The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway Page A

she answered brightly. “What
is the name of this extraordinary plant?”
    “Ivy?” His incredulity was only slightly evident. Of course,
he couldn’t very well say “bullroar,” as he must have longed to.
    “How interesting,” she mused. “Do you know, it cleaves so
tightly to this brick that it actually bears my weight? I can scarce credit it,
it looks so fragile.”
    “Hmm. Deceptive.”
    “Ivy, did you say? I simply couldn’t resist climbing up to
test its strength. In the spirit of adding to my store of knowledge on natural
history, you understand.”
    “Bullroar,” he said under his breath. She was quite sure of
it.
    “Excuse me?”
    He didn’t answer. Instead, he came to stand below her and
looked up. The light from inside gilded the planes and angles of his face. His
thick lashes laid crescent-shaped shadows on his cheeks. His dark hair gleamed.
He inclined his head and she had the oddest notion he was trying not to smile.
    “Perhaps you’d like to come down now that you’ve tested the
vine?”
    She nodded. It was hard to act the grande dame while clinging
like a bat to the side of a house. She lowered one foot, seeking the ground,
and—
    His hands wrapped about her waist and he lifted her, lowering
her slowly to the ground. He released her but did not step back. She did,
however, warned by the little shiver of alarm that began when she looked into
his eyes. Dusky and mysterious and compelling.
    She took another step back and bumped into the ivy-covered
wall. Her breath came rushing out on a little whoosh of nervous laughter. His
brows tipped in silent inquiry. Desperately, she sought a way to regain mastery
of the situation, running through her trove of maxims until she found one that
answered: A befuddled man is a malleable man.
    “Now, then,” she said in a chill tone, “what exactly brings
you lurking about The Hollies after sunset, Sir Elliot?”
    His beautiful eyes narrowed. “As you may have already divined,
I was ‘lurking about’ in hopes of encountering you, Lady Agatha.”
    Drat. It would take more than a few words to muddle Sir
Elliot’s brain.
    “Really?”
    “Well, I may not have come with the express idea of strolling
about the grounds. I had, in fact, driven in all blessed innocence to the front
door.” His smile was vulpine and gentlemanly all at once. “I collected your
personal effects from the train station and had just unloaded them with
instructions that they were to be taken up to your room when I saw you
disappear around the corner of the house.
    “In short. Lady Agatha, I came to tell you your things had
arrived, not to spy on you.”
    His forthright attack left her slightly breathless. He wasn’t
playing by the rules! He was cheating. A gentleman wouldn’t accuse a lady of
accusing him of spying on her! Even if she was! Damnation!
    She laughed, not quite as lightly as she’d intended. “La! What
a fanciful notion. You’re teasing me, of course. I’m sure you realize that I
lead an entirely boring and blameless life. If you were to spy on me,
you’d be bored to tears.”
    “Oh,” he said, his mouth still smiling but his eyes hard, “I
sincerely doubt that.”
    “You are too kind.” And this was too dangerous to continue.
    She moved past him, intending to lead him back into the house
where others could dilute the tension between them. He fell into step beside
her.
    “And you, Lady Agatha?” he said, his tone conversational and
therefore doubly suspect. “You were simply taking the night air when you were
overcome with this horticultural curiosity?”
    “Exactly.” If she moved any faster she’d be trotting. The
realization brought her up sharply.
    Maxim number two: A person who runs away always looks like
they have a reason to—Her foot caught in her hem and she tripped. Immediately,
his hand was beneath her arm, setting her back on her feet. She forced her eyes
forward and kept walking.
    He did not release her arm. His clasp was light and she liked
it. And she disliked that she liked it.
    “I couldn’t