The Bridal Season (19 page)

The girl paled but did not argue. She nodded. “That’s a girl,
Angie,” Letty said kindly. “You’ll make a fine marchioness.”

Angela gave her a tremulous smile. “I’ll try,” she promised.

“Good.” Letty patted a place on the bed next to her. “Come and
sit by me. I was just writing down some suggestions for your party.”

“Oh?” Angela said, settling down beside Letty.

Letty flashed her a crooked grin. “Come on, Angie. You’ll have
to try harder than that. ‘The bride-to-be, in transports over her upcoming
nuptials, waxes enthusiastic over their preparations,’ “ she quoted the stage
directions from a curtain raiser she’d appeared in last year.

Caught off guard by Letty’s supercilious tones, Angela burst
into a chuckle. “How’d you do that?”

“Oh, I am a virtual trove of undisclosed talents,” Letty said
piously.
And I’d better be careful that those talents don’t land me in the
clinker.

“What sort of things were you thinking of?” Angela asked.

“I was considering possible entertainments.”

“Entertainments?” Angela asked in surprise.

“Yes,” Letty said. “An orchestra is all very nice for your
run-of-the-mill Society wedding, but the really au courant wedding celebrations
feature more interesting divertissements.”

“They do?” Angela asked, round-eyed.

“Definitely,” she replied, patting Angela’s hand.

At least this one would, if Letty had her say. Once Letty
Potts gave herself over to an endeavor, she gave herself fully over to it. In
for a penny, in for a pound, Veda used to say. Well, she was in for a good
sight more than that.

The first thing she’d decided was that three hundred people,
many of whom were strangers and most of whom came from wildly different strata
of Society, some country gentry, others worldly sophisticates, needed more than
a few waltzes to occupy them. Anything less didn’t seem wise or, more to the
point, fun. While Letty was willing to concede that the wedding ceremony itself
ought to be formal and reverent, she felt strongly that the celebration
afterward ought to be... celebratory.
“Most
definitely.”

“What sort of entertainment?”

She knew a troupe of performers who’d starred in the variety
acts at the Grandeur Theatre. Since it had closed this past winter—due to liquor
license troubles—they’d been out of steady work. They’d come cheap and at short
notice, and they were very, very good.

“Well,” Letty said, drawing out the word. “How do you feel
about midgets?”

The lower your décolletage,

the less the need for conversation.

“LOOKS A RIGHT PRINCESS, SHE DOES,” SIGHED Grace. Merry,
standing behind Grace’s shoulder, bobbed her head in mute agreement.

“Lovely,” breathed Miss Eglantyne. “I hope he appreciates how
handsome she is.”

As one, the three women peered over the gallery railing to the
floor below, where Lady Agatha stood frowning into a mirror in preparation for
the Bunting’s party this evening. She’d no cause to frown.

She was dressed for the evening’s party—well, mostly
dressed—in a gown of soft buttery satin that showed her remarkable figure to
unfair advantage. Billowing sleeves of delicate transparent muslin fell off her
shoulders. Her throat, shoulders, and bosom rose above the deep décolletage.
The rich satin flowed over her torso like molten wax, snugging her small waist
before falling in sweeping, gored panels to the floor. She twirled lightly, her
gaze assessing the effect on her elegant chignon. The thick taffeta petticoat
she wore beneath the gown rustled flirtatiously.

“Oh, you need have no worries there, mum,” Grace said. “He’d
have to be half dead not to be, er, impressed.”

“Impressed” would have to do, though “hot as a stallion at
stud” was more in the way of what she meant.

Lady Agatha lifted her slender arms, encased by pristine white
opera gloves, and pinned an errant lock.

“He won’t be able to keep ‘is hands off her,” Merry blurted
out.

“Hush!” Eglantyne whispered, scandalized, and then, “Do you
really think so?” She
liked
Lady Agatha and the thought of gaining so
agreeable a neighbor helped ease the pain of Angela’s nearing departure a bit.
Still, there was the matter of Elliot’s, ahem, ardor to overcome, though
apparently he’d made an acceptable apology for his bold behavior on the croquet
field, because the two seemed to be very much in accord these last several
days.

“Absolutely,” Merry said, with the air of a connoisseur. Just
how she’d acquired such assurance in these matters Eglantyne didn’t even want
to know.

“For certain,” Grace agreed. “He came over yesterday just to
see Lady A. And Dr. Beacon’s Sal ‘eard him asking Lady Agatha to go drivin’
with him after church last Sunday, which Lady Agatha didn’t, but I just know
she would ‘ave if she weren’t workin’ so ‘ard on Miss Angela’s wedding.”

“But you say Cabot thinks our,” Eglantyne coughed delicately,
“endeavors toward matchmaking are futile.”

“Cabot’s an old lady,” Merry said in a disgusted tone.

Beneath them Lady Agatha bared her teeth at her reflection and
tilted her head to the side, checking her teeth. Merry stifled a giggle. “I didn’t
think as ladies did that!”

Eglantyne didn’t bother hushing her this time. She was too
busy thinking about Sir Elliot and Lady Agatha. She wished she felt more
optimistic. Not that Lady Agatha didn’t give every appearance of being enamored
of Sir Elliot. She did. She blushed and glowed and sparkled whenever she was
near him, and he... Well, the way he looked at her made Eglantyne
uncomfortable, as though she was witnessing private and passionate moments.

But there was an undercurrent she couldn’t quite name in Lady
Agatha’s response. Something that tainted the anticipation and pleasure she
evinced in his company.

Something like desperation.

Atticus came into the hall to find his son grimacing at his
reflection. Amazing. He hadn’t seen Elliot disconcerted in years, and in the
last week he’d seemed nothing but.

“Nothing left over from dinner in there, I trust?” he asked
mildly.

In his present state of mind Elliot didn’t note the humor in
Atticus’s query, but only peered more closely into the mirror and muttered,
“Gads, I hope not.”

He smoothed his already smooth hair and tugged on impeccable
cuffs. He looked nervy as a racehorse and just as impatient. Atticus liked it.
He liked seeing the fire in his son’s eyes, the possessiveness with which his
gaze tracked the lovely Lady Agatha, the deep timbre in his voice when he spoke
of her.

It also helped that Atticus liked Lady Agatha. There was humor
in her direct gaze and perceptiveness in her conversation. She didn’t seem the
sort of woman to take offense easily or become involved lightly. And unless he
was mistaken, she wasn’t altogether comfortable with her feelings for Elliot.

Which was good, Atticus thought happily. Love shouldn’t be
comfortable.

That had been the problem between Catherine and Elliot. His affection
for her had been “comfortable.” At least, that was Atticus’s opinion—because
his gallant, reticent son would never have disclosed anything that reflected
poorly on a lady. But it was Atticus’s belief that one of the reasons Elliot
was so courtly toward Catherine was because he felt guilty about the relief
he’d felt when she’d broken off their engagement.

Atticus couldn’t see Lady Agatha as inspiring anything in the
least bit “comfortable” in a man. And if Elliot was impatient and ardent, Lady
Agatha was equally affected. Witty and saucy she might be, but as soon as
Elliot was near her she became breathless and bemused. Again, good.

“Are you ready?” Elliot asked, breaking Atticus’s pleasant
reverie.

Atticus patted himself down. “I think everything is in order.
Pants. Shirt. Waistcoat. Jacket. Tie. Begads, I even remembered my shoes. Yes.
I believe I’m ready, Elliot.”

“Good.”

Atticus shook his head as he followed his son out the door to
the waiting carriage. He’d seen it happen before, a man becoming so focused on
a woman that he lost all sense of proportion. He’d just never seen it happen to
Elliot.

Atticus grinned.

Catherine Bunting had a high, perfectly pitched and abysmally
bland soprano voice to which, after ten minutes of polite encouragement, she
finally treated her guests. For forty-five minutes.

Letty grew so bored she barely refrained from yawning. There
was nothing to do but sit and watch Fagin twine Eglantyne around his dewclaw
because no one dared speak while Catherine droned on.

She hadn’t even left Letty the undeniable pleasure of sitting
next to Elliot. Not content with having monopolized him for every minute since
Letty’d arrived, Catherine had now commandeered him into turning her sheet
music as she played the piano. Oh, yes. She played the piano, too. Adequately.
The woman’s accomplishments were legion, if not legend.

Finally Catherine came to the end of her repertoire after
lisping out some saccharine song about little bunnies, chirruping crickets, and
the other assorted vermin lurking about in a “little country woodpile.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly impose upon you anymore,” she
said coyly. “Surely we have other singers amongst us?” Her gaze touched on
Letty and dismissed her.

The woman was
so
annoying, always watching her,
especially when she was trying to find a moment alone with Elliot. Because they
hadn’t had any minutes alone. Not one.

He’d seen her every day since he’d told her he was courting
her, and never once had he repeated either his profession
or
his kiss.
Because there was always
someone
about. He seemed to have planned it
that way. In fact, he’d been a perfect bloody gentleman and it was driving her
to distraction!

“Florence?” Catherine was saying, peering over her guests at
James Beacon’s sister. “But, my dear, you have a
lovely
voice! How about
‘Sweet Robyn, Come to Me?’ Of course, you know it. It goes like this ...” She
began to warble the chorus.

This time Letty could not contain her yawn. Catherine stopped
singing. Caught, Letty’s guilty gaze rose to her hostess’s pink face. Well, she
had
covered her mouth with her hand....

“Ah. Lady Agatha! Were you motioning me?” Catherine asked
sweetly.

Letty cleared her throat. “No. I—”

“I should have realized you were a songstress,” Catherine
said. “A woman of your obvious,” she emphasized the word ever so slightly, her
gaze flickering for just a split second on Letty’s bodice, “accomplishments.”

Letty’s face muscles tightened.

“Oh,
do
favor us with a song!” Catherine implored. The
rest of the guests turned in their seats and began applauding lightly, their
kind faces wreathed in expectation. Only Elliot looked doubtful. Why? Didn’t he
think another woman could match his former girlfriend stride for stride?

Not only could she match her, she could outpace her. Bunnies,
indeed.

“Well,” she said, rising to her feet, “if you insist.”

“I do. We do. Don’t we, Elliot?” She put a proprietary hand on
his sleeve.

“Only if Lady Agatha feels comfortable doing so,” Elliot
answered tactfully.

“If you kind people promise to forgive me if I make a little
blunder here and there?” Letty demurred modestly, and at the crowd’s quick
assurances, she dimpled and swept up the aisle to the front of the room.

“May I accompany you?” Catherine, ever the gracious hostess,
offered.

“No, thanks.” Letty slipped by her and scooted to the middle
of the piano bench. She wasn’t a great musician. Her instrument was her voice,
but she knew the chords and had a keen sense of rhythm.

Uncertainly, Catherine moved aside. Elliot took a seat near
the edge of the room, his gaze puzzled.

Letty ran her fingers lightly over the keys, producing a perky
tune. Then smiling fully at the audience she began singing.

On
a tree by a river a little tom-tit,

Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit

Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?

“Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried.

“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”

With a shake of his poor little head, he replied,

“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

The crowd loved it. But then, any Brit in the land loved
Gilbert and Sullivan.

Amazing.

Elliot leaned back in his chair. Seated near the edge of the
audience, he could study her without calling attention to himself. She was
magnificent. Her voice was a clear mezzo, bold and rich. But it was the manner
in which she sang that most impressed one.

When she reached the lyric about titwillow’s “weakness of
intellect,” her expression transformed into bewildered ingenuousness. The
audience laughed, joining in the fun.

That was her gift, Elliot thought. She had the knack of making
things fun, of drawing people into her charmed circle and making them feel
clever and witty.

As he watched, she tossed her head and swung her arm out,
inviting the listeners to join the chorus and, begads, they did. He even saw
one of the Bunting’s maids busily collecting empty cups at the back of the
room, mouthing “titwillow” as she worked. Letty, made bold with their approval,
segued seamlessly into an old music hall standard, “Champagne Charlie.”

Her expressive, mobile face became bluff and good-natured, her
voice slurred and sly, perfectly capturing the nature and Cockney accent of the
song’s title character. The audience began clapping, keeping time to the music.

Clapping! His neighbors! As though they were in an alehouse
and not Lord Paul Bunting’s drawing room. Not that Paul seemed to mind. He was
clapping right along with the rest. Florence Beacon was tapping her foot and
Rose Jepson was swaying from side to side. Only Catherine remained motionless,
a smile fixed on her face.