Bridal Favors (11 page)

When she’d stood up, he’d been surprised that something so feminine and womanly was clad in something so hideously conventional, dowdy even, not nearly as attractive as the boy’s knickers and blouse she’d been wearing when she’d broken into his house.

Who’d have recognized the small, bright-eyed hoyden in this drab little wren in tinted glasses? It wasn’t that he was all knowledgeable about fashion, but he did know a lot about disguise: Evelyn Cummings Whyte was definitely wearing one, and he could not help but wonder why.

And he had no
right
to wonder anything about Evelyn Cummings Whyte. He had to get on with the job at hand. He was a spy. His soul had already been spoken for. No good could come of playing games with her.

He hefted the last trunk from the wagon bed and staggered under its weight to the door. He’d apologize for twitting her as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

Physical activity had always helped Evelyn put things in perspective. By the time she, Buck Newton, and Justin Powell had unloaded the wagon, she was feeling quite herself.

Clearly, Justin had been teasing her. Since their return he’d barely glanced her way, and when he had, he looked far more contrite than predatory, which, for some reason, irritated Evelyn.

Did he regret his flirtatious banter? Because he
had
been flirting, hadn’t he?
Drat
. She wished she’d more experience with those playful exchanges between the sexes that novelists celebrated.

Perhaps—an even darker thought took root—perhaps Justin Powell looked like that because he was worried
she
thought
he
was serious about pursuing her. And if he thought she took him seriously, that meant he also thought she considered herself a serious candidate for his attention, and
that
she most certainly did not.

She knew her shortcomings. She knew that she was categorically
not
the type of woman men like Justin Powell noticed. She understood quite well that he’d been having a little joke with her, and she wasn’t so self-important that she couldn’t join in on the fun. Ha-ha. See?

After all, she was twenty-five years old. She’s been around a bit herself. Well, maybe not
herself
, but she’d been around women who’d been around. Like Merry, she thought, as the Frenchwoman emerged from the house and dimpled at Buck Newton.

Merry had been around, well, a lot. And from all appearances, it looked like she was ready to take another turn. The trouble with dear Merry was that, while she owned a Frenchwoman’s passion, she had none of a Frenchwoman’s practicality. It had been because of this, being so often at the mercy of an undiscriminating heart, that Merry had been expulsed from M. Worth’s Parisian workrooms.

Luckily, Evelyn’s mother had been in Paris acquiring a new wardrobe at the time of Merry’s dismissal and, thinking of her sister-in-law’s new enterprise, had snatched up the budding designer and shipped her back to London. That had been ten years ago. Since then Merry had been “in love” with a florist, a pastry chef, a draper, a haberdasher, and who knew who else.

“Did you find Beverly, Miss Molière?” Justin Powell broke Evelyn’s reverie. She looked around and found Merry had approached.

“Yes,” Merry said, coyly swishing her hem back and forth.

“And?” Justin prompted.

“And? Oh! And he said,” Merry frowned in concentration, “he said that he didn’t prepare any rooms for us because he knew that as soon as Miss Evelyn arrived she would only go snooping about and take the ones she wanted anyway.”

Evelyn’s skin warmed. “I suppose that as he is a legacy from your grandmother, you must keep him?” she asked Justin.

“It’s kind of you to be so understanding.”

“Well,” she allowed, graciously letting go of the hope that Beverly would be sent packing, “I have been accused of my own set of idiosyncrasies.”

“No!” Justin’s face registered satisfying incredulity.

Behind her Merry snorted. There was no use asking her what was so amusing; the French had the oddest notions about humor.

Evelyn turned back to Justin. “May we have a look at the available bedchambers?”

“By all means,” Justin answered. “If I might lead?”

“Please. And, Merry, could you find a place to use as a workroom while I go see about the sleeping arrangements?” She glanced at Buck. “Perhaps Mr. Newton might be persuaded to wait and, once you find a place, take your things there?”

“Oh, aye, ma’am,” Buck agreed. “Pleased to oblige.”

“Splendid.” She turned. “I am ready, Mr. Powell.”

He led the way into a corridor where the dust had been collecting for years. Dust motes climbed and swirled in the thin light as they walked and Evelyn carefully took stock of the abbey.

They passed what looked like a library of sorts on their left, while on their right was a closed door. They continued down the hall, past various disreputable-looking rooms, Justin explaining that this corridor contained the public rooms and the opposite side contained the sleeping chambers.

Near the end of the hall he pointed to a corridor that led to the other wing. They proceeded a short way and he turned and led the way down a few wide, shallow steps into a tall, cavernous room that he called the great room. It had once been the monastery dining hall, he told her. Evelyn looked around, trying to imagine a wedding reception here.

It was bright but grimy and drafty, clusters of mismatched furniture standing on threadbare carpets. On one side, wide French doors looked out on a dilapidated courtyard and weed-filled fishpond. Evelyn craned her head and looked up. Dark beams crisscrossed the vaulted ceiling like a fat spider web.

It was going to be hell to clean.

“Can we find women to come in?” she asked.

“I should imagine so, though I’ve never asked.”

She bit back the word “obviously.”

“Economy’s so rotten, I wouldn’t be surprised if even some of the chaps hire out for cleaning as well.”

“Good.” She picked up an ancient, dented helmet resting near her feet and wrinkled her nose when she discovered a pile of cigar stubs in it. “What do you call the decor? Early Draconian?”

He smiled. “The rest of the place isn’t quite so bad. It’s been strictly bachelor quarters since I inherited it a few years back and before that, well, the General wasn’t keen on spending money.”

She tried to look reassured.

“Everything considered, I should say the best course would be to keep the lighting as low as possible,” he suggested helpfully.

“Oh, Lord,” she murmured.

“It was an abbey,” he said a trifle defensively. “They were
supposed
to lead simple, cloistered lives, which means simple quarters and great, plain common rooms.”

“Why ever would your ancestors want to make such a place their home?”

He grinned disingenuously. “It was free, given to my ancestor for his faithful service to Queen Bess. My maternal line’s motto is:
Never pay for what one can get gratis
. I believe it’s actually written somewhere on the family crest.”

“And is your family very political?” she asked curiously as he started into the room.

“Only when we feel threatened. Then we howl ‘King and Country’ with the best of them. Ergo North Cross Abbey.”

“If it’s as unappealing as you suggest, and I’ve yet to see anything which contradicts you, it doesn’t seem much of a reward for a good and faithful servant.”

“Perhaps the service wasn’t so good, or the servant so faithful,” he said cheerfully. “Incurably lazy lot, my family. Not to mention opportunistic and predisposed toward artful behavior.” There was a touch of pride in his voice.

“I suppose I ought to thank you for yet another warning.”

“Warning?” He stopped so abruptly she plowed into him. He caught her elbow, steadying her. The moment he touched her, she had a distinct physical memory of his fingertips brushing the side of her breast.

“Listen, Evie—”

“Evelyn,” she corrected him faintly. He was standing too close. She had to tilt her head up to see him and it felt bizarrely as though she were lifting her mouth for a kiss. She flushed at the notion and dropped her chin.

“About what I said earlier . . .” He scowled, and in the dim hallway his features looked angular and severe. “About pursuing you. I apologize.”

“Apologize?” He had a beautiful mouth, long and chiseled looking, the bottom lip deep and full.

“I would
never
press my attentions on you.”

“You wouldn’t?” His words slowly penetrated. “No. Of course you wouldn’t! You were teasing. I know that.”

She flushed hotly. Justin must have sensed what she’d been thinking and was desperate to dispel the notion.

True to her suspicion, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re a sensible woman, Evie.”

His fingers dropped from her elbow. She smiled, trying to look sensible, which shouldn’t have been that hard, because she
was
sensible. Sensible, smart, good at everything she laid her hand to—except planning weddings. Because weddings were about love.

Pull yourself together, Evelyn! You have work to do here and you can’t afford to spend the days dodging Justin Powell.

“What an ass you must take me for,” Justin said.

He put one hand flat against the wall at her head level, and leaned against it, subtly hemming her in, looking down into her eyes, smiling pleasantly. His shirt stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, the rolled-up sleeves pulling farther up his arms, exposing the start of a bulging biceps muscle. Careless, cavalier, no sense of decorum.

And fascinatingly, casually, extraordinarily, unconsciously masculine.

“Imagine me, flattering myself that you’d take me seriously.” He said. “Can you forgive me?”

But whatever he was, he was also truly a gentleman, Evelyn thought with bittersweet admiration. With a few words, he took the onus off her.

“I don’t see that there’s anything to forgive,” she replied, and hurried away.

Chapter 8

EVELYN WATCHED AS Justin drew a diagram in the thick dust that had settled on the library table. It took a concerted effort, but in three weeks Evelyn had not only forgiven Justin for teasing her but had vanquished the unfortunate incident from her mind. In the interim she’d discovered that a reformed “wolf” was not such a difficult friend as one might have imagined. In fact, he was quite an easy man to have around . . .
when
he was around.

Most days he went off “birding,” sometimes not returning until late in the day. Not that she was keeping track of his comings and goings, but when one lived in the same house with another person, that person’s presence or absence was bound to be noted. And with Merry diplomatically dividing her free hours between Buck Newton and another local man, well, Evelyn was a bit at loose ends when she wasn’t working. It was only natural that she should look forward to her time with Justin. As a friend, of course. Nothing more.

How could there be more? He was a confirmed bachelor, having renounced the pleasures of illicit relationships, while she was a confirmed spinster, doomed never to know such pleasures, licit or il-.

“There. Perhaps now you see what I mean,” Justin said, sitting back in his seat and waving his hand at the diagram.

Evelyn slid her chair closer to his. “
But
if they’d posted their men like so,” she dotted in some men, “and come down the field thus,” she traced a thin arc, “they would have carried the day.”

“My dear Evie.” For some reason, Justin called her his “dear Evie”—she’d quite given up trying to get him to call her Evelyn or, God forbid, Lady Evelyn—whenever he pontificated on a subject he considered solely a male province. There were a lot of them. “You are wrong.”

He covered her hand with his own and, using her finger as his stylus, sketched a fat line straight through the middle of the impromptu map. That was his manner; he was utterly insensible of personal boundaries. If Justin had need of a finger, he was as likely to co-opt hers as use his own. It was an uncomfortably intimate sort of thing—uncomfortable for her, that is. He didn’t appear to realize anything untoward in it.

“And
that
is why,” he was saying, “the men on the left flank kept them from doing so.”

With a smile as kindly as it was annoying, he dug a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabbed her finger clean before returning it to her.

She, however, was not done. “Not if these men,” she said, pointing, “had secured the area. With the opposition’s attention diverted, the center could have advanced.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. They weren’t strong enough to clear the center.”

She drew a deep breath. “If they had used their heads rather than their—”

“Ahem.” They both looked up. Beverly stood over them, looking annoyed. “Perhaps I misheard your directions, but I was under the distinct impression that you wish this room cleaned. All of it.”

Evelyn looked around, surprised to find that while she and Justin had been debating, the library had filled with an army of workers. A pair of girls were scrubbing the floor, chatting amiably to one another, while three men fitted new panes of glass into the mullioned windows; overhead, a plasterer worked diligently on the coved ceiling. She’d been so absorbed with Justin she hadn’t noticed them come in.