The Bridal Season (24 page)

“Yes,” Letty said. “We both know that that is a bunch of bunk,
don’t we? Angela realized it pretty quickly herself. Unfortunately not quickly
enough. She wrote you a letter first. And she wants it back. She
wants
to
marry Hugh. So give me back her letter and we’ll just chalk this attempt to
victimize Angela up to a youthful lapse in judgment, eh?”

His eyes had narrowed angrily. He crossed his arms over his
chest. “I told her she could have the letter. All she had to do was come and
get it. Nothing was going to happen that hadn’t happened before. Maybe a bit
more.” He leered.

“She sent me.”

“Her mistake.”

She had had about enough of Kip Himplerump. She was standing
in a pool of rainwater, sopping wet, her satin ball gown growing heavier with
each moment, cold of foot, wrinkled of hand, and with a three-mile ride in a
storm still to come.

She ripped back the bed curtain. “Your mistake. You will now
fetch me that letter and this is why. If you do not, I shall ruin your
reputation.”

At his look of amazement, she smiled grimly. “Yes, you simple
young male,
your
reputation. And when I am done, no woman in London, let
alone Little Bidewell, will have you. Your friends will snicker behind your
back and your parents will duck their heads in shame.” She leaned forward and
jabbed him in the center of his chest. “I shall say you tried to seduce me.”

“Really?” Kip asked eagerly. Then, masking his delight, he
sank back on his elbows and examined his fingernails with studied nonchalance.
“Go ahead. Tell everyone you want.” He leered up at her. “You see, I don’t care
if all Little Bidewell, York, Manchester, or London thinks I’m the Marquis de
Sade himself. I don’t care for my reputation at all.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Not only was he simple, he was
profoundly simple. “You aren’t listening, Kip. I said I shall tell everyone you
tried
to seduce me.”

He frowned, the shadow of understanding just beginning to
penetrate his thick skull.

“I shall say you were,” she leaned forward, her lips inches
from his ear, “incapable.”

He tensed.

“Fallow.”

She straightened just in time to avoid being hit by him as he
bolted to a sitting position.

“Limp.”

He stared her in the eyes, his gaze disbelieving.

“Dormant.”

He gasped, hurled the covers back, scrambled from the bed, and
dashed across the room.

“Quiescent.”

He fell to his knees before a bureau and wrenched open the
bottom drawer.

“In a word: Impotent.”

He dug his hand deep in the drawer and with a cry of triumph,
withdrew an envelope. He leapt to his feet and ran back to her side and thrust
it into her hand, panting heavily.

She almost pitied him. Almost.

She accepted the letter, pocketed it, and grinned. “Thanks,
chum.” She turned around.

“You’re a bitch,” she heard him mutter.

She looked back over her shoulder. “Flaccid.”

He blanched. She chuckled.

“I was just pulling your leg, Kip. Now, off to bed with you,”
she advised pleasantly. “And if I hear of you saying anything at all about
Angela, if you so much as breathe her name in a disrespectful manner, well... I
shouldn’t.”

He didn’t answer, just slunk back to his bed and slipped under
the covers, glowering at her over the edge of the blanket like the naughty
little boy he was.

“Good boy.”

She opened the casement window, squinting out through the
rain. It had let up some, but she still couldn’t see twenty feet in the
downpour. The trees were nothing but a vague impression. She looked down. Below
her the wall disappeared into darkness.

She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. She’d worked a
rope act once, hadn’t she? What was the difference between twenty feet of
living ladder and crossing an inch-thick rope thirty feet above the ground?

A net, that was what.

Well, she didn’t have a net and she didn’t dare be seen by the
Himplerump servants. Without giving herself a chance to back out, she hoisted
herself over the sill and, after noting Kip had had the good sense to stay
abed, lowered herself cautiously. She felt for a toehold and found one, but the
water had made the leather soles of her shoes slick and her foot slipped. For a
half a minute she hung from her hands twenty feet above the ground, her sodden
skirts dragging at her, the rain pummeling her face.

She considered calling out to Kip for help, and discounted the
idea. He’d probably pry her fingers from the sill.

She wasn’t going to fall. She wouldn’t let herself fall. She
had to see Elliot. She scrambled amidst the ivy leaves, found purchase, and
carefully relinquished her weight to the vine. It held.

The rain made it difficult, but slowly she worked her way down
the ivy-covered brick facade, the cold rain pelting her face. Finally, she
looked down and saw the ground directly beneath her. She dropped from the wall,
hit the earth, and stumbled to her knees.

It didn’t hurt. Nothing could hurt. She was alive. Angela was
alive. And she had the letter. Now, she only needed to get the horse and off
she’d be.

She lifted her face to the pouring heavens, grinning with
relief and the sheer, giddy feeling of having won. And looked straight up into
Elliot March’s furious face.

Love has no place in a love scene.

“I TRUST YOU’RE HAVING A BLOODY GOOD time,” Elliot ground out
between his teeth. If he was angry before, he was livid now. The storm
swallowed up the color from his eyes, leaving them pale and terrible looking.

Letty swallowed. Before she realized what he was about, he’d
bent and lifted her by her arms, pulling her roughly to him, his fingers
digging into her forearms. “God. When I saw you hanging from that ledge—” He
choked off whatever more he might have said.

“Angela?” she asked. “Is she all right?”

“She’ll be fine.” His teeth clamped shut as he turned,
dragging her roughly in his wake. He limped heavily, leading her to where she’d
tethered her gelding. Elliot’s black stood beside it.

Without a word, he scooped her up and deposited her in the
saddle, then swung up onto his horse’s back. He glared at her. “Will you follow
me back to the house?”

She nodded. Through the driving rain he led the way down the
road and to his home. Once there he dismounted, cursing as he dropped from the
saddle and his leg buckled. She slipped at once to the ground and went to him,
but the glare he threw her warned her against offering her assistance.

He took the horses’ reins and moved with painful deliberation
toward the stables. He did not look back. “The door is open. Go in.”

She did as he bid her, entering the house with a little
wistful sense of anticipation. Elliot’s home.

The redbrick manor house was built around a central hall and a
graceful staircase that switch backed up three stories. Behind this, a hallway
led to the back. A set of doors faced each other across the foyer in which she
stood. The one on her left was partly open.

She peeked inside. It was evidently a woman’s room.
White-and-poppy-red floral chintz covered a pair of sofas and a hassock. On
delicate piecrust tables stood bell jars filled with brilliantly hued
butterflies and porcelain figurines. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a
dark woman flanked by two curly-headed boys. The older one looked composed and
thoughtful, the black-haired younger one gay and inquisitive.

The front door opened behind Letty, causing her to jump back
from the door. Elliot came in, shedding water like a great spaniel, flapping
his arms and shaking his head. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it over the
stair rail.

“The Buntings sent a boy on horseback here an hour ago,” he
said. “Thank God someone showed some sense.”

He was soaked through to the skin, his white dress shirt and
vest plastered to his arms and chest. Through the fabric she could see the play
of his muscles. She looked away, her cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. What were you
saying?”

“The Buntings’ bridge is flooded and too dangerous to take
carriages over. The Buntings’ guests will be staying until the morrow.” He met
her gaze grimly. “Angela came to as soon as we arrived. No, don’t look like
that. I meant it. I’ve seen my share of head wounds. She’ll be fine. I
promise.”

She nodded. If Elliot promised Angela would be fine, she
accepted that she would. Elliot would never disguise the truth. Unlike some.

“How did you know where I’d gone?” she asked. It didn’t occur
to her then to ask how he’d known she and Angela were at the witch tree to
begin with. She’d needed him and he’d come.

“As soon as I got Angela inside and into my housekeeper’s
care, I realized that you weren’t ‘right behind me.’ “ His look was condemning.
“I went back to the witch tree, but you were gone, so I rode for The Hollies.
You weren’t there, but I heard a great deal from Cabot, little of it to my
liking.”

“I hardly dared believe my suspicions were correct, but I had
no other leads to follow so I headed for Himplerump’s house. Imagine my
amazement when I saw you creeping down the wall.

“Although in retrospect, I don’t suppose I should have been
surprised. You had already, after all, evinced a certain interest in ivy and
the climbing of it.” He finished his sentence between stiff clenched jaws.

She swallowed. He looked very, very angry.

“I... I had to fetch something that... that’s—” she began to
stutter.

“Angela told me about the letter,” he broke in.

Of course. Everyone relied on Sir Elliot March. Everyone told
him their secrets and their past transgressions, their fears and their little
crimes. Everyone but her. But then, no one’s crimes were quite as damning as
hers, either.

“She told me about Kip’s demand and why she’d gone there. This
storm might be our salvation yet. We’re lucky.”

Not
she
was lucky, not
Angela
was lucky, but
they
were lucky. He’d already assumed responsibility, made their problems his
own.

“As I said, I’ve spoken to Grace Poole and Cabot. They’re
eager to help and most willing to put about the story that, being unhappy with
the notion of Angela and you alone at The Hollies on such a night, I fetched
you both here.

“Do you understand? Do you agree?” He was short to the point
of curtness.

She nodded and caught her movement in the mirror. She glanced
sideways. She looked awful. It wasn’t fair. While he looked like Poseidon
taking on mortal form, she looked like a sea hag. Beneath the streaming
slicker, her skirts hung from her waist in sodden, mud-smeared folds. Her
tangled hair dangled in wet ropes, slithering along her neck, and her skin was
so white it looked bluish.

“Would you tell me what you were doing climbing the
Himplerumps’ wall?” he asked as though the query was forced from him.

Her gaze met his in the mirror. For the first time in her
adult life she couldn’t think of a glib story to account for her actions. She
didn’t try. She was tired of speaking lines, of dodging verbal traps.

“I went to get Angela’s letter from Kip Himplerump. I got it.”

“Did Kip Himplerump see you?”

She nodded.

“Will he tell anyone?”

“No. I guarantee it.” He was so aloof. So coldly efficient.
She
had
hurt him. She hadn’t wanted to. “Elliot, I have to tell you
something. My reaction to what you said to me earlier this—”

“Good,” he broke in. Clearly, he didn’t want to hear anything
of an intimate nature from her. “Though just to be on the safe side, perhaps I
should make a morning call on my young neighbor.”

Good God, she thought, her breath leaving her, perhaps he
regretted saying he loved her. She felt hollow inside, as though a vacuum had
suddenly developed around her heart. “Things will all turn out all right,” she
managed to say.

“What I would like to know,” he said in a careful voice. “What
I would very
much
like to know, is why you risked life and limb to play
cat burglar with that... that... boy. You might have been killed!”

The last words exploded from him causing Letty to flinch. He
saw it and cursed vividly under his breath, raking his hand through his hair.
“Where did you learn to climb like that?”

He
cared.
The realization made her giddy. “A youthful
peccadillo?”

“I won’t even honor that with a response,” he grated out.
“Might I suggest you take that wet coat off?”

She tried to comply but she was shaking so badly her teeth
were clicking. She fumbled at her slicker’s fastenings with fingers too numbed
to work properly. Before she realized what he was about, Elliot had brushed her
hands aside and, with cool competence, unbuttoned the slicker. He turned her
with a hand to her shoulder and stripped the coat from her. All very economical
and all most impersonal.

“Thank you.”

He stiffened. “I don’t want your gratitude.” He looked as if
he wanted to say more but decided against it, instead tossing her coat over
his. “You’ll need to get out of those clothes. We only have a housekeeper, Mrs.
Nichols. She’s sitting with Angela right now, but I’m sure she’ll help you with
your dress.”

“No need,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Really. Angela will want
her.”

“Fine.” He motioned for her to precede him up the stairs and
she went, her wet skirts slapping against the risers. Behind, she heard Elliot’s
slow progress. At the top she turned around. Elliot’s face was ashen, and
tension marked the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was hurting.

“Elliot, please. Is there something I can do for you?”

At once, his expression became remote and imperial; the
quintessential British gentleman, stiff-upper-lipping it straight into
perdition. “Nothing. Thank you for your concern.” He pointed down the short
hall. “Angela is at the far end left. Your room is two doors up from hers.”