Bridal
Favors
CONNIE
BROCKWAY
A DELL BOOK
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
Also by Connie Brockway
Praise for The Bridal Season
Copyright Page
For my daughter, Rachel.
You are wonderful.
Mom
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
How do I stay this lucky? So many people kindly put their talents and knowledge at my disposal. In the BRIDAL series, Bill Paustis of Paustis Wine Company stepped up to the plate with information about nineteenth-century wines (but shouldn’t we have drunk an actual bottle of that Rothschild, Bill? For verisimilitude?); Dr. Rick Sheely supplied me with all the croquet terminology, plus looked inspiringly dapper in whites: plot-maven Susan Sizemore, as always, leapt into the lurch with pithy (and sometimes pointed) suggestions. And of course, my gratitude goes to Merry for being such a good sport about her myriad appearances (“I go by many names”); all the MFWers who showed up to keep me company in the produce department; Terri, Susie, Christina, Geralyn for listening; David and Rachel for loving me rather than disowning me during crunch time; and finally to Grace Pedalino—again, for who knows what.
Prologue
Chelsea, England
The last quarter of Victoria’s reign
YOUNG EVELYN CUMMINGS Whyte’s stomach growled loudly, and she shot a glance at the other side of the bed where her sister slept blissfully on. If this kept up, she’d have to do something to quell the sounds lest they wake Verity. It was unfortunate that they had to share a room, but the number of guests their parents had invited to the house for Verity’s unofficial launch into Society had exceeded the number of bedrooms. Still, it was imperative that Verity be in good looks on the morrow. For herself . . . well, dark circles under her eyes really made no difference.
Evelyn tipped the pad of paper she held into the gaslight and squinted, idly wondering whether she ought to get spectacles. She wrote “Move Verity to Mama’s room,” beneath a column entitled “Things To Do,” then regarded the other items as one would a familiar and irritating adversary one has met and bested countless times before.
Many a girl—let alone an adult—would find such a long inventory of duties and responsibilities intimidating, but not young Lady Evelyn. Her stomach growled again and Verity flopped over, muttering, her golden curls spilling across her plump, pink cheek.
Evelyn put the pad of paper down and flicked back the coverlet, resigning herself to a trip to the kitchen for a stomach-settling glass of milk. She snagged the first dressing gown her hand encountered, Verity’s frilly peignoir, and shrugged into it. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of movement in the bedroom’s large, beveled mirror. She hesitated before crossing to it, drawn by curiosity and trepidation—trepidation because Evelyn Cummings Whyte had only recently discovered she was ugly.
Somberly, she regarded her reflection.
She saw a small, childishly narrow figure drowning in an avalanche of lace. As the only light was behind her, her features were cast in deep shadows. Still, she could make out an angular face amidst a mass of black hair held atop a stalk of a neck so thin it seemed the weight of her head must snap it. Deep pools indicated where her eyes were located and a dark, wide line betrayed her mouth.
Impossible to tell anything of the figure beneath all that satin, but peeping from beneath the fabric cascading to the ground were narrow white feet. Curiously, she pulled the sleeves of the peignoir up and noted that her wrists were not appreciably smaller than her forearms.
She pulled the neck of her nightgown down. Morbidly thin, that woman had said, and seeing her chest, Evelyn had to agree. Even in the dim light she could make out her sternum; where the manubrium attached to the clavicle, the bones jutted out with knifelike acuity.
She recalled the overheard conversation: “A little stick person,” kind-faced Mrs. Bernhardt had whispered to her friend. “A golem, the child is, dark and twiggy.”
Evelyn hadn’t realized they’d been speaking of her. Indeed, she’d been in the midst of turning around to see this “golem” herself when she’d heard Mrs. Bernhardt’s friend reply, “It amazes me that sisters can be so dissimilar. Verity so pretty and the younger one—tch!”
Since then, she’d heard whispered charges of ugliness enough times to realize it must be true. The problem was she didn’t feel ugly! And if Gregor Mendel’s suggested method of foretelling the traits of inheritance were correct, she ought to be just as lovely as her mother and sister.
Unfortunately, apparently people were not beans.
Because Evelyn’s mother Francesca was not only beautiful but ethereally so. And kind. And sweet-natured. Her father Charles, the Duke of Lally’s heir, was certainly decent looking. He’d once been considered “a catch” who’d eluded the matrimonial for years before marrying Francesca.
In due course, she’d presented her husband with a beautiful girl. Charles was charmed, and prepared to be similarly dazzled three years later when Francesca gave birth to another daughter, as yellow and insistent as Verity was pink and sweet.
Francesca, who’d never spent much time considering her own beauty, certainly didn’t spend any thinking about Evelyn’s lack of it. And Charles, coming late to love, had love to spare. Looks, or lack thereof, were not much thought of in the Whyte household.
It wasn’t that Evelyn was unaware of Verity’s beauty—it just never occurred to her to measure her own looks against her sister’s. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. She’d too many other things to do and think about. For almost as soon as it became apparent that Evelyn was not going to be “a beauty,” it became just as apparent that Evelyn was “an interesting and capable young person.”
She became her father’s favorite companion. Her curiosity aroused his, her dauntlessness provoked his pride, and her intelligent, homely little face touched his heart. Added to which, she was damned good company.
Not that she didn’t work at maintaining her place in his affections. Since Charles was an indifferent planner, she became an expert planner, and since neither her parents nor her sister had the vaguest notion of what the word “economy” meant, Evelyn became a first-rate economizer.
Thus Evelyn, loved by her mother, cosseted by a tenderhearted sister, and adored by her father, had reached the ripe age of fifteen uniquely unaffected by the deficits the mirror reflected. But—a shiver of hurt flashed across her face—she’d never thought of herself as ugly.
She looked around, uncertain how to handle these new, unpleasant feelings, and her glance fell on the Bible open on the bedside table. Didn’t the Bible advise “If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out”? Well, she certainly wasn’t going to perform self-mutilation, but she could keep with the spirit of the thing. She would simply have this and every other mirror in her room removed and by avoiding looking in them avoid being tempted to compare her looks to others’. She would not succumb to feelings of jealousy and self-consciousness.
They were destructive. Besides, there was no use in wasting time or effort on that which could not be remedied.
With such a practical resolve already heartening her, Evelyn headed out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. She was halfway down the dark hall when she heard the click of a door opening ahead of her. She stopped. A tall, masculine figure in evening dress emerged from Mrs. Underhill’s room.
Apparently Mr. Underhill had taken time out from his busy diplomatic schedule to attend the party after all. She waited politely for him to finish closing the door before speaking. But he turned so abruptly that he bumped into her before she could speak.
“Uff!”
Strong hands reached out and roughly clasped her upper arms.
“Please,” she said, “if you are concerned that you are keeping me from falling, let me assure you, you are not. You may unhand me.”
A soft, sharp inhalation came from somewhere above her head. “Who the devil are you?” a deep masculine voice demanded.
“I am Evelyn Cummings Whyte. Would you kindly let go of me?”
“Evelyn?” he murmured, loosening his grip. She waited. Adults, especially aristocratic adults, could be so thick. “The little sister?”
She peered up at him. “Yes, Mr.—” Her voice trailed off as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. It hadn’t been Mr. Underhill who’d crept out of Mrs. Underhill’s room. It was Mr. Justin Powell!
She tensed, realizing what she’d stumbled upon or, rather, what had stumbled upon her. A tryst. An assignation. A clandestine rendezvous! She gulped. “Mr. Powell!”
“Blast. Where were you going?” he whispered tautly.
“To the kitchen.”
He’d released one of her arms, but his grip on the other tightened. He turned and pulled her after him toward the stairs. He must want to talk. Which should be very interesting, she thought grimly.
He certainly didn’t fit her idea of a . . . a masher. During his days here, he’d been far more likely to be poring over the maps in her father’s study than playing badminton with the other young people. Oh, he was pleasant and all, but he always seemed a bit . . . vague. Lackadaisical.
He wore no signs of nonchalance now. And she knew why.
Fortunately, Evelyn was not easily shocked, but poor Verity— “Verity,” she said grimly, “will be horrified.”
“Hush!” Mr. Powell grated out over his shoulder.
He hastened her down the stairs and to the back of the house, where he nudged the kitchen’s green baize door open. He thrust her inside, following and fumbling for the gas jet beside the door. In a second, his aquiline features leapt to life in the harsh, sulfur glare.
Evelyn studied him. She’d thought him rather handsome, though she imagined the more particular young ladies would find his rumpled suit jacket and brown, overlong hair too raffish to invite admiration. And his manner too distracted to be nice. She did not think any woman would think him distracted now.
His lips were taut, and the amiable vacuity that was characteristic of him had been replaced with intensity. She’d assumed from his repeated polite refusal to join in any physical activity that he was lazy and unathletic. Now, she was not so sure. Certainly he’d dragged her after him easily enough.
He stood staring down at her a second before raking his hand through his hair. “What the devil am I—Damnation!”
“Probably,” Evelyn agreed.
He glanced down, clearly startled.
“Oh,” she said caustically, “your comment was rhetorical rather than prophetic.”
A surprised smile danced momentarily on his lean face. “Impudent,” he said.
“Imprudent,” she rejoined.
“Gads! Quite a mouth you have for a . . . what? Twelve-year-old?”
“Fifteen,” she stated, heat pouring into her cheeks. She knew she looked young for her years. She must also look bizarre, bundled in her sister’s most feminine wrapper, her golem feet splayed out on the cold kitchen tiles. She lifted one foot and pressed it on top of the other.
He saw the involuntary movement and made an exasperated sound. Before she knew it, he’d placed his hands on either side of her waist and hoisted her up, depositing her on the edge of the kitchen worktable.
“What were you coming here for?” he asked.
“A glass of milk.”
Calmly, he opened the icebox and withdrew a pitcher. Then he hunted through the cupboards until he found a mug. He poured milk into it and placed it in her hands. She sipped it politely as he watched like a determined nursemaid for a full minute before ducking into the larder.
He rooted about, returning with a loaf of bread and a slice of cold turkey breast from last night’s menu. He tore the bread into two roughly equal-sized pieces and sandwiched the meat between them.
“Here,” he said, holding it out.
“No, thank you,” she said primly, feeling at a distinct disadvantage, what with her feet dangling thirty inches above the floor.
“Go on,” he urged. “Eat. You need it.”
She started to protest but then noticed that he’d crossed his arms over his chest in what Evelyn was beginning to suspect was a universal sign of male intractability. With a shrug, she accepted the sandwich and bit into it. It tasted better than she’d anticipated.
When she finished she looked up. “Well?”
“Precisely,” he said. “Now, Lady Evelyn, about what you saw . . .” He trailed off, frowning, and abruptly swiped her upper lip with his forefinger. At her shocked expression, he smiled. “Milk mustache. Are you sure you’re fifteen?”
Again, she blushed. She refused to be flustered by a common masher. Or even an uncommon one. “Quite sure. Now, you were saying?”
“Blast if I know.” He cocked his head.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“I am trying to decide how much you saw, what you suspect, and if I can convince you not only to be discreet but to be absolutely mum on the subject of my whereabouts this evening,” he answered with amazing ingenuousness.
“I should imagine that depends on how glib you are over the next few minutes,” she replied with equal candor.
He laughed. It was a deep, honest sound that nearly made her smile. But then she remembered that, in all probability, all mashers had rich, enticing laughs.
“Did you say fifteen or fifty?” he asked, the amusement still . . . What a spectacular color! How had she failed to notice his eyes before? They were pale
blue-green, a sort of viridian, the silkier nephrite sort, like the little copper-flecked Ming dynasty horse in her father’s library—
“Lady Evelyn?”
“Hm?” she replied, trying to drag her gaze away from the fascinating color of his eyes.
“Do you know who I am?”
The question was so absurd it managed to interrupt her even more absurd fascination with his eyes. “Of course I do. You are Mr. Justin Powell, until recently a military officer of some junior rank in Her Majesty’s army—forgive me, but I have failed to remember which.
“Your father is Colonel Marcus Powell, Viscount Sumner, lately of Her Majesty’s army. He owns a woolen mill in Hampshire and the majority share of a coal mine in the north of Canada. You are his only son and heir.
“Your maternal grandfather is retired Brigadier General John Harden, a rather famous career soldier who served with Wolseley in South Africa. Though he spends the greater part of the year in town, he also owns North Cross Abbey, a renovated abbey built in the mid–sixteenth century.” Having finished her recital, she folded her hands in her lap and waited expectantly.
He stared at her, bemused. “My God, you are well versed.”
“I went to great trouble to see that no unacceptable person was invited to Verity’s party.”
He ignored her pointed stare. “You went to trouble?”
“Yes. I made up the guest list.”
“You’re jesting.”
“Not at all. You see, Father takes a dim v
iew of any potential suitor for Verity’s hand. The guest list would have been cut down to nothing if left up to him. And Mother is far too trusting.” Evelyn shifted under his astonished gaze and added defensively, “Verity helped make the list.”
“Kind of you to consult her.”
“Well,” Evelyn allowed, “it is her husband we’re endeavoring to find.” The mention of husbands brought Mr. Underhill back to mind. She narrowed her eyes on Mr. Powell as he leaned negligently against the wall. “You, of course, will be retired from the running.”
“Running? Oh. Yes.” He nodded morosely. “Of course.”
She felt a grudging smidgen of respect for him. He’d taken that gracefully enough. Since there was nothing left to discuss, she prepared to slide off the table. He quickly pushed away from the wall.
“As interesting as your compendium of knowledge about me is, that wasn’t what I meant when I asked if you knew who I was,” he said.
“Oh?” she asked.
“I should have said, ‘Do you know what I am?’ ”
She eyed him sourly. “I am afraid I do.”
He went very still. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she said severely. “You are what Verity’s friends call ‘a wolf.’ ”
He blinked. Straightened. Blinked again. And burst into delighted laughter. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?” she asked, miffed he’d laughed at her cold, disapproving pronouncement.
“I am the Mr. Justin Powell you described, but I am also, in my own right, the very rich, the very influential Mr. Justin Powell.”
Influential? Not that she’d ever heard, but she allowed that there might be things about him she hadn’t uncovered. She regarded him doubtfully.
“I really am.”
She remained mute.
He threw up his hands. “I cannot believe I am standing in a kitchen at two in the morning trying to persuade a skinny fifteen-year-old girl of my worth!” he muttered in exasperation. “Look, Lady Evelyn, I have friends. Important people listen to me.”
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