The Bridal Season

by Connie Brockway

  “Why is that?” she asked quietly.

  “Because,” he said, “I love you.”

  Chapter 21

  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.

  And they didn’t have to stay in Little Bidewell. No one had to know. They could go away for a few years. She could dye her hair, lose or gain some weight, work on a different accent, and they could come back here again.

  Her breath came rapidly. Her hands clenched in unconscious supplication.

  Maybe there was a future out there somewhere for them.

  “I’ve never seen him so utterly nonplussed.”

  Letty whipped around at the sound of the male voice. It was Atticus March, standing quietly beside the window, half turned so she’d not seen him immediately upon entering, his evening dress so dark his figure was lost in the shadows.

  “Sir?”

  He nodded toward the window. “My son. He’s pacing about the back of the garden.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled at her. He was fragile-looking, his tall frame stoop-shouldered but his face was still handsome. And so like Elliot’s. “You’ve quite over-set him, m’dear. I do hope you intend to put him out of his misery soon.”

  She regarded him cautiously.

  “I hope I haven’t shocked you. I don’t think I have. I have been watching you, you see, and you don’t seem the sort of young woman who takes exception to straight talk.”

  Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She wasn’t sure so she remained mute.

  “Look for yourself.” He motioned her over to the window. She went, drawn in spite of herself, and peered down into the garden.

  Elliot stood beneath the window. The rising wind whipped his coattails and ruffled his dark hair. Behind him the sky had darkened to a velvety black.

  Lightning flickered far off on the horizon. A storm was coming. It would find a kindred spirit in Elliot.

  His expression was set, his skin pale in the weak light cast by the sconces outside the French doors. He was grimly regarding the door through which she’d run, obviously considering his course. If he came for her, what would she do?

  “Look at the poor devil. Angry. Confused. Disheveled. Uncertain.” Atticus leaned forward, squinting. “Begads, I do believe he’s forgotten to do up his top shirt button.” He shook his head. “Let’s hope his current sartorial obliviousness passes. I doubt the Queen would appreciate her new baron making his bow with his shirt unbuttoned.”

  Queen? Baron? Atticus was speaking as if she knew what he was talking about, and she hadn’t a clue.

  He regarded her quizzically. “You don’t know, do you? He hasn’t told you. Forgive me, my dear. I should have guessed he wouldn’t say anything, but I assumed…” He held out his hand. “What say you give an old man the pleasure of your company for a few minutes? Over here. Where we can sit.”

  He led her to a leather-covered sofa, and after seeing her seated, lowered himself next to her. “Now, then,” he said, “it isn’t my place to tell you this, but really it is the poorest kept secret in Little Bidewell. Anyone could and would tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Letty asked

  “That at New Year’s Honors this year, the Prime Minister shall recommend to Her Majesty that Elliot be created a baron.”

  But that meant… No. No.

  “What if the Queen refuses?” she said. “What if she decides not to act on the Prime Minister’s suggestion?”

  Atticus smiled. “Why ever should she refuse?” he asked. “While not nobility, March is a venerable and august name. My son’s past is stellar, his character is unblemished, his associations above reproach, and his career marked by brilliance. I don’t think she’ll have a problem with his proposed elevation.” There was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

  But all Letty could hear were the words, “his associations above reproach.”

  That had been before he’d become “associated” with a music hall performer. If the powers that be ever found out about her… She swallowed the thickness in her throat.

  The future that had beckoned so irresistibly dissolved and vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame, leaving her in darkness. There had been a slight chance that Sir Elliot could make a future with a music hall performer. But Lord March couldn’t. Even if Elliot could forgive her her past, the Queen never would.

  She turned to Atticus, her voice tinged with desperation. “He doesn’t have to accept it, does he?”

  His brow furrowed. “Well, no. He could refuse the honor,” he said mildly. “But…he’s worked for years for this opportunity. I don’t see him letting go of it.”

  “But he’s already a knight,” she countered. “That’s prestigious enough. Being a baron won’t make him any better or worse than he is now!”

  “Of course not,” Atticus said, his gaze troubled but his voice kind. “But surely…as you know Elliot, you must realize it isn’t the title Elliot seeks, but the opportunity that comes with it.”

  She stared at him, dawning understanding making her mute. Of course.

  “As a member of the House of Lords he can rise in the judicial branch…but you know these things. You must know how important this is to him and, I am vain enough to believe, to our country.” He patted her hand and smiled.

  “From what I’ve seen of my son lately, he hasn’t exactly distinguished himself for his eloquence. But one makes allowances for extenuating circumstances.” He twinkled at her. “You’ll have to take my word for it, Elliot is a most gifted and persuasive speaker. He is particularly eloquent on the subject of judicial reform. Before he came back here because of my illness, he’d made quite a name for himself at the Old Bailey.”

  “The Old Bailey?” She’d thought that, except for Elliot’s years in the Sudan, he’d been in Little Bidewell all his life. “He spent time in London?”

  “A decade,” Anton corrected her.

  What a fool she’d been, teasing him abo
ut being a country cousin when all the while—

  He regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Elliot once said that the price England paid in soldiers’ lives could be sanctioned only if it purchased justice and freedom.” His gaze was piercing. “You do understand? Ambition does not drive Elliot; commitment does. He will achieve a great deal of good with his title. A great deal of good.” He sank back, smiling proudly. “Do you doubt it for a minute?”

  “No.” She didn’t Elliot’s innate decency, his integrity, his determination, his passion for justice would be formidable proponents for good. A wave of pride swept through her. Lord Elliot March, the man she loved.

  Loved. She loved Elliot. Because he was generous and honorable and decent, qualities she’d doubted existed and so had jeered at as the products of the weak and sentimental. Because he was gentle toward Elizabeth Vance and compassionate toward her father. Because he discounted his efforts on others’ behalves and made it seem that he was receiving when in fact he was bestowing. Because he never belittled in his conversation or was dismissive in his replies. Because he was scrupulous in his efforts toward fairness and patient with those who were not.

  But she also loved him because his kisses made her feel hot and yearning and powerful. Because her body thrummed like a tuning fork whenever he touched her. She loved him because he was Elliot, unlike any man she’d ever met or ever would meet again.

  Atticus was watching her closely. Then, as if he’d read her thoughts and knew how much she loved his son, he broke into a puckish, unexpectedly charming smile. “So, knowing what you now do, exactly what are your intentions toward my son, Lady Agatha?”

  She could have handled that better, too, thought Letty, hurrying along the hall. She shouldn’t have blurted out, “I don’t have any intentions!” and bolted like a scared rabbit.

  But the intentions she had were not the sort one revealed to one’s intended lover’s father. Lover. Letty had had ample opportunities to take a lover, but she never had. Because she’d never loved before, never understood what led a perfectly reasonable, intelligent woman to go all sappy and soft-headed over some man.

  Until now.

  She knew there was no future for Elliot and her. It didn’t matter. She wanted to make love with the man she loved. She deserved that much, didn’t she? There would never be another man like Elliot. She could spend a lifetime looking for him and she’d never come close to finding his like. Because no one got that lucky twice in a lifetime. Few women got that lucky once.

  But she had, she thought fiercely. And she wasn’t going to throw away one minute of happiness. And minutes were all they’d have.

  Seducing Elliot would be difficult, but not impossible. She knew him. He needed to be led to believe—as, being Elliot, he would—that their lovemaking was just a prelude to their marriage.

  Her pace slowed. She stopped, amazed at her own audacity. She couldn’t. He wouldn’t. She daren’t. What had become of her that she was making such wild plans?

  She felt anguished by how far she’d allowed things to go. Her head throbbed with too many thoughts and her heart ached. She hated that she might have caused him pain. She needed to go to him, to steal what moments of happiness she could. Maybe, in the end, that’s all she really was: a thief.

  She looked around as if awakening from a troubled sleep. She’d made a circle of the lower level and was back where she’d entered the house from the gardens. People were starting to emerge from the dining room.

  She had to find Elliot. That’s all she knew.

  A hand clasped her wrist. Letty turned, startled. Angela stood beside her. “He wants me to meet him at the witch tree tonight!”

  “Kip? He isn’t even here,” Letty said, her gaze scanning the crowd for a dark, elegant head. “His parents offered his regrets to the Buntings. I heard them.”

  Elliot had to be somewhere. He wouldn’t leave his father to make his way home alone. Was he angry? Disgusted?

  “He sent me a message, just before we left,” the girl said. “He says if I don’t meet him he’ll send the letter to Hugh by tomorrow’s post! I should deal with him firmly, just as you said I should, shouldn’t I?”

  Letty stared unseeingly at Angela’s taut face. She had to know what Elliot was thinking. He mustn’t believe she didn’t want his love. He couldn’t.

  “Lady Agatha?”

  He mustn’t leave without her seeing him. “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Really?” Angela insisted.

  “What? If it comes to it, yes. But it won’t come to anything tonight,” she said distractedly. “A storm’s coming.”

  “You don’t know him,” Angela whispered, but Letty didn’t hear her. She’d seen Elliot’s figure and was already hurrying through the crowd.

  Chapter 22

  Storms always make for good theater.

  Letty made her way to the front door just as Elliot’s carriage drove away.

  For the first time in her memory she didn’t know what to do. The play didn’t have a “next act.”

  She wandered through the rooms, smiling, murmuring inconsequentials and moving on, her thoughts wrestling hopelessly with what she wanted and what she must do. Finally, she grew light-headed with the strain of the irresolvable situation. She went to find Eglantyne to ask if she might have Ham drive her back to The Hollies. She found her speaking with the Buntings.

  “I’m sorry, Letty,” Eglantyne apologized upon hearing her request. “Angela had a headache, so Ham drove her home a short while ago. He hasn’t returned yet and, well, I told him there was no need to hurry back as I expected we’d be here awhile.”

  Angela had left. An itch of anxiety penetrated Letty’s preoccupation. Her gaze strayed to the window. Rain sparkled on the glass, and far beyond, in the darkness, she could see a stand of cypress trees snapping about, lashed by a strengthening wind.

  Angela wouldn’t have actually gone out to meet Kip in this? The memory of the girl’s determined gaze and hard voice came back to haunt Letty.

  “If you’re not feeling well, you must stay the night with us,” Paul Bunting offered. “Mustn’t she, Catherine?”

  “She must,” Catherine agreed woodenly.

  “No,” Letty said. “I mean, I couldn’t impose. I have these little spells, you see, and when I feel one coming on there’s nothing that will do but that I take my tincture.”

  “Tincture.” Catherine nodded eagerly. “I am all in sympathy, m’dear. I’ve heard that many Society ladies have problems with…excitability.” The look she shot Dottie Himplerump was smugly satisfied. “You must return to The Hollies at once. Call for our carriage, Paul.”

  Letty thanked her profusely. Let Catherine gloat, she thought; there were more important matters at hand. She considered telling Eglantyne about her worry regarding Angela, but thought better of it. If she was wrong in her suspicions, she would only have succeeded in betraying Angela’s secret.

  Best to just go back to The Hollies alone. Angela was probably tucked into bed already, poor kid.

  Ten minutes later, having left Fagin to a doting Eglantyne, Letty was in the Buntings’ carriage heading down the drive. Driven by a heightening wind, the rain lashed the carriage roof, the racket deafening. Letty pulled her cloak tighter, peering out into the churning darkness. They made slow progress passing over the little bridge that led to the main road.

  Off in the distance, illumined by lightning like something in a fairy-book illustration, she saw the skeletal oak they called the witch tree. Back of it a quarter mile sat the Himplerump house, while a bit farther up the road she spotted the formal outline of the Marches’ manor house, the lower windows glowing through the rain.

  He was still up, then. Was he hurt? Or had her running away from him snapped him back to his senses, and was he even now toasting himself on his good fortune?

  A short time later she stood alone, dripping water in the great hall at The Hollies. At least Merry had had the courage to let her in before bolting. But as
Letty shed her coat, Merry reappeared, leading a puffing Cabot and Grace Poole. Both looked awful, their expressions frightened.

  “What is it?” Letty asked at once.

  “Miss Angela. She’s taken a horse and gone off riding and she wouldn’t take any of the lads with her.”

  “Oh, no,” Letty said, her worst fears realized.

  “I don’t know where she’s gone!” Grace Poole said, her mouth forming an O of despair. “I couldn’t stop her. I tried, Lady Agatha, but she was set. More determined than I’d ever seen her. Went right out to the stables and had the boy saddle her horse.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “A quarter hour. No more. I’m sending one of the lads to the Buntings’ to tell—”

  “No!” Angela would die of humiliation if anyone discovered the reason she’d gone. Much more important was her safety. The storm was intensifying. What she needed was to come home, and it was up to Letty to see that she did.

  “Who knows she’s gone?”

  “Just Grace Poole, Merry, and myself,” Cabot said, gnawing his lip anxiously. “Why?”

  “Listen to me,” Letty said. “I know where Angela is. I know where she’s gone, but I can’t tell you why. I can say this, however, it is imperative this goes no further. No one but us must know. Got that?” As little as she cared for Society, Letty was not so naive as to believe an affianced girl could ride out in a storm to meet a man other than her betrothed and not cause a terrific scandal.

  Cabot and Grace Poole nodded and Merry said “aye,” thrusting her little chin out determinedly.

  “Her happiness depends on it.”

  A week ago she wouldn’t have believed she could make such a melodramatic pronouncement and mean it. But she did. Personally, she didn’t give a rap for Kip and his blackmail and Angela’s marquis’s tender feelings. But she’d learned a few things in the past week, and one of those was that just because something wasn’t important to her didn’t mean it wasn’t important.