was spinning out of
control. The secondary juvenile lead was playing a far greater role than Letty
had intended for her to play, and the part of Agatha Whyte wasn’t as pat as
she’d thought it would be. And the more involved with the Bigglesworths she
became, the more dangerous it grew. Too many traps yawned before her, too many
ways she could reveal herself as an imposter.

She didn’t know what the next act would be or what lines she
should speak, but one thing she did know: She had damn well better bring down
the curtain soon, or she’d be playing out the last act from a jail cell.

If you’re in doubt about the reception

your performance will receive,

leave the stage before the final curtain.

“MERRY, DEAR,” EGLANTYNE SAID AS THE maid appeared from behind
the green baize door, “have you seen Lady Agatha this morning?” Since the
croquet party yesterday, Eglantyne hadn’t seen their august guest-cum-employee.

“Aye,” Merry said, wielding her feather duster like a baton.
“She was upstairs packing one of her satchels when I went in to make her room
up an hour or so back.”

“Packing? That’s curious. Did she say why?”

Merry regarded her as if she had made a very poor joke. “Well,
I dinna speak to her,” she said in exactly the tones one might use if asked if
they’d sworn in church. “I popped in, saw she was still occupyin’ the premises,
if you will, ‘n popped out.”

“I see.” A movement near the top of the stairs caught her eye
and she looked up to see the silhouette of a crouched figure clad in a long
duster. “Lady Agatha!” she called.

The figure slowly straightened. Merry, seeing that it was
indeed Lady Agatha, promptly bolted back into the kitchen.

“Yes, Miss Bigglesworth?” Lady Agatha called down the stairs.
“How can I help you?”

Eglantyne flushed. “I was wondering... that is, Anton is in
the library and we were rather hoping ... That is to say, we thought it might
be nice if we, well, if we began talking about the wedding preparations.”

“Wedding?”

“Yes.” Eglantyne nodded encouragingly, but Lady Agatha didn’t
give any sign of comprehension.
“Angela’s
wedding?”

Poor Lady Agatha, thought Eglantyne, her head was probably
positively
swimming
with all the weddings she had to keep track of.

And she’d been about to go somewhere, too.

“That is, if I’m not keeping you from important business in
town?”

“In town?” She’d come to the top of the stairs and now
stopped.

“Yes,” Eglantyne said. “Merry said you were packing a bag and
you are wearing a coat.”

“Oh!” Lady Agatha looked down at her coat and her eyes widened
as if she’d forgotten she’d put it on. “Oh, this! Ah, er, no, nothing that
won’t keep. I was... I was just going in to Little Bidewell to see if... I...
could...” she smiled and cleared her throat, “find some lace... to match... to
match some materials that I’d packed in my bag!” she finished triumphantly.

“But that can wait.” She unbuttoned her coat and dropped it
over the railing. “I’ll just come back here after our conversation and fetch my
coat.”

She swept down the stairs with her usual élan. “Where are we
going?”

Eglantyne gestured down the hall. “The library. Shall we?”

They arrived in the library to find Anton perched in his chair
behind his desk, trying to look fiscally responsible, and—how lovely!—Angela
had joined him. Everyone necessary to making the wedding go as wonderfully as
possible was here. Even Lambikins, Eglantyne noted with pleasure, was curled up
on the window seat.

“Lady Agatha,” Anton said, rising to his feet. “So good of you
to come. Pray, won’t you be seated?”

Wordlessly, Lady Agatha sat down and arranged the skirts of
her biscuit-and-rose-madder plaid morning dress. No one else with auburn hair
would dare wear that color combination, but Lady Agatha made it look chic.

Eglantyne took the window seat, picking up Lambikins and
resettling him on her lap, fondling his silky ears thoughtfully. How had
someone whose taste was acknowledged to be unassailable ever come to christen
her pet—and so unique and intelligent a creature, too—with such a vapid name?

She looked up. Anton looked helplessly at Eglantyne. Eglantyne
looked at Angela. Angela looked at her hands.

“Well.” Anton smiled. “Well, then.” He cleared his throat.
“Perhaps it would be best if we all made a clean breast of things, what?”

At this, Lady Agatha’s head popped up. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Anton said, nodding rapidly and forging ahead. “So,
here it is. We’re simply country folk, Lady Agatha. We know nothing about the
Society into which Angela will be marrying. Though,” he hastened to say as
Angela’s lower lip began to wobble, “though we know our darling girl will do
her new family proud.”

At
this,
Eglantyne’s lower lip began to wobble. Really.
Sometimes men could be so callous. As if she needed further reminders of the
loving child she would soon lose!

Anton divided his alarmed glance between the two women. “Just
as she has been a source of great pride to us, her natural family.”

“And will continue to be,” Lady Agatha said. “She’s marrying a
marquis. Not entering a nunnery.”

Anton turned to her gratefully. “Just so! But as she is
marrying a marquis, we look to you to guide us, Lady Agatha. Everyone has
assured us that the best we can do is to place ourselves wholly in your hands.

“So, here we are. In your hands. Totally in your hands.” When
this brokered no response, he went doggedly on. “Think nothing of expense.
Whatever you advise, we shall be guided by.”

He looked at Eglantyne. She nodded approvingly. He’d said it
all very well, just as they’d rehearsed. Now it was up to Lady Agatha.

“Fine,” Lady Agatha said.

Anton rubbed his hands together, like a yeoman about to embark
on a long, arduous day of plowing. “Angela tells us you’ve already chosen the
fabric and style for her wedding dress, and we have contacted the modiste you
recommended. She’ll be arriving late next week to begin work. So, what next?
Where do we begin?”

Lady Agatha thought a moment. “Food?”

Anton and Eglantyne traded confused looks. “But... the
caterer. I was given to understand that he would do all the food.”

A pink flush swept over Lady Agatha’s high cheekbones. Whether
it was from annoyance or some other emotion it was impossible to tell.

“Well, yes,” she said. “He’ll prepare the food and I am sure
he has arranged for the standard fare, but not the ... the... piece de
resistance. I always insist on choosing
that
with my clients.”

“Oh,” said Anton, nodding sagely. “What do you suggest?”

“Ah, but it is not my wedding,” Lady Agatha said with pretty
demureness. “What does our bride like?”

Three sets of eyes turned toward Angela. “I don’t care.”

“Well,” Lady Agatha said. “What of the groom? What does he
like?”

Once more everyone looked at Angela. And waited.

“Simple food,” she finally said. “Simple ... honest ... decent
food!” She turned her head quickly, blinking and staring out the window.

“Fine, then,” Lady Agatha said flatly. “We’ll have turnips and
cabbage.”

This brought Angela’s head wheeling around, mouth agape. She
met Lady Agatha’s direct gaze and flushed.

“Well?” Lady Agatha asked, a challenge in her tone.

“Turbot would be nice, I think,” Angela murmured humbly.

Lady Agatha smiled encouragingly. “And?”

“The crabs are very fine at this time of the year.”

“Oh. Oh?” Lady Agatha breathed. For the first time since
entering the room, a sparkle lit her dark eyes. “A fish motif?” she murmured.
“That might be interesting. Or a seaside theme. We could have the stage—I mean,
we could have the lawn set with little striped marquees.”

She paused and pondered. “No, it won’t do. We need something a
bit more exotic to impress the aud—the odder guests.”

It was wonderful to see Lady Agatha in the throes of the
creative process. Her brow furrowed in fierce concentration and her dark eyes
flashed as she mused.

“What’s fishy yet exotic?” she muttered to herself. “Something
like... a Brighton Beach wedding?” The question was obviously self-directed, as
was the grimace that followed it. “Whatever am I thinking? The Regency is so
done,
don’t you agree?”

The others nodded uncertainly. Lady Agatha’s fingers tapped
against the arm of her chair. Suddenly she straightened bolt upright, her eyes
wide as if she were witnessing an inner vision. “I have it! We’ll do
The
Mikado!”

“Lovely,” said Angela.

“Enchanting!” enthused Eglantyne.

“What’s a mick-a-doe?” asked Anton.

Thank heaven for her brother. The word “mick-a-doe” was vaguely
familiar, but she couldn’t have said where she’d heard it, let alone what it
was.

Lady Agatha gave a burble of laughter. “It’s a musical farce.
A production by Mr. Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan. Surely you’ve heard the
song ‘Titwillow’?”

“Yes!” Anton said happily. “Catchy little tune, eh? But what’s
that got to do with Angela’s wedding celebration?”

“It’s just a jumping-off point,” Lady Agatha said. “Gives us a
theme to work with, and cohesiveness. Very important, cohesiveness. Can’t have
a bunch of subplots jumping in all over the place, eh?”

“Subplots?” Anton asked, clearly confused. Not that Eglantyne
was feeling particularly sanguine herself.

“Discordant elements,” explained Lady Agatha kindly. “Things
that distract the ... the guests from enjoying the main event.”

She edged forward in her chair, her eagerness apparent in her
avid expression, her voice earnest.

She loves this,
Eglantyne thought.
No wonder she’s
so good at what she does. Her enthusiasm is absolutely catching and the way she
explains things is fascinating!

Why, Eglantyne quite felt excited herself. Anton looked
suitably impressed. And even Angela, who must be experiencing that time of
month herself if one was to gauge by her hitherto unhappy demeanor, looked
grudgingly intrigued.

“You see,” Lady Agatha went on excitedly, “the whole thing
must fit together, building toward the final, triumphant moments as the central
characters—that would be the bride and groom—are toasted by the happy company
of revelers. Everything from setting, to costuming, to timing and lighting,
must work together.” She flipped her hand in a Gallic gesture of disgusted
dismissal. “Otherwise, the thing’s a second-rate production.”

“I’d no idea,” Eglantyne breathed.

Lady Agatha smiled complacently and sank back in her seat.
“Few people who attend these things understand the careful orchestration that
goes into pulling one off smoothly. That’s how one knows one has succeeded.
When it looks easy.”

“Ah!” said Anton, grinning and rubbing his palms together. “By
Jove, I guess we’ve the real goods in you, Lady Agatha. Pray do whatever you
like—” He broke off abruptly, his gaze going first to Angela and then to
Eglantyne. “I mean, as long as Angela and Eglantyne here are happy with it—”

“By all means!” approved Eglantyne.

“Oh, yes!” said Angela.

“Oh, dear!” whispered Lady Agatha.

A conscience is like a pet: If you spoil it

by paying too much attention to it,

it’ll start yapping at the most

inopportune moments.

IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON THE DAY AFTER the croquet party when
Elliot received an answer to his inquiry about Lady Agatha. He stepped out of
the telegraph office and tucked the telegram he’d received from Whyte’s Nuptial
Celebrations into his coat pocket. As he did so, Lady Agatha emerged from the
train station depot trailing her small dog behind her. An unwieldy satchel
banged heavily against her legs as she strove to walk erectly. The wind that
had been rising since morning played havoc with the ridiculous and absurdly
fetching hat she wore.

She was so intent on her swollen luggage that he reached her
side without her noticing him. “Allow me.”

He leaned over to take hold of the handle. The satchel dropped
to the street with a thud and her head shot up. The brim of her hat caught him
under the chin.

“Sir Elliot!” The color leached from her face.

“Lady Agatha.” Could she still be thinking of their kisses?
She’d not be alone in that. All morning he’d sat in front of piles of briefs
and petitions, unable to concentrate on any of them, still feeling her in his
arms, her mouth open to his, supple and yielding.

He’d never given in to impulse the way he had when he’d kissed
her. It was as unlike him as swearing in the presence of a woman. And it had
awoken a storm of hunger in him.

“Oh, dear. My hat has scratched your face.” Her hand hovered
tantalizingly near his jaw before dropping. He hadn’t realized how much he’d
anticipated her touch until its promise was taken away. “I am sorry.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said. Before he realized it, he’d
reached out and set her hat back at its rakish angle atop her auburn hair. Once
again he’d acted on instinct, heedless of convention or appearances.
She
did
that to him, and if she kept looking up at him like that, he’d—

“Here,” he said again, reaching for her satchel, a wary eye on
her hat. “Allow me.”

She hastily grabbed the handle with both hands and hefted it
to her waist. “No need,” she panted. “I have it.”

“Where are you going?” he asked. A surge of alarm flowed
through him at the notion of her leaving here. Leaving him.

“Going?” She blinked innocently. “Why, whatever gave you that
idea?”

“You came from the train depot. You are carrying luggage.”

“Oh, this?” She glanced at her bag. “I thought to take the
train to that little town on the coast a few miles north. What’s its name? Whitlock?”

“Whitlock is thirty miles from here.”

“Is it?” she asked innocently. A fine sheen had sprung up on
her brow. She shifted the baggage with a little grunt. “No matter. The train to
Whitlock isn’t running today.”

“The postal runs daily, but the passenger trains only run
every other day,” he explained. “Little Bidewell is a very small, very remote
town.”

“So I gathered.”

“Why would you want to go to Whitlock, anyway?” It was
presumptuous as well as none of his business, and once more he’d seriously breached
the rules of etiquette, but the habit of inquiry was a hard one to break. And
anything this woman did interested him.

“The Bigglesworths and I have decided on a theme for the
wedding reception and I was going to Whitlock to... to look for shells. For
ornaments.” She looked inordinately pleased with herself. “So if I disappear
for a day or so, that’s where I’ll be. Collecting nice, big, seashells in
Whitlock. Not that my comings and goings would be of any particular interest to
you, Sir Elliot.”

He regarded her skeptically. He’d held her, kissed her. She’d
responded. In light of that, her comment seemed disingenuous. “You
underestimate yourself, Lady Agatha, and I would wager that’s rather a rare
occurrence with you.”

“You would?” She batted her eyelashes. “I’m sure I don’t know
what you mean, Sir Elliot, but if you are referring to yester—”

“Forgive me for questioning you. As a barrister, I’ve
obviously fallen into disagreeable habits,” he broke in. He wasn’t ready to
brook
that
subject. Not yet. “I only meant to offer you my assistance.
Should you desire to go to Whitlock, I’ll be happy to drive you.”

“No!” The word popped out so quickly Elliot was taken back.
Until he recalled that she had every right to be wary of being alone in his
company.

She’d pricked his pride yesterday, what with all her veiled
comments on his provincialism. Stupid of him to have been provoked. He couldn’t
imagine any other woman being able to accomplish it. He’d thought to teach her
that she was not the only one with experience and sophistication. Instead, he’d
discovered in her an inexpert femme fatale who’d clung to him with an ardor
that had stunned him, almost as much as his answering hunger that had risen in
response.

He didn’t know who was more shaken by the encounter, she or
he, but he did know he’d done a far better job of masking his reaction.
Whatever her past, she wasn’t nearly as tough as she pretended. He’d have to go
carefully. She was far more fragile than she’d admit and now he knew it.

“I promise you, despite what you have every reason to believe,
you are quite safe in my company.”

She eyed him dubiously while swinging the satchel to her other
side. It hit her leg with some force, drawing a wince from her.

“Please. Won’t you let me carry that for you?” he asked. “It
looks rather heavy.”

She stopped, clearly of two minds before lowering the bag to
her feet. “I’d be much obliged. It is rather heavy. On my way to the station I
stopped by the local shops and found some things I thought might make nice
favors for the tables, but it’s made the bag cumbersome.”

“It will be my pleasure.” He reached down and hoisted the
satchel. Good gads! She must be planning to decorate the Bigglesworth bridal
tables with quarry stone. “Where can I take this?”

“Well,” she said, “that’s something of a difficulty. Ham has
already driven back to The Hollies. I thought I’d be in Whitlock, you see.”

“Allow me to drive you back.”

“You,
Sir Elliot?” She looked him over very slowly and
very thoroughly, much in the manner one might inspect a fish at the market that
is being sold as fresh but that one suspects is days old. Even her dog, flopped
bonelessly at her feet, lifted his head and regarded him balefully. “Hmm.”

She was purposely trying to disconcert him. He ought to be
offended. Instead, he was amused. At some point in her life she’d gotten the
notion that the best way to get on was to put others at a disadvantage.

“I suppose,” she finally allowed and promptly tucked her hand
in the crook of his arm.

“We’d best hurry,” he said, trying to ignore the feel of her
pressed lightly against his side. “Unless I miss my guess, there’s a bit of
weather coming in off the coast.” He motioned toward the western sky.

She glanced at the horizon. “Then, by all means, let’s hurry,
as I suspect weather is a particular area of expertise for you ‘simple country
gentlemen.’ “

Ah, the beauty. She’d best have a care teasing him; he already
found her near irresistible. “You are too kind,” he returned. “My carriage is
by the telegraph office.”

She looked down at her dog. “Come on, then,” she said. “It’s
back to laps and lollies for you.”

The dog leapt to his feet and dashed down the street as if he
knew exactly where Elliot had left the buckboard. Indeed, he was waiting for
them when they arrived.

Elliot heaved Lady Agatha’s bag up onto the floor, Lambikins
leaping in on top of it. He turned to Lady Agatha. “I’m sorry I don’t have the
brougham. I hope you don’t mind sharing a seat?”

“Not at all.” She turned around and waited for him to assist
her up into the carriage. Her slender back fanned out into unfashionably
straight shoulders. But there was nothing unfashionable about her small waist
or the extravagant way it curved into rounded hips.

She looked over her shoulder. “Is anything
wrong,
Sir
Elliot?”

He liked her self-assurance and the obvious pleasure she took
in her womanliness. He even liked the candid way she used her charms to her
advantage. It was a wise woman who knew her own worth, and Elliot had always
been attracted to intelligence complemented by practicality. In fact, he liked
everything about this woman. It was too bad. She’d be gone soon.

“Nothing at all, Lady Agatha.” He clasped her small waist and
lifted. She was not a featherweight, though hardly heavy. There was substance
to her, pliant swells and smooth curves...

He released her and went around to unhitch the horse. He
climbed up onto the bench, gathered the reins, and clucked. The horse moved
forward, tossing its head anxiously as it sensed the coming weather.

They went a mile and then two. The air carried the ionized
scent of the sea with it, while overhead, the black-hooded gulls cut through
the cloud-heavy sky, buoyed on a high sea-born wind.

The horse fidgeted as the road narrowed, leading them through
an apple orchard where the wind whipped up again, pulling the blossoms from the
heavy flowering branches and showering them in blushing petals. Lady Agatha
laughed, lifting her face and closing her eyes like a child waiting for a kiss.

Elliot watched, as captivated as he was alarmed by the power
of her fascination. A swaying apple bough caught the brim of her hat, knocking
it off. Her hair tumbled down and was seized by the wind’s spectral fingers and
sent rippling behind her.

“I love storms!” she called out, catching her hat.

“The feeling looks mutual,” he answered, and her brows flew up
at his spontaneous bit of nonsense. But she laughed again, and sweeping her hat
to her chest in an impromptu bow lost her grip. The wind tore her hat from her
hand and blew it from the carriage into the field.

She stood up, heedless of the danger, making an involuntary
sound of dismay. Elliot reached up, clasping her wrist and pulling her down
beside him.

“Stay seated!” he shouted, wrestling the recalcitrant horse
off the road and into the field. With a touch of his whip, he sent the gelding
racing after the tumbling hat.

It was hardly the stuff of a maiden’s dream. Within a hundred
yards, her hat got caught up on a patch of gorse. It was a simple enough matter
to lean out of the carriage and snatch it up.

He straightened, the prize in hand, and pulled the gelding to
a halt. He dusted the twigs and grass from the hat, presenting it to her with a
rueful smile.

“Thank you,” Lady Agatha whispered, her eyes shining. He
stared at her, the blood rising in his face. She bemused and confused and
confounded him. One minute she was a cheeky vixen, the next she smiled at him
as though no one had ever done anything so gallant for her before.

“Not at all,” he said, horribly self-conscious. He passed a
hand over his hair. “It would be a crime to lose such a fetching hat.”

She stared at him a second more and then threw her arms around
his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “My hero!”

His arms ached to return her embrace, but he didn’t dare. He
was afraid he’d scare her off. For the first time since he’d met her she seemed
completely relaxed and carefree and happy. She pushed him lightly away,
grinning broadly as she fussed with the bedraggled hat, twitching the ribbons
back in place and blowing at the crushed silk flowers.

This had gone on long enough.

“Lady Agatha, we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” said Letty, looking up sharply.

He knew. He’d found out that she wasn’t Lady Agatha. Her
throat closed in panic.

The disarming and oddly appealing vulnerability Letty had
glimpsed was gone. An austere and determined—though still utterly gorgeous—man
sat beside her, his gaze so concentrated she felt he was reading her thoughts.

“We can’t talk here properly, anyway,” she said in what she
hoped was a reasonable voice. “Let’s just—”

“I am sorry to insist, but I have waited too long as it is.”

Letty stared at the rear quarters of the suddenly placid
horse. Why couldn’t the drat thing bolt or rear or something? Why couldn’t
Fagin wake up and jump out of the carriage? She nudged him with her foot. He
grumbled sleepily, rolled over to his back, and began snoring.

“I owe you my deepest apologies.”

She went still. “What?”

“I wish to apologize.”

Of course. He was a gentleman. How could she have forgotten?
She closed her eyes, savoring her relief. “Ho,” she breathed.
“The kiss!
Think
nothing of it. I accept your—”

“No.” The wind ruffled his dark hair, coaxing loose the deep
waves he kept so severely under control. It made him look younger, almost
boyish. Especially when he smiled like that. “I am sorry if you were distressed,
but I am
not
sorry I kissed you.”

A little thread of pleasure coursed through her.

“No. I apologize for being suspicious of you.”

Again, she froze. The wind rose again and fluttered her
skirts. The gelding fidgeted and was checked by a slight movement of Sir
Elliot’s strong, tanned hands. “Oh?”

“When you arrived, you... well, you were not what I expected.
So I telegraphed your offices in London and asked them to verify your
whereabouts as well as send me a brief physical description of you.”

“And?”

His look was sardonic. “You know quite well the answer. ‘Lady
Agatha currently in Northumberland. Stop. Description. Stop. Red-haired, late
twenties. Full stop.’ “

Late twenties? Letty thought incredulously.
Lady Agatha?
The
woman was thirty-five, if a day. But God bless her for her vanity. If she’d
admitted to her real age, Letty couldn’t possibly have passed for her.... In
the blink of an eye, Letty’s amusement turned to pique. Lady Agatha may well be
satisfied to pass as twenty-nine, but
she
was only twenty-five.