The Bridal Season Read Online Free Page B

course, Letty thought, forcing down her enthusiasm, there
wasn’t likely a whole lot more to do in a place like this other than practice
elegant reticence. Sir Elliot would probably stutter into silence if he ever
had to put more than a few polite phrases together.
    The jump the carriage had made had jounced her into the corner
of the bench seat. From this angle she could see Sir Elliot’s profile. The
final rays of the sun refracted off irises banked between thick, silky-looking
black lashes. The firm contours of his lips were outlined against the sunset,
as was the clean angle of his jaw. But it was his nose that bespoke his
breeding.
    It was a fine, bold nose. A straight, aggressive nose, flaring
at the nostrils. It was a nose that a man could proudly look down... and that’s
just what his ancestors had done. Most likely on her ancestors.
    The thought sobered Letty. Her lips twitched in equal parts
chagrin and amusement. If she had any sense at all—besides a disastrous sense
of humor— she’d have as little to do with Sir Elliot as she could. From what
she’d seen, he was the only one not so enamored with the idea of Lady Agatha
Whyte’s sprucing up the Bigglesworth wedding that he wouldn’t take note of some
little social misstep she might make.
    Another rut sent Fagin, newly christened “Lambikins,” tumbling
to the floor. Eglantyne clucked her tongue sympathetically. Fagin,
opportunistic little bugger that he was, immediately jumped into her lap and
gazed mournfully into her eyes.
    Eglantyne responded with a spellbound widening of her eyes.
With a deep sigh, Fagin laid his head gently on her flat maidenly chest. The
poor old girl didn’t stand a chance. Fagin had perfected his melting gaze on
the theater’s hardest hearts. Hesitantly, Eglantyne began stroking Fagin’s
silky head.
    Another mortal felled by a canine cupid’s arrow! Letty thought
before dismissing her dog’s newest conquest, and considering the plan that had
sprung full-blown to mind as soon as she’d heard Eglantyne say the words, “your
things.”
    The only possible clunker in her plan would be if the real
Lady Agatha wrote a note and explained that she was on her honeymoon. Which
eventually she would.
    It didn’t take a genius to see that Lady Agatha was a woman of
high principles—a characteristic that made her the perfect dupe for people like
Letty: One could count on how she would act. That being so, it would still be
three or four days before a letter arrived, and Letty would be long gone by
then.
    Still, Letty was glad she wouldn’t be here to witness
Eglantyne’s disappointment. The sweet-faced woman obviously put a lot of stock
in all this wedding rigmarole.
    Vehemently, Letty squashed the tiny pricks of guilt in her
ruthlessly anesthetized conscience. These folks certainly didn’t need Lady
Agatha’s things. Letty did. In the end, the Bigglesworths would be no worse off
than before they’d mistaken her for Lady Agatha, and she’d be a good deal
better.
    If she could pull it off. Which she might do if she was
careful. And stayed away from handsome “sirs” with broad shoulders, elegant
hands, and pretty eyes that held the memory of laughter in their depths.
    But why just the memory? Letty wondered.
    Eglantyne tapped her arm, distracting her from silly musings.
“Almost here, Lady Agatha, watch for it now,” she said. “The Hollies.”
    They rode up a slight poplar-lined elevation and rounded a
heavy flowering bank of rhododendrons, and there stood The Hollies, sprawled
atop a grassy knoll. It was a broad, complacent, somehow happy-looking
accident.
    Ells, projections, and porches gave evidence of years of
haphazard, if fond, enlargement schemes. Part of it was covered in ivy; the
rest bare and mellowed with age. Copper gleamed atop a set of cupolas and the
myriad windows sparkled with the deep orchid hues of the setting sun.
    “I hope it is large enough for your plans,” Eglantyne said.
“We’ve opened all the rooms. Even those that have been