Bridal Favors

by Connie Brockway

  She sighed with her relief. “Good. Now, might I suggest we return to the abbey before poor Merry sends for the local militia? I’ve been gone over an hour.”

  “Of course,” he agreed pleasantly. “It’s not far as the crow flies.” He ushered her forward. “After you.”

  She smiled, pleasantly surprised by his gracious attitude, and moved ahead to a thinly marked footpath. She hadn’t gone ten steps, however, when she heard him say in light, reasonable, and perfectly conversational tones, “You know, Evie, strictly speaking, there is one potential—what shall we call her? Victim? Beneficiary?—who, by the terms of my vow, is not precluded from my attention.”

  She should have realized he wouldn’t back down so easily, not with all that male ego on the line.

  “Oh?” she asked. “Who?”

  “Why, Evie, you.”

  Chapter 7

  JUSTIN WATCHED EVELYN bolt like a rabbit up the path. In a few seconds, however, dignity overcame impulse and she settled into a half-trot, her heavy skirts sweeping the path as she launched into garbled speech, pointedly ignoring his provocative statement.

  Not that he had any intention of seducing her. But she needn’t know that.

  “We must be nearing the house. I seem to recall passing these toadstools,” she babbled. “I remarked them because they were such an unusual color and their gills are so deep. But perhaps all toadstools are of such a hue in this area, and all toadstool gills are equally deep. In my native county we have several varieties of toadstools, their color ranging from . . .”

  He let her go on without interruption, reflecting that a few more minutes of uncertainty would probably do her a world of good. He smiled. He only wished his sisters were here to see how effectively he’d rattled Evie.

  Justin was not given to self-delusion. In his profession, a man needed to be certain of his strengths and equally aware of his weaknesses. Thus, while he knew a susceptibility to members of the fairer sex was not one of his weaknesses, he also knew that charming them was just as assuredly not one of his talents.

  But then, he’d never tried to be a ladies’ man. Men who used women were cads. So why, he asked himself thoughtfully, had it provoked him so much when she’d snickered at him? Now, there was a poser.

  “. . . will be wondering where I am.” Evelyn was still chattering frantically on. “I hope she’s not too distressed, but wouldn’t you be distressed if a friend of yours disappeared in an unfamiliar woods for over an hour? I would. I would be having kittens, as I very much fear Merry is. Oh! Look! There’s Merry!”

  Evie burst from the edge of the wood like an agitated partridge, arms flapping, skirts snapping, her thick black hair brandishing leaves and twigs. “Yoo-hoo! Darling! Here we are!”

  Justin trailed her into the clearing, looking in the direction she pointed. On the back of Buck Newton’s farm wagon a buxom, redheaded woman sat swinging her legs. She was not having fits. She was blushing and giggling as if she’d been named Queen of the Dairy at some county fair.

  The object of all this girlish attention was shuffling in place, crushing his soft-brimmed hat in his huge paws and swatting it against his thighs.

  Evelyn, either ignoring or failing to recognize a flirtation when she saw one, raced the last ten yards and grabbed hold of the older woman’s hands. “Oh, Merry! I am so sorry, darling!” she cried. “You must have been scared out of your wits! Forgive me for frightening you! I . . .”

  She stopped. Her tinted lenses magnified the widening of her eyes. She looked like some sort of bug, what with those huge eyes and the twigs sticking out of her hair like antennae.

  “Oh!” She laughed nervously. “See, Mr. Powell? I told you not to fret!”

  “I never fret.”

  She ignored him. “And we weren’t gone as long as you thought. But then, time can drag so when one is lost.”

  “I wasn’t lost.”

  “Misplaced, then,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps you were misplaced, but I certainly—”

  “Mr. Powell!” She swung around, smiling at him with determined brightness. “I don’t believe I’ve introduced you to Miss Merry Molière, the couturière genius behind Whyte’s Nuptial Celebrations. Merry, this is Mr. Powell, who has so graciously rented us his abbey.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Molière,” Justin said.

  The redheaded woman slid off the back of the open wagon and bobbed once. “Enchanté, Mr. Powell.”

  “Did Beverly tell you which rooms we are to have?” Evie asked.

  “I haven’t asked him yet,” Merry answered in a small voice.

  “Oh? Why didn’t . . . ?” Evie stopped. “Oh! Well, maybe you could ask him now?”

  “I will at once,” Merry agreed, and steamed off in the direction of the abbey, leaving Evie smiling uncomfortably at Buck Newton.

  She was altogether unexpected, this Evelyn Cummings Whyte, thought Justin. She was so painfully unadorned. To the point where one was almost embarrassed for her, she seemed so naked.

  None of the usual physical embellishments for Evie, none of the froufrous and gewgaws most women stuck to their persons, no frippery or frills or lace or bows. No enhancements of any kind to draw a chap’s eye and get him to offer the sort of gallantries ladies liked. It might have been rather pitiful if one didn’t realize that Evie had other weapons, potent ones, like intelligence and imagination and enterprise.

  And why, Justin asked himself as Evie began dragging a valise toward the front door, why was he spending so much time thinking about Evelyn Cummings Whyte when—he took the valise from her without asking permission, tossed it over his shoulder, and carried it into the front hall—he had more important fish to fry? Like the pair of eelpout currently occupying the Cookes’ cottage.

  Yesterday, Justin had spent the afternoon chatting up the local lads at the town pub, where he’d heard the interesting news that the Cookes had rented their summer cottage to a pair of foreign brothers who’d come to partake of the fresh country air.

  When Justin voiced his surprise that the Cookes had advertised their cottage for rent, he’d been quickly corrected. The Cookes hadn’t advertised; they’d been approached and offered a windfall, if you like. And just where had that wind originated? Justin wanted to know.

  The “brothers” could be foreign agents sent to intercept the crate being shipped to the abbey. As long as he knew where they were, they posed little danger. One of the wisest adages that fit his profession was an old one: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  Just to make sure they were staying put, each day he’d spent an hour or so in the woods “birding.” Evie’s arrival this afternoon had nearly betrayed his presence.

  After he’d trapped her beneath him and effectively stifled her yells, he had been too distracted to pay much attention to the men he’d spent days trying to catch a glimpse of. He still couldn’t explain why. Yes, he found the young woman attractive. All right, desirable.

  Still, he’d experienced desire before and managed to keep his focus. But then, he’d never had the focus so formidably challenged. He could still feel her beneath him, the slender body, light, tensile, but still pliant and accommodating, the fragrance of her hair, the velvety texture of her lip under his fingertip.

  When she’d stood up, he’d been surprised that something so feminine and womanly was clad in something so hideously conventional, dowdy even, not nearly as attractive as the boy’s knickers and blouse she’d been wearing when she’d broken into his house.

  Who’d have recognized the small, bright-eyed hoyden in this drab little wren in tinted glasses? It wasn’t that he was all knowledgeable about fashion, but he did know a lot about disguise: Evelyn Cummings Whyte was definitely wearing one, and he could not help but wonder why.

  And he had no right to wonder anything about Evelyn Cummings Whyte. He had to get on with the job at hand. He was a spy. His soul had already been spoken for. No good could come of playing games with her.

&nbs
p; He hefted the last trunk from the wagon bed and staggered under its weight to the door. He’d apologize for twitting her as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

  Physical activity had always helped Evelyn put things in perspective. By the time she, Buck Newton, and Justin Powell had unloaded the wagon, she was feeling quite herself.

  Clearly, Justin had been teasing her. Since their return he’d barely glanced her way, and when he had, he looked far more contrite than predatory, which, for some reason, irritated Evelyn.

  Did he regret his flirtatious banter? Because he had been flirting, hadn’t he? Drat. She wished she’d more experience with those playful exchanges between the sexes that novelists celebrated.

  Perhaps—an even darker thought took root—perhaps Justin Powell looked like that because he was worried she thought he was serious about pursuing her. And if he thought she took him seriously, that meant he also thought she considered herself a serious candidate for his attention, and that she most certainly did not.

  She knew her shortcomings. She knew that she was categorically not the type of woman men like Justin Powell noticed. She understood quite well that he’d been having a little joke with her, and she wasn’t so self-important that she couldn’t join in on the fun. Ha-ha. See?

  After all, she was twenty-five years old. She’s been around a bit herself. Well, maybe not herself, but she’d been around women who’d been around. Like Merry, she thought, as the Frenchwoman emerged from the house and dimpled at Buck Newton.

  Merry had been around, well, a lot. And from all appearances, it looked like she was ready to take another turn. The trouble with dear Merry was that, while she owned a Frenchwoman’s passion, she had none of a Frenchwoman’s practicality. It had been because of this, being so often at the mercy of an undiscriminating heart, that Merry had been expulsed from M. Worth’s Parisian workrooms.

  Luckily, Evelyn’s mother had been in Paris acquiring a new wardrobe at the time of Merry’s dismissal and, thinking of her sister-in-law’s new enterprise, had snatched up the budding designer and shipped her back to London. That had been ten years ago. Since then Merry had been “in love” with a florist, a pastry chef, a draper, a haberdasher, and who knew who else.

  “Did you find Beverly, Miss Molière?” Justin Powell broke Evelyn’s reverie. She looked around and found Merry had approached.

  “Yes,” Merry said, coyly swishing her hem back and forth.

  “And?” Justin prompted.

  “And? Oh! And he said,” Merry frowned in concentration, “he said that he didn’t prepare any rooms for us because he knew that as soon as Miss Evelyn arrived she would only go snooping about and take the ones she wanted anyway.”

  Evelyn’s skin warmed. “I suppose that as he is a legacy from your grandmother, you must keep him?” she asked Justin.

  “It’s kind of you to be so understanding.”

  “Well,” she allowed, graciously letting go of the hope that Beverly would be sent packing, “I have been accused of my own set of idiosyncrasies.”

  “No!” Justin’s face registered satisfying incredulity.

  Behind her Merry snorted. There was no use asking her what was so amusing; the French had the oddest notions about humor.

  Evelyn turned back to Justin. “May we have a look at the available bedchambers?”

  “By all means,” Justin answered. “If I might lead?”

  “Please. And, Merry, could you find a place to use as a workroom while I go see about the sleeping arrangements?” She glanced at Buck. “Perhaps Mr. Newton might be persuaded to wait and, once you find a place, take your things there?”

  “Oh, aye, ma’am,” Buck agreed. “Pleased to oblige.”

  “Splendid.” She turned. “I am ready, Mr. Powell.”

  He led the way into a corridor where the dust had been collecting for years. Dust motes climbed and swirled in the thin light as they walked and Evelyn carefully took stock of the abbey.

  They passed what looked like a library of sorts on their left, while on their right was a closed door. They continued down the hall, past various disreputable-looking rooms, Justin explaining that this corridor contained the public rooms and the opposite side contained the sleeping chambers.

  Near the end of the hall he pointed to a corridor that led to the other wing. They proceeded a short way and he turned and led the way down a few wide, shallow steps into a tall, cavernous room that he called the great room. It had once been the monastery dining hall, he told her. Evelyn looked around, trying to imagine a wedding reception here.

  It was bright but grimy and drafty, clusters of mismatched furniture standing on threadbare carpets. On one side, wide French doors looked out on a dilapidated courtyard and weed-filled fishpond. Evelyn craned her head and looked up. Dark beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling like a fat spider web.

  It was going to be hell to clean.

  “Can we find women to come in?” she asked.

  “I should imagine so, though I’ve never asked.”

  She bit back the word “obviously.”

  “Economy’s so rotten, I wouldn’t be surprised if even some of the chaps hire out for cleaning as well.”

  “Good.” She picked up an ancient, dented helmet resting near her feet and wrinkled her nose when she discovered a pile of cigar stubs in it. “What do you call the decor? Early Draconian?”

  He smiled. “The rest of the place isn’t quite so bad. It’s been strictly bachelor quarters since I inherited it a few years back and before that, well, the General wasn’t keen on spending money.”

  She tried to look reassured.

  “Everything considered, I should say the best course would be to keep the lighting as low as possible,” he suggested helpfully.

  “Oh, Lord,” she murmured.

  “It was an abbey,” he said a trifle defensively. “They were supposed to lead simple, cloistered lives, which means simple quarters and great, plain common rooms.”

  “Why ever would your ancestors want to make such a place their home?”

  He grinned disingenuously. “It was free, given to my ancestor for his faithful service to Queen Bess. My maternal line’s motto is: Never pay for what one can get gratis. I believe it’s actually written somewhere on the family crest.”

  “And is your family very political?” she asked curiously as he started into the room.

  “Only when we feel threatened. Then we howl ‘King and Country’ with the best of them. Ergo North Cross Abbey.”

  “If it’s as unappealing as you suggest, and I’ve yet to see anything which contradicts you, it doesn’t seem much of a reward for a good and faithful servant.”

  “Perhaps the service wasn’t so good, or the servant so faithful,” he said cheerfully. “Incurably lazy lot, my family. Not to mention opportunistic and predisposed toward artful behavior.” There was a touch of pride in his voice.

  “I suppose I ought to thank you for yet another warning.”

  “Warning?” He stopped so abruptly she plowed into him. He caught her elbow, steadying her. The moment he touched her, she had a distinct physical memory of his fingertips brushing the side of her breast.

  “Listen, Evie—”

  “Evelyn,” she corrected him faintly. He was standing too close. She had to tilt her head up to see him and it felt bizarrely as though she were lifting her mouth for a kiss. She flushed at the notion and dropped her chin.

  “About what I said earlier . . .” He scowled, and in the dim hallway his features looked angular and severe. “About pursuing you. I apologize.”

  “Apologize?” He had a beautiful mouth, long and chiseled looking, the bottom lip deep and full.

  “I would never press my attentions on you.”

  “You wouldn’t?” His words slowly penetrated. “No. Of course you wouldn’t! You were teasing. I know that.”

  She flushed hotly. Justin must have sensed what she’d been thinking and was desperate to dispel the notion.

  True to
her suspicion, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re a sensible woman, Evie.”

  His fingers dropped from her elbow. She smiled, trying to look sensible, which shouldn’t have been that hard, because she was sensible. Sensible, smart, good at everything she laid her hand to—except planning weddings. Because weddings were about love.

  Pull yourself together, Evelyn! You have work to do here and you can’t afford to spend the days dodging Justin Powell.

  “What an ass you must take me for,” Justin said.

  He put one hand flat against the wall at her head level, and leaned against it, subtly hemming her in, looking down into her eyes, smiling pleasantly. His shirt stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, the rolled-up sleeves pulling farther up his arms, exposing the start of a bulging biceps muscle. Careless, cavalier, no sense of decorum.

  And fascinatingly, casually, extraordinarily, unconsciously masculine.

  “Imagine me, flattering myself that you’d take me seriously.” He said. “Can you forgive me?”

  But whatever he was, he was also truly a gentleman, Evelyn thought with bittersweet admiration. With a few words, he took the onus off her.

  “I don’t see that there’s anything to forgive,” she replied, and hurried away.

  Chapter 8

  EVELYN WATCHED AS Justin drew a diagram in the thick dust that had settled on the library table. It took a concerted effort, but in three weeks Evelyn had not only forgiven Justin for teasing her but had vanquished the unfortunate incident from her mind. In the interim she’d discovered that a reformed “wolf” was not such a difficult friend as one might have imagined. In fact, he was quite an easy man to have around . . . when he was around.

  Most days he went off “birding,” sometimes not returning until late in the day. Not that she was keeping track of his comings and goings, but when one lived in the same house with another person, that person’s presence or absence was bound to be noted. And with Merry diplomatically dividing her free hours between Buck Newton and another local man, well, Evelyn was a bit at loose ends when she wasn’t working. It was only natural that she should look forward to her time with Justin. As a friend, of course. Nothing more.