The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway

beautiful like Catherine.”
    “But attractive.”
    “Lord, yes.”
    Atticus’s brows shot upward.
    “There’s something in her face that makes it unusual,
riveting. A sort of rueful joy. And the way she moves... like a dancer. But not
a ballerina. Like a Gypsy dancer.”
    “Doesn’t sound like any lady of my acquaintance,” Atticus
admitted regretfully. He despised the stiff posture imposed by whatever
contraption women currently wore under their garments.
    “No,” Elliot agreed slowly. “But she speaks well. Her voice is
perfectly modulated and her accent is aristocratic.”
    “But ...?” Atticus prompted.
    “But she uses some extremely modern cant.”
    “Vulgar?”
    “No, not exactly. But there are other things as well,” Elliot
said slowly. “She doesn’t have a maid. She had no one with her except a little
dog.”
    “What is this amazing woman’s name?”
    “Agatha. And I’ve never seen a less likely Agatha,” Elliot
muttered discontentedly.
    “Anything else... interesting about her?”
    “Only her singular animation...” He trailed off and shut his
eyes for a moment.
    His son was a handsome man, Atticus thought, and yet seemed
completely unaware of it. True, Elliot paid attention to his appearance, but
Atticus knew this to be a demonstration of his respect for others rather than
any desire to impress.
    Suddenly Elliot shoved himself to his feet.
    “What is it, Elliot?”
    “I have completely forgotten Lady Agatha’s personal luggage.”
    “I thought a dozen trunks of hers had arrived a few days ago,”
Atticus said in surprise.
    Elliot smiled. “Apparently those were but the tools of her
trade. Her personal effects came with her.”
    “I see.”
    “They’ll have unloaded it by now. I promised Eglantyne I
should retrieve it as soon as I deposited the ladies at The Hollies. I ought to
fetch it and bring it there at once.”
    “At once, I’d imagine,” Atticus agreed.
    With a nod, Elliot rose and strode across the room, pausing
before the small gilt-framed mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with
his palms, frowned at the shape of his tie and quickly retied it, adjusted his
cuffs, and turned. He grinned—yes, a decided grin—at Atticus. “I’ll be back
shortly.”
    “Take your time. It’s a very nice evening,” Atticus said. He
smiled into his glass of whiskey when he heard the front door shut a moment
later.
    The excitement surrounding Angela’s marriage had never particularly
interested him, but in the last few minutes, he’d become positively fascinated.
Chapter 6
    No director directs as well
    as a rapt audience.
     
    LETTY STUDIED THE LIGHTED WINDOW ABOVE. She knew it was her
bedroom because she’d put her hat on the sill. She wrapped her hand around a
good, thick vine snaking up the stone facade and gave it a hard yank. It held.
Of course, there was only one way to be truly certain.
    She wedged the toe of her boot amongst the leaves, gripped
tighter, and pulled herself up onto the stout branch. She bounced up and down
experimentally.
    “Lady Agatha?” It was his voice—deep, incredulous, and
wary. Of all the vile luck!
    She swung about, holding onto the vine with one hand and
pivoting on her foot, a smile already plastered on her face. He was standing a
short ways off, the night swallowing up his dark clothes and midnight-hued
hair. No wonder she hadn’t seen him.
    He’d changed into evening attire. Only his shirt was easily
visible, bleached blue-white in the moonlight.
    She, by contrast, had not changed. She still wore the lavender
frock.
    “Why, Sir Elliot!” she called breezily. “Lovely evening,
what?”
    “Quite.” Hard to read anything into his tone, and she had only
a vague impression of his features. “May I assist you in... in whatever it is
you’re doing?”
    The question was implicit; what the devil was she
doing? Only the fact that he was a gentleman and therefore must eschew anything
that even remotely resembled an accusation kept him from asking her flat out
what she was up to.
    “As a matter of fact, you can,”