Bridal Favors (9 page)

“That we have your Merry Molière create a suitable wardrobe for you. Of course, as it is I that require you to dress in a particular manner, I assume you will add the cost of the gowns to my bill.”

“I could never—”

Mrs. Vandervoort held up her hand, a shadow of impatience crossing her face. “I am not giving you a gift, Lady Evelyn. I am telling you,
as your client,
that this is what I want and expect of you, and that I am perfectly satisfied to pay for the privilege and presumption of demanding that you refurbish your wardrobe.”

Mrs. Vandervoort had such a lucid way of thinking, Evelyn could not help but admire it, even though her pride disliked the conquest.

She wished fervently she knew how to accept. “You’ve made a very reasonable argument and you win” didn’t seem proper and “You are generous and logical” sounded asinine. Ultimately she was left murmuring, “Thank you.”

For the briefest instant something akin to compassion flickered in the arctic blue depths of Mrs. Vandervoort’s eyes. “Good. Three day dresses, two skirts, five waists, and two—no, best make it three— evening gowns. That should do,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, opening the door.

Francesca and Merry were sitting on the small divan in the outer office, their heads together in a profoundly conspiratorial manner. Doubtless, they were plotting Francesca’s new autumn wardrobe.

Francesca gracefully unfolded from her seat. “And you’ll keep me well apprised of how things get on?”

“You will be as if on my shoulder,” Merry assured her.

“Good.” Francesca smiled before turning her attention to Mrs. Vandervoort. “Ma’am, I hesitate to act on such short acquaintance, but would you care to join me for lunch?”

“Why, Marchioness,” Mrs. Vandervoort said, “how kind. I’d be delighted.”

Chapter 6

NORTH CROSS ABBEY occupied a small fold in the forest on the East Sussex–Surrey border. The church itself was gone except for a few skeletal arches and only the monastery still stood, expropriated long ago to the domestic purposes of the Powell family.

Looking at it, Evelyn wondered about the original opportunist who had finagled Henry VIII out of this prime piece of real estate. Now, however, time and taxes were finally having their way. The house was built roughly in the shape of a
U,
the moss-covered eastern façade housing the main entrance before which she stood.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Merry breathed. “Isn’t it?” she insisted, clambering down to stand beside Evelyn and staring round-eyed. Merry felt keenly that all romance was better shared. In spite of being raised by stolid Parisian parents, Merry was prodigiously impressionable. It had been her curse.

Unfortunately, Evelyn had no romantic inclinations. She eyed the structure critically. Having spent her childhood in similarly picturesque places, she had a good idea of what to expect inside: Cold and dark. Maybe mold. She studied the green base again. Definitely mold.

Still, there was no reason to disillusion Merry. She put her hands on her hips and nodded. “I am confident we’ll be able to produce a wedding worthy of the Whyte name.”

Though just how they were to accomplish that remained to be seen. Only a bit over thirty miles from London’s outskirts, North Cross Abbey might as well have been two hundred. The area was severely depressed. For years the farming population had been migrating to the city, lured by the promise of work. She hoped Justin Powell had a decent staff—though, as the stairs were upswept and leaves piled against the outer walls, that seemed unlikely.

“Where’d you like your luggage, Miss?” Buck Newton, their driver, asked.

“That depends. Do you know whether Mr. Powell has arrived yet?”

“Aye,” Buck replied.

“Ah. Good. Wait here, while I find him,” she said, “and then you can bring those inside. If you’ll wait with Mr. Newton, Merry?”

Merry bobbed her head and giggled, drawing Evelyn’s alarmed glance. Ever since Mr. Newton had met them at the railway station, Merry had been primping and tittering. Now Evelyn, in spite of a dearth of firsthand experience, wasn’t naive. Merry was, she recognized, in the process of winning yet another “admirer.” Apparently men were fatally drawn to women who acted feeble-minded.

She only hoped Merry would keep her priorities well established. But as there was nothing Evelyn could do about it now, she approached the front door, her step muffled under a layer of decaying leaves. She rapped sharply. She waited. No one answered. She rapped again.

Five minutes later, when there was still no reply, she took hold of the handle, twisted, and shoved. The door swung inward on a groan. Apparently, country habits dictated that doors remain unlocked. How charming!

“’Allo!” Evelyn called. Her voice echoed down a dim corridor. She stepped inside. Silence, ripe and stagnant, retreated before her. Her heel struck the barren flagstone with cacophonous impatience. Something furtive scuttled in a far-off corner.

She felt her spirits fall. She could not envision a more dismal setting for a wedding party. Unless one was a ghost—
“Dear heavens!”
A dark figure in murky robes materialized before her.

“Ah, the intrepid Miss Whyte,” the apparition said. “Silly me. I should have realized I needn’t bother answering the door.”

“You!” Evelyn gasped.

Beverly regarded her stoically. “Perhaps you’d prefer to enter through the window? I could leave one open and pretend I never saw you, if you wish.”

“Evelyn!” Merry appeared breathless in the doorway, Mr. Newton hovering close behind. “
Mon Dieu!
Are you all right? I thought I heard you squeak, and . . .”

At the sight of Beverly she trailed off, looking askance at Evelyn.

“This is
him,
” Evelyn pronounced coldly.

“
Beverly
him?”

“Your servant, mademoiselle,” Beverly stated dryly. “May I be so bold as to suggest that you try ‘Beverly’ should ‘him’ fail to elicit the desired response?”

“Where is Mr. Powell?” Evelyn asked haughtily, ignoring his sarcasm.

“I don’t suppose ‘not here’ would suffice?” Beverly suggested morosely.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Well, he isn’t here. He’s gone.”

“Where?”

“Bird-watching.” He offered each ort of information as reluctantly as a glutton gives away cake.

Normally, Evelyn would have simply waited for her host’s return. But the idea of sitting in this dank place under Beverly’s basilisk glare was distinctly unappealing. “Which way did he go?”

“Out there.” Beverly’s accompanying gesture encompassed roughly one hundred and eighty degrees.

“Where out there?” Evelyn felt tension setting her jaw.

“In the woods.”

“Listen, Beverly. If you—”

“Evelyn!” Merry launched herself between Evelyn and the stone-faced butler. “Perhaps we should have Mr. Newton bring our things in, and Mr. Beverly can tell him which rooms he has readied for us?”

Evelyn recovered her aplomb at once. “Capital notion, Merry. You and
him,
” she glared at the butler, “see that all’s shipshape in our rooms.
After
he points out the direction in which he saw Mr. Powell go. And be advised, Beverly,” she continued, “I am an accomplished woodsman. I will not get lost. I will, however, know if I am being deliberately misdirected, and your employer will hear about it if I am.”

Beverly sniffed. “Madame, I resent the inference that I would deliberately conspire at your discomfort.” Without awaiting a reply, he pointed. “Mr. Powell went that way.”

“Thank you, Beverly,” Evelyn said, gliding serenely in the opposite direction he’d indicated.

It was with decidedly piquant pleasure that she heard him mutter, “Drat!”

Evelyn had lied. She wasn’t much of a woodsman. Happily, the area around North Cross Abbey wasn’t much of a wood. After stumbling blindly around for half an hour, certain landmarks began to seem familiar even to her: a patch of bluebells; the beech whose doubled-up trunk reminded her of Quasimodo; a flinty shelf above the path.

She considered going back to the abbey—she was relatively certain of the direction—but ruled against it as being far too likely to delight Beverly. Instead, she took measure of her situation and began a slow, methodical sweep.

Thus she went, finally reaching the edge of the weald. The latticed dome of budding branches overhead gave way to bright sky, and a gentle slope unrolled before her like a carpet. She stopped and raised her hand, shading her eyes and scanning the dell.

Not far below, a tidy little cottage stood at the end of a primitive lane. As she watched, the door opened and a heavy-limbed man emerged, pulling on a cloth cap. Good. Perhaps he’d seen Justin, or at least could tell her how to get back to the abbey.

She raised her arm to hail him. “Yoo—!” A hand clamped over her mouth and an arm lashed around her waist, snatching her against a hard body. She struggled, and her glasses flew off as the man dragged her beneath the forest canopy.

She tried to scream, to bite him, but he was too powerful. Suddenly he dipped, caught her behind the knees, lifted her in his arms, and dumped her flat on her back on the soft forest earth. The air left her lungs in a whoosh and her hair tumbled over her face as he followed her down. Once more his hand covered her mouth—as the rest of him covered her. She could
feel
him, over her, on her, his body hard and tense.

“Quiet! He’ll see you!”

She twisted frantically, trying to free her mouth. If she could just scre—She frowned. His voice had seemed familiar. She jerked her head, dislodging just enough hair to be able to see, and found herself staring up at Justin Powell.

He was so close she could see the grain of his skin, even to the pale skin behind his ears that betrayed a recent haircut. He was looking out past her, his expression fixed, his hand all but cemented in place.

“Mider Powwow, ta yo han offma me,” she commanded. He glanced down and lowered his head until his lips were mere inches from her ear.

“You must promise not to make a single sound. Not one.” His breath was as soft as a sigh. “Do you promise?”

She nodded, and he slipped his hand from her mouth.

“Good girl. Now lie very, very still for a moment. Just a moment more . . .”

He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He’d lifted his head again, captivated by whatever it was he was studying. He groped by her side and came up with a pair of binoculars. He lifted them to his eyes. He tensed, and dramatically her attention shifted to the rest of his body.

He was
lying
on top of her. One of his legs sprawled across her thighs; the other knee was planted by her hip. His elbow was braced on the ground alongside her head to support the binoculars, and his free hand, the hand that had been clamped over her mouth, rested on her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her collarbone. He didn’t appear to notice her. She wished she was similarly unaffected.

All right, she told herself, struggling to marshal her scattering thoughts. It wasn’t unusual that she’d find this unsettling. After all, she’d never had such close contact with a man before. No wonder he roused—
ah
!
Bad choice of words
!—piqued? Yes, yes, no wonder he
piqued
her interest.

And why
not
learn something from the encounter? If God provided an experience, who was she to deny it? Yes, she thought virtuously, clearly the Good Lord meant her to be lying under Justin Powell’s large, hard body, soaking up knowledge.

Knowledge such as that his breath was unexpectedly sweet. That up close, his skin was clean and fine-grained. That the tips of his lashes gleamed bronze in the slanting afternoon light. That he smelled soapy and heated and living and masculine. And he was warm. He
radiated
heat. It seeped into her, as potent as a drug.

“Mr. Powell?”

Without looking, he pressed his forefinger gently over her lips. “Quiet.”

The finger on her lips was lightly callused. She fought an overwhelming urge to touch it with the tip of her tongue to see if “masculine” was a taste as well as a scent. It was certainly a tactile quality, for she felt a change the instant whatever had held his attention vanished. He relaxed, no less hard, but somehow more pliant.

He lowered the binoculars and looked down at her. “Why, ’allo, Evie,” he said in a tone of pleased discovery. His gaze played over her face, hesitated at her eyes, and moved to her mouth. It was interested and amused. It unnerved her, the way he looked at her mouth.

“What was it?” she asked faintly. He hadn’t taken his finger from her mouth yet. The corners of her lips had begun to tingle.

“Hm?” It seemed—and she wasn’t at all sure of her perceptions; everything seemed a bit confused—but it
seemed
as if his fingertip swept along her lower lip.

“Whatever you were watching. What was it?”

“Oh.” His gaze sharpened. He gave her a lopsided smile before tapping her lips once and withdrawing his hand. “Lesser Bolshevikian Toadeater.”

“Is it rare?”

“Rare enough in these parts,” he replied, rolling away and leaping to his feet. He held out his hand and she placed hers in it. Unceremoniously, he hauled her to her feet.