The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway Page B

think of dining after such a long trip and, too,
the thought of being inside on such a lovely night was unconscionable,” she
said, pleased with her explanation.
    “It is a most lovely night,” he agreed. Then, after a long
moment’s hesitation, “Would you care to continue your walk... with me?”
    “Yes.” It popped out before she’d stopped to think. He smiled,
his gaze averted. He looked disconcerted and a little flattered. Amazing. What
was wrong with the women of Little Bidewell that this man was still walking
about unclaimed?
    Oh, yes. It wasn’t what was wrong with Little Bidewell women,
it was what was wrong with Sir Elliot: Catherine Bunting. The thought soured
Letty’s mood.
    “I trust you’re finding everything to your satisfaction at The
Hollies?”
    “Oh, perfectly delightful.”
    “And you have met Anton?”
    “A charming fellow.”
    They walked a ways farther, Letty fearful that any topic of
conversation she brought up would lead to her unveiling and Sir Elliot, for
whatever reasons, just as mute. The air had cooled since she’d come out and dew
had developed on the lawn, soaking through the thin soles of her boots.
    “Your absence from London for such an extended period
presented no difficulty?” His voice broke the silence.
    “No. I was actually quite eager to be off.”
    “Ah, you enjoy the country.”
    She could think of no reason to answer dishonestly. “I lived
in the country as a child, and all in all I must say I prefer the city. I am,
you see, a woman of the world.”
    “Obviously.”
    She glanced sharply at him, thinking she’d heard laughter in
his voice, but he appeared quite sober.
    “Thank you. And as a woman of the world, I find that those
things that most appeal to me are most often found amidst the bright lights of
civilization.”
    “Yes?”
    “Oh, I grant you, rustication is very peaceful and quaint and
I suppose if one were convalescing from an illness or suffering from a nervous
disorder, living in the country would be ... all right... but I am quite robust
and not given to nerves.”
    “And here I thought all ladies, even women of the world, liked
to be thought appealingly fragile.”
    Lady Fallontrue had always pleaded some malaise or another
when she’d wanted something from her husband. Letty had despised her for it. It
was one thing to manipulate gentlemen on a level playing field, but it was
quite another to victimize a man by making use of one of the few decent
qualities he might own.
    “What,” she asked, stopping, “is ‘appealing’ about weakness?”
    He studied her before answering. “You have a forthright way
with words, Lady Agatha. It is most refreshing.”
    “Comes from owning my own business, I imagine,” she said.
“This wedding thingie, you know.”
    She hesitated and then, encouraged by some misplaced desire to
draw Sir Elliot out, she said, “My experiences have led me to believe that
honesty in conversation, while not always strictly diplomatic, is the most
rewarding.” As soon as she said the words, she realized how hypocritical they
were. She blushed and was glad the night hid her heated cheeks.
    “I shall endeavor to remember your good advice,” he said. He’d
withdrawn his hand from her arm when they’d stopped; she rather missed it.
    “I must own, I am thought somewhat sage,” she said
modestly.
    “Are you? By whom?” She shot a sharp sideways glance at him,
but his bland expression put to rest the dawning suspicion that he was teasing
her.
    “Oh, all sorts of people,” she said airily. “Tradesmen,
servants, actresses, actors, singers, artists ... They come to me, tell me their
troubles, and ask my advice.”
    An idea had begun to form in her imagination. She had no right
entertaining it, let alone acting on it, but that had never stopped her before
and it didn’t stop her now. He was simply too handsome to spend his life
mourning the loss of “Saint Catherine.”
    “Yes. Why just the other day, Mrs. Dodgson—You do know Mrs.
Elmore Dodgson, do you not? No? Oh. You must endeavor to