It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  With a confident smile, Elaine Mackay set a package containing her implements down on the dressing table and smoothly moved into what Tabitha mentally dubbed her reassurance mode. Tilly bustled about, then went into the lady’s dressing room. She came out with Tabitha’s petticoats over one arm. Laying them out on the bed, she turned to Tabitha. “I’m just going down to check over your ball gown—it might need the iron put to it.”

  Tabitha, engrossed in Elaine Mackay’s transformation of her hair—she really was a gifted hairdresser—waved Tilly off. “Take your time and make sure every last crease is gone—I want everything to be perfect for tonight.”

  “Yes, miss.” With a bob, Tilly was gone.

  Tabitha waited. Minutes ticked by with nothing more than a comment here and there about this curl or that. She was starting to feel anxious, but then Elaine Mackay murmured, “It’s such a wonderful time in a young lady’s life—getting engaged.”

  Eyes wide, fixed on her own reflection, Tabitha made a breathless sound of agreement. In the corner of her vision she caught the sly, measuring look Elaine Mackay sent her way.

  “Why,” the hairdresser said, paying attention to a stray curl, “in many ways it’s as if you leave your old life behind, all the mistakes and stumbles, and start afresh as a soon-to-be new bride.”

  Tabitha nodded emphatically. “Yes, exactly … oops—sorry.”

  Her smile a touch strained, Elaine reset the curl Tabitha had yanked out. “It must be such a relief not to have to worry anymore about past indiscretions. I know many of my young ladies have said that.”

  “Oh, yes!” Tabitha gushed. “I know just how they feel.”

  “Indeed?” Polite skepticism colored Mackay’s voice. “But I wouldn’t imagine you had any truly worrisome episode in your past.”

  “Oh, but I have! You have no idea.” Tabitha lowered her voice. “I’m just so relieved that once I marry Mr. Trantor I can forget all about the letter.”

  “Letter?”

  “Hmm. It’s such a silly thing to have done.” In the tone of a naive girl recounting a past incident to someone she trusted without any true appreciation of the potential for harm vis à vis her current situation, Tabitha babbled, suitably disjointedly, through her embellished tale of a highly inflammatory letter explicitly alluding to a lover’s tryst—she allowed the implication that the tryst had culminated in intimacy to slide through—ultimately explaining in an airy way how such a letter surfacing now would shred her reputation.

  As the tale that she had once believed herself utterly, romantically, and most definitely physically, in love with the gentleman now popularly known as Addison the Spineless Wonder truly would play havoc with her image, she substituted Addison with a blameless young gentleman who she knew had been with the army in Spain over the time her supposed indiscretion had taken place.

  Elaine Mackay was an excellent listener; even knowing her motives, Tabitha found it remarkably easy to blab her secret.

  The exercise, however, brought home to her how betrayed and lost her friends must have felt when the blackmailer’s demand arrived. The conversation with Elaine remained so inconsequential, constantly interrupted by details about her hair and with Elaine giving the impression that she wasn’t really listening, Tabitha finally understood how her friends might have revealed their secrets, then forgotten that they had.

  A hairdresser, after all, was one of those people one didn’t truly see. They came, they did one’s hair, they went—and had no other connection to their clients’ lives.

  But although she hid her interest well, Tabitha was certain Elaine Mackay drank in every detail she revealed.

  She knew it was a ploy, a staged act—not real—yet in thinking ahead, imagining how she would feel when the demand arrived and threatened her future with Sebastian … she felt nauseous.

  As if she felt truly threatened … as if she truly had a future with Sebastian…

  Oh, God. She truly did want a future with Sebastian.

  Elaine was busy with the back of her head.

  Shocked by the insight, nearly frantic, Tabitha consulted her true feelings … Her heart sank.

  How had this happened?

  But then Elaine straightened. Tabitha hurriedly bundled the startling truth from her mind and plastered on a suitably vacuous smile. “It looks lovely. I adore those bouncy little curls on top.”

  With a smile and a few words, Elaine encouraged Tabitha’s focus on her creation.

  Five minutes later, Elaine packed her implements. Tabitha rang for Tilly, who appeared and briskly escorted Miss Mackay downstairs.

  Reseated on the dressing stool, but now facing the open door, Tabitha waited until she heard the front door shut, then slumped back against the dressing table. “You can come out—she’s gone.”

  Stokes came out, followed by Sebastian.

  Stokes nodded approvingly at her. “That was an excellent performance, Miss Makepeace.”

  Sebastian’s approbation shone in his eyes. “An inspired performance.”

  Tabitha felt wrung out, but manufactured a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Now all we have to do,” Stokes said, “is wait for Miss Mackay to take the bait.”

  Tabitha smiled into Sebastian’s eyes as they circled the ballroom in Gerrard House to the strains of their engagement waltz. “I can’t quite believe we’re doing this.” Couldn’t believe how genuine it felt, how much she wanted it to be real.

  “We are—and if I say so myself, we’re highly convincing.” His eyes locked with hers, his lips lightly curved, he whirled her swiftly—exhilaratingly—through the turn at the bottom of the long room. As they precessed back up the polished floor, other couples joined them—Ro and Lydia, Sebastian’s brother Thomas and his wife, Estelle, who had arrived in London only the previous night. Tabitha’s parents joined in, then a host of guests stepped out; two minutes later the floor was crowded.

  Sebastian slowed their progress so they merged with the other couples.

  Tabitha forced her thoughts back to their charade. “We survived the dinner better than I expected. Coping with our families was one thing, but keeping our facade intact before the grandes dames … I wasn’t sure we could pull that off.”

  “But we did, and not one of them doubted. I overheard several say what an exceptional couple we make.”

  “I hadn’t expected they’d all be so interested in my imminent nuptials, but if anything, their avidity is even greater than it was with Lydia and Ro.” She lightly grimaced. “I suppose because they’d given up hope of me ever marrying.”

  Sebastian caught her gaze, held it.

  She got the impression he was considering what to say, frowned lightly. “What is it?”

  After a further moment of hesitation, he said, “I admit it’s necessary for us to put on a good show—to give everyone what they expect to see—but there’s no reason we shouldn’t enjoy the moment, exactly as if it were real.”

  Something inside her quivered. “But it’s not.”

  “It’s as real as we wish to make it. Tonight, we’re an engaged couple.” He glanced at the hand she had resting on his shoulder. “You wear my ring, and I think—” He broke off, then smiled and met her eyes. “I think you’re the most mesmerizing lady I’ve ever had the pleasure of holding in my arms.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t deny the frisson of delight that shot through her. As it faded, she lifted her head. “You’re right. We should enjoy tonight for what it is, and leave tomorrow and whatever comes for tomorrow.”

  “Precisely.” He gathered her in for the next turn. As they emerged from it, he murmured, “Incidentally, don’t be tempted to dance with Freddie. He has two left feet and will almost certainly tread on your hem.”

  She laughed, and accepted his advice, let the role she’d agreed to play take hold—and for that one evening gave herself over to being … the lady Sebastian wanted in his arms.

  Sebastian eventually had to yield to the press of requests and allow o
ther gentlemen to dance with his betrothed. The degree of discipline he had to exercise to smile and permit it was merely the latest symptom of his evolving possessiveness—an emotion of which he was increasingly aware.

  He made an effort not to stand and brood, or, worse, glower, and forced himself to make a circuit of the room, stopping to chat with various guests, as he suspected he should. His aunts were thrilled. Tabitha’s parents were smiling. Her sister Lydia beamed and kissed his cheek—then whispered that she hoped he would triumph.

  As the look in her fine eyes conveyed that she understood his true goal was to convince Tabitha to marry him, he took her encouragement as a good sign.

  Despite his good intentions, he’d come to a halt by the side of the room, his gaze fixed on Tabitha as she whirled about the floor in the arms of some dandified sprig, when Robert Gerrard—Viscount Gerrard, or Ro as the family called him—strolled up. Halting beside Sebastian, he, too, looked out at the dancers. Said, his deep voice low, “Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace explained the situation—your novel tack to winning Tabitha’s hand. I feel compelled to wish you luck—and to tell you that if you hurt Tabitha, I will hurt you.”

  Sebastian, his gaze still on the fiery head of his betrothed, merely raised his brows. “If I hurt Tabitha, I hurt myself even more.”

  Ro turned his head and looked at him.

  Sebastian obligingly glanced his way, saw his putative brother-in-law’s eyes widen slightly, then Ro’s lips curved and he inclined his head. “Good answer.”

  They both looked back at the dancers, at Tabitha.

  “Incidentally,” Ro said, his tone warmer, conversational, “Lydia thinks your quest is highly romantic. Me, I’d call it as eccentric as anything any Makepeace ever did—putting the betrothal before the wooing.” He caught Sebastian’s gaze, tipped his head to him and grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

  “Thank you,” Sebastian dryly replied. “I’ll do my poor best to fit in.”

  Chapter Six

  For the next four days, they played the part of a rapturous, newly betrothed couple—a necessary strategy to ensure Elaine Mackay had good reason to act. They were seen at the most select balls every night, and strolled in the park at least once a day, receiving the accolades of their peers and the blessings of the most haughty of the ton’s matrons.

  But the grandes dames kept their eagle eyes on them. Strolling beside the Avenue on Sebastian’s arm, Tabitha leaned close to murmur, “It’s as if they want to ensure there’s no backsliding.”

  She straightened, after a moment added, her tone cooler, “I wonder what they’ll say when we cry off.”

  Sebastian glanced at her, then covered the hand resting on his sleeve, squeezed lightly. “Let’s go for a drive—there’s something I want to show you.”

  Raising his arm, he signaled to his tiger, who’d been holding the black gelding harnessed to his curricle.

  Lengthening her stride to keep up with his increased pace, Tabitha glanced at his face, saw determination of a sort she couldn’t place in his features. “What is it, this thing you wish to show me?’

  “You’ll see when we get there.” He briefly met her gaze. “It’s a recent acquisition on which I’d like your opinion.”

  As he clearly didn’t wish to tell her more, she held her tongue and let him help her up into the curricle. He joined her on the box seat. The diminuitive tiger swung up behind as, with an expert flick of the reins, Sebastian set the black pacing.

  He drove out of the park, then tacked through the early afternoon traffic. He turned up Orchard Street, then continued northward along Baker Street. Far ahead, beyond the end of the street, Tabitha could see the greenery of Regent’s Park. She glanced at Sebastian curiously, but he was busy managing his horse; it didn’t seem wise to attempt to probe.

  Eventually, he turned into the carriage drive that circled Regent’s Park, veering left along the facade of the various recently completed terraces.

  To her surprise, he slowed the curricle, easing the carriage into the elegant curve of Nash’s celebrated Sussex Place. Sebastian halted the curricle outside Number Twenty. Handing the reins to his tiger, he stepped down to the gravel, then rounded the back of the curricle to hand her down.

  Her hand in his, he pushed open the wrought-iron gate and led her up the path to the front door.

  A cherry tree wept blossoms in the narrow front garden. She looked up at the elegant lines of the facade. “Who lives here?”

  Then she realized he’d pulled a key from his pocket. Fitting it to the lock, he glanced back at her. “I do.”

  He set the door open, then waved her through. Surprised, she stepped across the threshold into a narrow, airy hall lit by a skylight high above. The floor was all polished boards; her footsteps echoed. She turned to face him as he followed her in, shutting the door behind him. “I thought you lived at your brother’s house while in London.”

  He pulled a face. “I did. Thomas and I originally thought that, as we both spend at least half the year in the country, we could share the ancestral abode while in town. But then he arrived with Estelle and their five young daughters. I did mention that the youngest was barely three months old, I believe?”

  She smiled. “You did.”

  “You’ll recall I also mentioned I’m something of a scholar, that I like deciphering old scripts and ancient codes?” When she nodded, he smiled wrily. “Once my nieces arrived, Thomas and I realized our idea of sharing the family townhouse wasn’t going to work.”

  He glanced around. “So I bought this. I haven’t had a chance to furnish it yet—I thought I’d wait … but here.” He waved her to the first door on the right. “I bought one piece, just to see how it would suit. Take a look, and tell me what you think.”

  She walked in. Her gaze was immediately caught by the elegant lines of the white marble mantelpiece framing the hearth directly opposite the door. From there, she looked up, walking further into the room as she took in the finely wrought decorative moldings on the cornices and ceiling. A delicate chandelier depended from the central rose.

  The floor beneath her feet was richly polished oak; the ceiling was painted white, as were the doors, architraves, and window frames. The walls were a soft dove gray; the color reminded her of his eyes.

  She swung to the window, and caught her breath. The long panes framed the weeping cherry tree and its pale pink and white blossoms, with the green lawns of the park across the carriage drive and the glint of light on the water of the boating lake in the distance.

  Her gaze lowered and fastened on the one piece of furniture in the room—a sculpted chaise longue. The honey tones of oak gleamed in the delicately shaped and carved frame. The upholstery was gray silk, a subtle shade darker than the walls, finished with white piping.

  Placed before the window, before that view, the chaise was perfection incarnate.

  “It’s …” She searched for words. “Exquisite.”

  Turning her head, she studied his face, then met his eyes. “You’re a man of many talents, Sebastian Trantor. Some of them unexpected.” She moved closer, raised a hand to his cheek. “The lady who marries you will be lucky indeed.”

  She’d never meant any words more.

  But she gave herself and him no time to dwell on them—to dwell on the fact that whoever he eventually married, it wouldn’t be her. That once Elaine Mackay made her demand and they trapped her retrieving the payment, their mission would be complete, and their betrothal would end.

  She kissed him. Boldly. With all the sultry passion he’d taught her she possessed. With an intent she hadn’t even paused to consider, but simply knew was right.

  With a desperation she felt to her heart, to her soul, throughout her being.

  If she was fated to never again know passion, then she’d take what she could, with him, now. And if it might be thought unfair to the lady whose drawing room this delicate, perfect room would eventually be, she nevertheless felt that hypothetical lady owed her this much. Owed
her this afternoon of pleasure in return for letting him go.

  Setting him free.

  Sebastian found himself enthralled all over again. Caught in the web of her desires, trapped by his need to respond. To trace, to take, to savor.

  To pleasure her until she gasped and clung.

  To caress her until she writhed and demanded.

  Until, with her hair burning the gray silk of the chaise, she drew him down, took him in, and loved him.

  Drew him into her heat and saved him. Claimed him.

  Both of them wanted with a powerful need, but both strove to hold the urgency at bay. To instead take the slow path, and fill the afternoon with their sighs.

  To explore, and learn, and know. To take pleasure in giving, and in receiving.

  To challenge, then submit. To lead, and then to follow.

  To let the journey take them as passion rose and desire burned and need inexorably climbed.

  Until they surged as one and reached for the stars.

  And the spiraling glory caught them, shattered them, and drowned them in ecstasy.

  Later, Tabitha refused to let him speak. She had a dreadful suspicion that her desperation had been all too evident, that he’d seen too much, read too accurately, and now knew the panicked yearning in her heart.

  She didn’t want to hear excuses; explanations would be tedious.

  She didn’t think she could bear to hear him being kind.

  So wrestling with her petticoats, ignoring her half-dressed state, she put her foot down and imperiously declared, “Do not say a word. Don’t spoil the moment. Let it be what it is and accept it for that.”

  His breeches still unbuttoned, his shirt gaping, Sebastian met her gaze; his eyes were stormy—she could tell from the set of his lips that he didn’t agree with her decree. But she’d judged him correctly. He nodded curtly. “If you wish.”

  He looked down and laced his cuffs. She wriggled into her gown, then presented him with her back. “If you could help … ?”