by Mary Balogh
“I would be consumed by terror,” she said. But oh, the yearning to say yes.
“Is that a no?” he asked. “But your eyes say yes. My motives are entirely selfish. I wish to share the talents of my affianced bride with those members of the ton gathered here and bask in your reflected glory. However, I will not press you. Tonight is probably a bit intimidating for you even as it is, though you show no outer sign of it.”
“Just for a very short while?” she asked, and then wished she could recall the words.
“For as long or as short a time as you wish,” he said.
She drew breath, let it out, and bit her lower lip.
“I do apologize—” he said.
“Very well,” she said simultaneously.
He frowned in concern. Dora smiled. And he smiled too.
“You are sure?” he asked her.
“Absolutely not,” she told him. “But I will do it.”
“Thank you,” he said. He offered his arm. “Shall we go and have a word with Pierce?”
Although it was not a ball and there would not normally have been a formal supper, there was to be one on this occasion, the duke had explained a day or two ago, because it was their betrothal party. Dora was seated beside him in the ballroom, which had been set up with enough tables to accommodate everyone. Candlelight from the chandeliers overhead glittered off fine china and crystal and jewels. There was a sumptuous feast. Dora could enjoy none of it. What had she agreed to? But she had no one to blame but herself.
The duke got to his feet after the guests had eaten their fill and waited for silence to fall. He welcomed those guests who had come to town specifically for his wedding to Miss Debbins, most notably his betrothed’s father, Sir Walter Debbins, with Lady Debbins and her brother, the Reverend Oliver Debbins, with Mrs. Debbins. He proposed a toast to his betrothed, soon to be his wife.
Dora smiled at her father, at her brother and sister-in-law, at Agnes, at Chloe and Ralph, directly in her line of vision. Butterflies danced in her stomach.
“I have a special treat in store for you after supper,” the duke said. “My betrothed is not only an accomplished musician, but an extraordinarily talented one too. I met her a little over a year ago when she dined at Middlebury Park and then played the harp and the pianoforte at the request of Lord and Lady Darleigh. Unfortunately, there is no harp here, but Miss Debbins has agreed to play the pianoforte for us directly after we have all returned to the drawing room. After you have heard her, you will understand why I did not forget her but went back a month ago to beg her to do me the honor of marrying me. Though I hasten to add that it was not only her musical talent that drew me.”
He turned his head to smile down at Dora while laughter and applause rippled about the ballroom.
It was too late now to withdraw, she thought. But did she want to? She saw nothing but kindness and goodwill around her as she glanced about the room. She caught Flavian’s eye and he winked.
The duke left the ballroom early. Dora followed with her brother and sister-in-law and Ben—Sir Benedict Harper—who was walking determinedly with the aid of two specially made canes.
“You are very brave, Dora,” Louisa said, taking her arm. “But you are indeed talented. I am so very delighted for you. No one deserves happiness more.”
“I was privileged enough to be present for that recital last year,” Ben said. “I was too dim-witted, however, to realize that a romance was brewing.”
The drawing room had been transformed while they were having supper. Half the wall between it and the music room had been folded back, and chairs had been set up in both rooms, facing the opening, into which the pianoforte had been moved. The crowd looked much larger to Dora now than it had looked earlier. Almost everyone had taken a seat and looked expectantly toward the doorway, where the Duke of Stanbrook was awaiting her. He smiled and raised a hand for hers. He led her toward the instrument, and she seated herself and tried to compose her mind, her eyes upon the keyboard. Her hands felt clammy and a bit beset with pins and needles. The hush from both rooms seemed loud.
Then she set her hands on the keys and began to play a Beethoven sonata. For a few seconds her fingers did not seem willing to play the notes she knew so well, and her mind teemed with thoughts of everything except the music. And then she heard the melody and slipped inside it and created it anew through her fingers and hands. She did not lose touch with her surroundings. She knew she was at Stanbrook House, surrounded by a large number of people, some of whom were near and dear to her, most of whom had been strangers to her until tonight. She knew she was playing at the request of the Duke of Stanbrook. She knew she was doing something she had never done on such a scale before. But the person who was aware of those things seemed rather remote, someone she did not have to worry about until later. For at the moment the music claimed her.
She was startled at the volume of the applause after she had finished, at the sound of voices, at the scraping of chairs as her audience got collectively to its feet. She looked up, bit her lip, saw the duke standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his face beaming with pride, his hands clasped behind his back, and smiled.
“More,” someone called, and it became a chant, mingled with some laughter and one piercing whistle.
She played a Mozart sonata and, as a final encore when the guests were not willing to let her go, the Welsh folk song “Llwyn On,” which she usually played on the harp.
This was, she thought as the applause died away and she found herself surrounded by appreciative guests, surely one of the happiest days of her life. And it was only the beginning.
The day after tomorrow was her wedding day.
* * *
George did not often entertain on a grand scale, though he had, of course, just hosted the wedding reception for Imogen and Percy. This party, however, had been arranged on his own account. He had wanted to introduce his betrothed to the ton before their wedding so that that particular day would be less overwhelming for her. For by her choice the betrothal party would be in the nature of a social debut for her, more than twenty years after it ought to have occurred.
He was more than pleased with the way the evening had progressed. She was elegantly and fashionably dressed, her hair becomingly styled. Yet she looked very much herself too. She had made no attempt to look either younger or grander than she was. She wore no jewelry except for small gold earbobs. It was easy to see the disciplined, almost prim teacher in both her appearance and her demeanor. Yet she was poised and apparently at ease with all the attention that was being paid her. He had sensed as the evening went on that she was generally liked and approved of. He was certainly charmed by her.
Her musical recital, however, had lifted her above her role as his betrothed. It had established her as an interesting, accomplished person in her own right. The people who crowded around her after she had finished playing did so not because she had netted herself a duke for a husband, but because she was someone who had aroused their admiration.
He was more than pleased.
The next couple of days could not go fast enough for him. Not just so that he could have her in his bed—though there was that too—but so that he could have her permanently in his life. He half resented the fact that tonight she would return across the square to Arnott House with all her family, while he must remain here alone.
He smiled as he caught her eye across the room. And it occurred to him with something like surprise that he was happy. He often felt happiness, surely. He had felt it for all the officers who had left the hospital at Penderris healed, or at least on the road to healing. He had felt it for his nephew when he married Philippa and when Belinda was born. He had felt it in abundance for each of his fellow Survivors when they had married and had children. He felt happy for Dora Debbins tonight. But . . . when had he ever felt happiness for himself? Try as he would, he could not think of any occasion since he joi
ned his regiment at the age of seventeen, when he had been happy for all too brief a time. Only recently had he begun to feel anything approaching it—when he went to Gloucestershire and made his offer and was accepted, a few times during the past month, and now this evening. Now at this moment.
He was a happy man, he thought, and this was only the beginning. Soon she would no longer be returning to Arnott House and leaving him alone here. Soon she would be his wife. They would remain together. He was almost shaken by the sheer pleasure of the thought.
And a moment later he was shaken again by the sudden lurching of fear low in his stomach lest something happen to destroy that happiness. Deuce take it, but he must learn to trust the present and the future, to put the past behind him once and for all.
Someone laid a hand upon his arm, and he turned to find his nephew standing beside him.
“You are being badly outshone by your own betrothed, Uncle George,” Julian said with a grin. “My sympathies.”
“Jackanapes,” George said fondly. “I am standing here basking in her reflected glory.”
“I would be obliged for a private word with you,” Julian said, “if this is not too inconvenient a time.”
“Not at all,” George assured him. “I do not believe my presence will be missed for a little while. Come out onto the landing.”
His nephew did not speak again until they were leaning against the oak banister above the staircase and the hall below.
“Philippa and I have talked a great deal about your impending nuptials,” he said, “and it has occurred to us that you may be feeling a bit concerned about us.”
George raised his eyebrows and his nephew flushed.
“You made it very clear to me after . . . after Brendan’s passing,” he explained, “that you considered me your heir. You said at the time that you would never have another son of your own. No, don’t say anything.” He held up a hand as George drew breath to speak. “Let me finish. We are perfectly aware that Miss Debbins is not a . . . well, that she is not a very young lady and that you may well not be marrying her in order to set up your nursery again, but—”
“You are absolutely right,” George said, firmly interrupting him. “I am marrying Miss Debbins because I have an affection for her. We have no wish whatsoever to populate the nursery at Penderris. Your status as my heir is not in peril.”
Julian’s flush had deepened. “I believe you, and I am sincerely happy for you,” he said. “It has been abundantly clear this evening that you and Miss Debbins hold each other in deep regard. But the point is, Uncle George, that unexpected things do sometimes happen. I do not know if it is a possibility and, heaven help me, I do not want to know. But Philippa seems to think it is, and she may be right, she being a woman and all that. Anyway, we are in absolute agreement that we are perfectly happy with what we have and with who we are. I have rescued my own home and estate from the near ruin my father ran it into, and I have done a great deal more than that. It is thriving. I have much to leave my eldest son—if we have sons, that is—and adequate means with which to provide for Belinda and any other children with whom we may be blessed. We will not feel that we have been deprived of my birthright if you should have another son. After all, Papa was a younger son and never expected to succeed you, and I never expected it. There was always Brendan . . .” His voice trailed away and he frowned in apparent distress.
George was moved.
“Thank you, Julian,” he said. “The unexpected, as you put it, will almost certainly not happen, but your assurances and the fact that you speak for Philippa too are a great comfort me. I could not ask for a better nephew—and niece.”
He wondered for the first time if Miss Debbins really had dismissed from her mind all possibility of bearing a child—and if she would welcome such an outcome of their marriage so late in her life. Her childlessness might well have caused her some unhappiness in the past. As with all else, though, he guessed that she had dealt with any disappointment with the calm good sense that characterized her. Had his marriage offer revived some faint hope in her? He sincerely hoped not.
And then Julian spoke again.
“Did you know that Aunt Miriam’s brother is in town?” he asked.
“Eastham?” George said, both startled and aghast to hear that his dead wife’s brother was in London. Anthony Meikle, Earl of Eastham, was actually Miriam’s half brother. “But he has always been a near recluse. He lives in Derbyshire. He never comes to London.”
“Well, he is here now,” Julian said. “I saw him with my own eyes just yesterday outside Tattersall’s. I even spoke to him. He told me he is here for a week or so on business. He did not seem particularly pleased to see me, however. He was certainly not inclined to settle into a lengthy chat. He was always a bit of a queer cove, was he not?”
“Don’t take his unfriendliness personally,” George said. “He would have been even less pleased to see me.” A great deal less, in fact. George stretched the fingers of both hands to prevent himself from curling them into fists. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“I did think for a moment,” Julian said, “that perhaps you had invited him to your wedding. But you would hardly have done that, would you? The two of you were never the best of friends.”
“No,” George said. “I did not invite him.”
Julian frowned and looked as if he would have said more if he could have found the words. George patted him on the shoulder and pushed away from the rail.
“It is time I returned to my guests,” he said briskly. “Thank you for your words, Julian. Thank Philippa for me, will you?”
He made his way back into the drawing room and saw that his betrothed, flushed and laughing, was still in the middle of a largish group. George smiled at the sight.
But the great welling of inner happiness he had felt mere minutes ago had been replaced entirely by the creeping, surely baseless fear.
Eastham might have had any number of reasons to travel to London. His coming here now probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that George was getting married the day after tomorrow. Why would it, after all? Coincidences happened all the time.
But what the devil had brought him?
7
Dora had discovered several times in the course of her life that time had the strange capacity of crawling and galloping along simultaneously. It seemed like far longer ago than one month since she had been at her cottage in Inglebrook, contented enough with her life and the set routine of her days, asking nothing more of the future than a continuation of the same. Indeed, it seemed almost like something that must have happened to someone else during a different lifetime. And yet . . . Well, she awoke on the morning of her wedding unable to believe that the month had already gone by. It seemed but yesterday that she had arrived in London with all the time in the world to adjust to the new reality of her existence.
She awoke with the panicked feeling that she had been rushed, that she was not nearly ready, that she was not even perfectly sure this was the right thing to be doing. There was a strange yearning to have the comfort and security of her old life back. This new one was far too vivid, too brilliantly . . . happy to last. The future yawned ahead, unknown and unknowable. Could she trust it? She was surprised she had slept, even resented the fact that she had. She had needed the night in which to ponder and consider.
But what was there to consider?
Was she afraid of happiness? Because it had let her down way back in her youth and she was wary of giving in to it again? She was about to marry a kind and wonderful man. She was even—she might as well be honest in the privacy of her own mind—a little in love with him. Perhaps a lot in love, though she would never admit to such foolishness outside the privacy of her own mind. In any case, she was going to marry him today. Before the morning was out, in fact. Nothing could or would stop that, for he was a man of honor. Besides, he wanted to marr
y her. He had come all the way to Inglebrook to propose to her, and there had been nothing in his manner since to suggest that he regretted having done so.
No, there really was nothing to ponder and nothing to fear. She threw back the bedcovers, got out of bed, and crossed the room to draw back the curtains from the window. It had rained on and off for the last four days, and the sky had been heavy with clouds the whole time. It had also been windy and chilly for June. But look! This morning the sky was blue with not a cloud in sight. The trees in the park at the center of the square below were still, not even a slight breeze rustling the leaves. Sunlight slanted through them from the east.
Oh, it was shaping up to be a perfect day. But of course it was. It would have been perfect even if it were bucketing down with rain and a gale was blowing.
It was still very early. Dora took her shawl from the chair beside her bed, wrapped it about her shoulders against the slight chill, and sat on the window seat. She drew her legs up before her and hugged her knees with both arms. She looked across the square toward Stanbrook House, but it was more than half hidden behind the trees. Was he awake yet? Was he looking across here? By tonight Stanbrook House would be her home. This time tomorrow she would be there with him. She could both feel and hear her heartbeat quicken and smiled ruefully. It was a bit embarrassing to be thirty-nine years old and a virgin while he, presumably, had years of experience behind him. Well, of course he did. He had been married for almost twenty years.
But she did not want to think of that. Certainly not today.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, came a great stabbing of longing for her mother. It took her breath away and made her stomach churn. She dipped her head until her forehead rested on her knees and swallowed against a lump in her throat.
Her mother had been vibrantly beautiful and full of smiles and laughter and love. She had doted upon her children and had never engaged a nurse to look after them. She had wept inconsolably when Oliver went away to school at the age of twelve, when Dora was ten. Dora had had her undivided attention for the next two years until Agnes was born. Mama had loved them equally after that. She had cuddled and played endlessly and happily with the baby, as had Dora, and she had talked with her elder daughter, dreamed with her about the future, promised her a dazzling come-out Season and a handsome, rich, loving husband at the end of it. They had laughed over how handsome he would be and how wealthy and how charming and loving. Mama had endlessly brushed and styled Dora’s hair and made her pretty clothes and told her how lovely she was growing to be. She had taught Dora herself instead of hiring a governess, though she had insisted that Papa hire a good music teacher for her. She felt privileged and honored, she had once told Dora, to have been entrusted with such a musically gifted daughter. Her talent, Mama had often added, had certainly not come from her—or from Papa either.