The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  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…pièce de résistance. 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.

  Chapter 16

  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 t
o 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…