The Bridal Season (21 page)

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 importune 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 now 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.

“Why is that?” she asked quietly.

“Because,” he said, “I love you.”

The audience never boos the chorus.

SHE COULD HAVE probably handled that better.

Somehow Letty doubted the real Lady Agatha would have hiked up
her skirts and run away from a declaration of love. Come to that, glib,
dry-witted Letty Potts wouldn’t have either. The trouble was, thought Letty as
she pressed her poor scratched back against the billiard room door, she didn’t
feel much like Letty Potts these days.

She had to get hold of herself. Put things in perspective. She’d
seen this before, actors and actresses who became so immersed in their roles
that the lines between who they were and who they portrayed were blurred.

She’d become carried away, was all. And was it any wonder? She’d
fooled them all. Especially Elliot. Was it so surprising she’d fooled herself
as well?

Because for a moment there, for the space of two heartbeats,
she’d almost replied, “I love you.” Almost.

Thank God, she hadn’t. Because he didn’t really love her—no
matter what drivel she’d been dosing herself with about him wanting her and not
this duke’s daughter that didn’t exist. It was all of a piece.

Stage-door Johnnies were always falling in love with a heroine
created by a playwright’s prose, a director’s dab hand, and a lighting crew’s
artistry. So what if she’d authored her own lines, and blocked her own moves?
It was still just an act.

She should really be getting a good laugh out of it. She’d
almost bought into her own illusion. And why not? It was a nice illusion. A
borrowed personality, some remade clothes, and a man who loved the resultant
woman. How long could she keep the illusion going? If she tried very, very
hard, how long could she be the woman Elliot thought she was, the woman he
loved? Her heart raced.

Ultimately, he’d have to know she wasn’t Lady Agatha. And
there was no way his feeling for her would last beyond that revelation.

But what if it did?

Couldn’t she make it work somehow? She’d almost convinced
herself she was the woman Elliot believed her to be. How hard would it be to
complete the transformation and become that woman? Maybe she was already. Just
a little.