The Bridal Season (26 page)

She couldn’t think, could only feel. She’d never realized how
big he was, the breadth of him, the heaviness of him. He enveloped her
completely, surrounding her with sensation, hot and satiny-smooth skin, crisp
starched shirt and cool, damp hair.

She wanted more. She wanted him inside her. Filling her. She
wanted to complete this ancient dance.

She closed her eyes. Her hips found the rhythm he urged and
moved with it. Against her throat he drew a sharp breath. Abruptly he reached
down, clasping her other thigh and lifting her higher, settling her at his
waist. She was naked there, and he... With a start of trepidation she
recognized the blunt width pressed against her. Her legs tightened
involuntarily.

He groaned, lifting his head and, slanting his mouth over
hers, kissing her fiercely, possessively, a thin edge of anger in his
aggression. She returned his kisses, her hunger rising.

He pushed and slid into the sleek, swollen entrance. He tore
his mouth from hers. She heard him draw a ragged breath, felt him bracket her
face in between his hands, pinning her motionless to the wall.

His breath sloughed over her lips. She opened dazed eyes,
needy and agitated.

His glittering eyes locked with hers.

“I want to see you. I want to see you take me.”

He pushed slowly. Her eyes flew wide, startled by the
sensation. He was thick, stretching her as he pushed slowly into her. She
inhaled with discomfort as her body tried to accommodate him.

Something flickered in his gaze. He stopped moving, his chest
working like a bellows, his skin dusky, a sheen of perspiration covering him.

But the stopping was far worse than the slight pain.

“No.” She shifted. His jaw worked reflexively. His eyelids
squeezed shut. But he didn’t move.

She pushed herself down, just a bit. His lips parted in a
grimace. She moved, taking him deeper inside, past the pain, leaving only the
thick feel of him buried within her. Want returned, redoubled. She moved again.

“Please,” she said. “Please do that again. Move again.”

“God!” The oath burst from him, releasing the tight rein of
self-control. He drove deep into her, thrusting urgently. Again and again, he
thrust into her, building her need all over again, taking her past the point of
no return, riding the wave now, cresting with it, making it her own.

“Give in to it,” he urged hoarsely, straining above her.

She did. She threw her head back and felt him around her, in
her, above her, working her, giving to her. Pleasure engulfed her, speared
through her, and blossomed, rippling through her until she sobbed with the pure
beauty of it, collapsing in its wake, a house of cards undone by a tempest.

And when it was over, and her arms hung limp about his
shoulders, he eased himself from her body, still potent and hard and
unsatisfied. Effortlessly, he lifted her and carried her to his bed and laid
her down on it.

Dazed and uncertain, she watched him stand up and finish
unbuttoning the brilliant white shirt. He stripped it from his body in one
fluid movement and tossed it behind him. He was just as beautiful as she’d
imagined, athletic and lean and clean-limbed. The black hair covering his chest
narrowed and thickened into a dark band that rode a flat belly corrugated with
muscles.

He pushed his trousers from his hips, and her appreciation of
his body turned to awe.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ve had sex,” he said grimly. “Now, for the rest of the
night, we make love.”

Passion is tragedy-in-waiting.

ELLIOT HAD NEVER BEEN ANGRIER IN HIS life. She’d stood there,
shaking like a leaf, and told him she wanted a “tumble.” As if he were some cicisbeo
she could use to garner experience on instead of a man who loved her heart and
soul, body and spirit.

He hadn’t meant it to go so far, but the longing, the
desperation and hunger had all conspired against him, driving him to one
thought, one intent: She wanted lust. Fine. He could teach her about lust.

But by the darkest hour of the night, by the time the storm
had finally broken, they’d both learned about love.

He looked down at where she lay deep in slumber beside him.
The glow from the sconce above wrapped her in a soft cocoon of diffused light.
Damson-colored highlights gleamed in her hair. A golden lacquer washed the
satiny hill of her naked shoulder. The pristine bed sheets were tangled about
her hips. One slender arm stretched out, her throat arched as though arrested
in her culmination, leaving her in her satiation both defenseless and exposed.

Once again, he felt the stir of desire. They’d been in his bed
for hours. He could not press her again. There had been a tincture of
desperation in her hunger for him that she hadn’t been able to hide. Whatever
its source, he would vanquish it.

He loved her and, by God, he knew she loved him. She had not
said so, but her arms and lips and touch had spoken far more eloquently then
simple syllables could have done.

In Letty he had rediscovered his own heart, his own capacity
for pleasure, for pain, for passion. He could not go back again. And, by God,
he wouldn’t. Not now. Not when he knew she loved him.

He gathered her to him, intending only to revel in the feel of
her, and closed his eyes. But soon exhaustion and passion and morphine wrested
consciousness from him and he, too, finally slept.

Morning steeped the room in light the color of weak tea. Letty
woke instantly, panic already closing her throat, anguish humming through her
like an electrical current. She was in Elliot’s arms, a leg draped across him.

For one all-too-short minute, she forced all thought from her
mind, absorbing the sensations, the flat hardness of his male body, the
denseness of the lean muscular arm thrown over her waist, the velvety ladder of
his ribs. But her thoughts gnawed at her pleasure, driving her to raise her
gaze to his face.

He was beautiful. His nascent beard darkened his jaw; his
lashes lay like thick smudges on his cheek. A small line knit a crease between
his brows, and the corners of his mouth curved downward as if his slumber was
troubled.

Dear God, he would hate her when he discovered who she was,
what she was. She had to leave.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She mustn’t sob;
she mustn’t wake him. She would simply take what she could, a thief gathering
stolen moments from a borrowed life, and slink away. She couldn’t stay; she had
nothing left to give him. No more lies left. Just the truth: She loved him.

And she would
not
stay to watch his love turn to
hatred.

She was a coward. She had always been a coward, afraid to
love. Too many lessons had conspired to teach her the dangers of it. Too many
lessons had convinced her it was better to live life as a merry pretender,
acting whatever part made it easiest to slide by uninvolved where you might be
uninvited. Indeed, she was so afraid of love that she couldn’t even sing a love
song convincingly.

A damn music hall singer and a coward, that’s what she was.
That was the sum total of Letty Potts.

She had to get out of here. Before he woke up.

Carefully, she eased his arm off of her and shifted her weight
from the bed. Quietly, she donned the silk robe and pulled it closed before
slipping from the room and hastening down the empty corridor to her room.

Within twenty minutes she’d dressed in her damp, mud-stained
ball gown, found her slicker, and entered Angela’s room. A comfortable-looking,
white-haired woman was snoring in a corner chair, her stockinged feet propped
up on a little stool. The motherly Mrs. Nichols.

Letty tiptoed over to Angela’s side. The girl was resting
comfortably, her breathing relaxed, her color even. Letty smiled. At least
Angela’s problems had been easily enough fixed.

The girl stirred and her eyes opened. “Lady Agatha?”

“Quietly. We don’t want to wake the worthy Mrs. Nichols, do
we? And, please, my friends call me Letty.”

A blush of pleasure tinted Angela’s round cheeks. “Letty.
Where did you go last night? I was so worried, and Sir Elliot was beside
himself.”

A few days ago she would have been tickled that she’d caused
Elliot distress. Now she only felt a stab of guilt. She plastered on a cocky
smile. “I went to fetch your letter, little goose,” she whispered. “Can’t have
incriminating missives floating about, can we?”

“You did?” Angela’s eyes widened. “Did you... did you get it?”

“Yes.” Letty pulled the letter from the pocket of the slicker
and handed it to Angela.

“And Kip?” Angela said, eyes wide on the incriminating paper.
“He isn’t angry? He’s accepted that I love another?”

It took an effort not to make a sharp retort about what Kip
Himplerump could do with any ire he felt, but she refrained. It was not her
place to question what value Angela set on her past friendship with the boy. It
was but another of the lessons she would take with her from Little Bidewell.

“He’s seen the light,” she said.

A smile lit Angela’s young face, and seeing the beauty of that
suddenly unburdened smile, Letty found herself glad she’d gotten the dratted
letter. With a vigor that boded well for a quick recovery, Angela tore the
soggy letter into little scraps.

“How can I thank you enough, Lad—Letty?”

“Dictate any future correspondence,” Letty suggested dryly.

“Henceforth I shall only write letters to my Hughie.”

“And don’t call your poor marquis ‘Hughie,’ “ Letty said. “At
least not in public.”

Angela nodded solemnly.

“Have you seen Sir Elliot?” Angela asked.

The question caught Letty off guard. Her cheeks warmed, and
from the interested expression on Angela’s face, she knew they’d colored up as
well. Luckily, Angela was too well raised to make a remark about her blush.

“Yes. I have. And I have thanked him for his aid.” She knew
her words sounded stilted but she couldn’t help it. “But now, I have to go back
to The Hollies. At once.”

“Why?”

“Ah. Because. Because... Sir Elliot didn’t realize I would be
in such a pitiable state when he manufactured his story about fetching us from
The Hollies during the storm. It would be rather hard to explain why I hadn’t
bothered to change before going off with him.

“So, you see, I must return to The Hollies before your father
and aunt arrive home.” Thank heavens her wits hadn’t entirely deserted her. The
excuse even made a sort of sense.

“But what shall you say then? Why would I be here? Alone!” Her
eyes widened. “I mean, well, Sir Elliot is very old and very honorable and
quite above anything
untoward, but
...”

If she only knew, thought Letty. “Angela, don’t worry. I shall
tell everyone that we both came with Sir Elliot last night but that you slipped
upon exiting his carriage and hit your head. I shall explain that I came back
at first light so I could be there when your aunt and father arrived to inform
them of matters.”

Angela scooted up against the pillows. “But that still means I
have been here alone. And I am, after all, an unwed woman, and he’s—”

“Mrs. Nichols has been in here with you all night. She’s still
here. Asleep—if you haven’t woken her up, that is. Your reputation is safe.”

The girl sighed gustily. “Of course.” She looked a little
sheepishly at the recumbent figure across the room. Mrs. Nichols snored
blissfully on. “Silly of me. I should have realized Sir Elliot would take every
precaution against compromising a lady.”

“Every precaution,” Letty agreed tonelessly.

“In fact,” Angela went on, chuckling, “if he thought he’d been
the least degree lax in guarding a lady’s reputation, he’d be at the church
this very Sunday demanding the banns be read. He is
such
a stickler for
propriety.”

The girl couldn’t know that her words stabbed Letty’s heart
like a knife. “Indeed? I had best be going. I should like to creep down the
back stairs before the rest of the staff is about.”

And find a corner and curl up and die in it.

“All right.” Impulsively Angela held out her arms, and after a
second’s amazement and another’s awkwardness, Letty bent down and embraced the
girl.

“Now I can forget all about Kip and that letter and
concentrate on your wonderful plans for our wedding. Oh, Letty, heaven must
have sent you,” Angela whispered, a little catch in her voice, “because you have
set everything right.”

The devil must have sent her.

It was the only conceivable explanation. Because after leaving
him breathless with wanting her, after sharing every intimacy with him, after
flinging wide the doors to his cautious heart and making it her own, she’d
left. Without a word, without a scribbled note of explanation. With only the
memory of her lovemaking to cloud his thoughts, fire his blood, and inflame his
anger.

Somehow Elliot contrived a calm expression for Angela, who sat
being spoon-fed broth by Mrs. Nichols.

“And did Lady Agatha say whether she expected to return?”

“I don’t think so,” Angela said. “She said she would have to
hurry to get everything ready for the wedding by the time she leaves.”

“Leaves?” A more attentive listener might have noted the
careful timbre of Elliot’s voice.

Angela’s mouth pulled down in the corners. “Yes. She has
another wedding celebration to plan. She can only stay to finish the
arrangements here, and then she plans to return to London forthwith.”

“Does she now?” Elliot smiled around his clenched teeth.
“Well, I had best leave you to your recovery, Miss Angela. I’m sure your father
and aunt will be visiting soon. I’ll show them up as soon as they arrive.”

“Thank you.

Elliot bowed before exiting the room and shutting the door
behind him. There, in a calm and moderately pitched voice, he let lose a string
of every profane word in his vocabulary.

As a former army officer, he had an impressive command of the
vernacular.

The toughest role is real life.

“PROFESSOR MARCH SHOULD BE PLEASED with the results of his
party, no doubt about it. Everyone’s having a grand time, and Miss Angela looks
beautiful.” Merry whispered to Grace Poole from her position beside the
white-draped sideboard at the far end of a long drawing room.

She, Cabot, and Merry were at the manor on loan from The
Hollies, since the March household was inadequately staffed for this large a
party. Mrs. Nichols, bless her soul, was a fine daily but hardly a chef—a term
Grace had taken to applying to herself since Lady Agatha had delegated her to
make the bridal cakes for Miss Angela’s wedding. And since all the guests were
clustered around Miss Angela, at the other end of the room, it was safe to chat
quietly.

“Wouldn’t know she’d hit her head and been laid up in bed less
than a week gone by now, would you?” Grace commented softly, watching as a
small disembodied hand emerge from beneath the tablecloth and began an
exploratory journey toward the candied grapes. Tommy Jepson, if she guessed right.

“Looks happier than I’ve seen her in a good while, too,” Merry
agreed. She’d spied the creeping hand, too, and rapped its knuckles sharply,
but only after it had nabbed a cluster of grapes. “Knocked the jimjams clean
out of her, I expect.”

“Too bad things between Lady Agatha and Sir Elliot aren’t
going so well,” Grace murmured, sliding more hot turnovers onto a silver
chafing dish beside the punch bowl.

Merry pursed her lips. “I’m sure you’re wrong. Why, you can
see clear as day that he’s head over heels for her. It gives me the flutters
the way he watches her when he thinks no one’s looking.” She blushed at the
memory of Sir Elliot’s face as he’d watched Lady Agatha at church last Sunday.
It had definitely not been a proper “church” sort of look.

“Well, that much is true,” Grace agreed. “Not that there’s
been much chance for him to look at her. She’s kept to her room all week long,
busy at her work. And when she does come out of her room, her eyes is all
red-rimmed and her face is pale. She’ll work herself ill at this rate.”

She selected a petit four from a tray, lifted the tablecloth,
and waved it enticingly beneath the table. A little hand emerged, snagged it,
and disappeared. Stifled giggles emerged from beneath the table. Tommy Jepson
and his sister Sarah, too.

“Well,” Merry said tartly, her voice low, “I think Lady Agatha
is a trace, well,
scared
of Sir Elliot.”

“Scared?” Grace chuckled. “Merry, you innocent goose. He
fascinates her. And she’s miserable about it. Though why a handsome woman being
courted by a man like Sir Elliot should be miserable is beyond me.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t feel she can marry so far beneath her
station?” Merry suggested.

“What station?” Grace hissed in exasperation. “When all is
said and done, Merry, Lady Agatha is a woman who hires out her services to
whoever can afford them.”

“When all is said and done,” Merry whispered back heatedly,
“she is a duke’s daughter.”

“Yes, yes,” Grace said impatiently. “But she don’t seem full
of herself, in spite of it. Besides, clear as clear, she’s in love with him.”

“How can you tell?” whispered Eglantyne, who’d come up
unnoticed beside them. Lambikins lounged in her arms, eyeing the turnovers
hopefully.