The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway Page A

freshening breeze had earlier flirted
with the ladies’ picture hats, but even this subsided as the afternoon drew on.
    The croquet field had been set up on the back lawn and along
one side of it the servants had raised several open-sided marquees. Beneath the
striped awnings, tables and chairs waited invitingly, while rugs had been
spread beneath the open sky. At each place waited a wicker picnic basket
overflowing with cold meat pies and fruit, jellies and flaky scones, fresh
cheese and the promised piece de resistance, a mouthwatering strawberry trifle.
Sweating tin canisters stood beside these, filled with lemonade for those who
chose not to imbibe and ale for those who did.
    Lady Agatha Whyte, standing in the reception line beside Anton
and Eglantyne Bigglesworth, did. And had before, as evinced by the easy way she
quaffed the ale from a ceramic mug and licked the froth from her upper lip.
    Sir Elliot arrived with his father and greeted the
Bigglesworths, and tried with only moderate success to keep his eyes from
straying toward Letty. But her eyes were alight with private laughter and her
dark auburn hair blazed in the bright afternoon sun. She’d dressed in a
swirling, close-fitting gown, her every movement exaggerating the ripe—
    He gave himself a mental shake and bowed over Eglantyne’s
hand. Then Eglantyne turned toward Lady Agatha, saying something about having
introduced him yesterday, and he was before her, carrying her hand to his lips.
He lifted his eyes as he kissed the back of her hand. Her eyes darkened, her
lips parted. He heard her inhale softly.
    He straightened, smiling calmly though his pulse had begun
racing. She returned his smile with equal aplomb and equal duplicity; the thin
material covering her breasts shivered and his body reacted instinctively. It
had been years since a woman had had such a physical effect on him.
    Then he and Atticus were moving down the line and from there
out onto the lawn toward where Paul and Catherine Bunting stood. Atticus was
silent, and for this Elliot was glad. Was Lady Agatha the lady she claimed to
be or an imposter? He did not trust his own judgment.
    “Lady Agatha is a most handsome young woman,”
    Atticus said as they approached the Buntings. “Quite lively.
It’s the red hair, you know.” His father nodded sagely. “It invariably decries
an ardent nature.”
    “I suppose.”
    “I suspect it’s why she’s unmarried. Too volatile.”
    “Hm.”
    Atticus glanced at him in surprise. “You take a different
view?”
    “I suspect it has more to do with a lack of ready than a
superfluity of passion.”
    “Superfluity? Passion?” Atticus’s brow furrowed.
    “Vivacity, then. And I was being ironic, Father. One could
hardly be too alive, could one?”
    His father smiled. “You’d be surprised at the odd notions some
men entertain regarding the fairer sex. I have little doubt that there are men
who would consider Lady Agatha’s, ah, joie de vivre disreputable.”
    “Then they’d be fools,” Elliot said shortly.
    He made his obeisance to Catherine, kissing her hand before
shaking Paul’s. Catherine, warmhearted and affectionate by nature, linked her
arm through his.
    “Who’s a fool, Elliot?”
    His father answered. “Men who do not understand Lady Agatha’s
charm.”
    Catherine looked surprised. “You think her charming, Elliot?”
    He had never been the sort of man to easily disclose his
feelings, and he wasn’t even sure what they were in regard to Lady Agatha. “The
Bigglesworths obviously find her entirely delightful.”
    “Ah!” Catherine said, smiling kindly. “The Bigglesworths are
such dear, undiscriminating people.”
    Before Elliot could answer, she’d tapped him playfully on the
cheek. “And you are entirely unworldly where women are concerned. Come, Elliot.
Let us find a glass of punch and I shall explain to you about the wiles of the average woman.”
    She’d secured his arm and he had no choice but to escort her
to where a servant was dispensing punch.
    Paul watched them go