by Mary Balogh
It was only then that she became fully aware of the noise about them—voices and applause and laughter. But then the noise died away again. The Duke of Tresham—her brother-in-law— had not finished speaking.
“There has not been a great deal of time,” he said, “but my duchess is a resourceful lady—I did share the secret with her, of course. And we have able servants. We ask you all to join us in the ballroom after supper. But before we adjourn…” He lifted his eyebrows in the direction of his butler, who was standing in the doorway, and the man stood aside for two footmen, who were carrying between them a white and silver three-tiered wedding cake.
“The devil!” Ferdinand murmured, gripping Viola's hand and drawing it through his arm. “I might have known it would be fatal to say anything before tonight.” His eyes were dancing with merriment when he looked down at her. “I hope you won't mind too much, my love.”
For the next half hour she felt too overwhelmed to know if she minded or not. Her mother came to hug them both, as did Jane and Angeline—who each insisted that she must now call them by their first names—and even the duke. Lord Heyward and the Earl of Bamber hugged her and shook hands with Ferdinand. But then Jane insisted it was time to cut the cake and carry it around on a silver platter so that all the guests could have a chance to congratulate them and wish them well.
It was the very fuss they had hoped to avoid by marrying quietly.
It was wonderful.
Gradually the guests drifted away from the dining room until only Jane and Angeline and Viola's mother were left apart from the newlyweds. Angeline was complaining bitterly about two brothers who had foiled her dearest wish to organize a grand wedding. But interspersed with the complaints were tears and hugs and an assurance that she had never been happier in her life.
“Besides,” she added, “if I have a daughter I will be able to give her the grandest wedding anyone has ever seen. Then you will know what you and Tresh missed, Ferdie.”
“We should go and join everyone else,” he suggested, smiling so warmly into Viola's eyes that her heart turned over.
“Why the ballroom?” she asked.
“A question I have been trying not to ask myself,” he said with a grimace. “First, though, a matter of importance that I should have seen to as soon as Tresham made his announcement, love.” He drew her wedding ring out of a pocket of his evening coat and slid it onto her finger—where it had lain for such a brief spell during the morning. He kissed it. “For all time, Viola.”
The ballroom was large, imposing, and quite breathtaking, Viola saw. The guests stood about the edges of the dance floor. An orchestra occupied a dais at the other end of the room. Three large chandeliers overhead glistened with all their candles alight. The walls and windows and doorways were adorned with masses of white flowers, greenery, and silver ribbons.
There was renewed applause as Viola and Ferdinand appeared in the doorway. The Duke of Tresham stood on the dais, waiting for quiet.
“An impromptu ball, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “in celebration of a marriage. Ferdinand, lead your bride into the opening waltz, if you please.”
Ferdinand turned his head and looked down at Viola as the orchestra began to play. He looked embarrassed and pleased—and also slightly amused.
“Now, what are you doing hiding here,” he murmured to her, “when you should be out there dancing?”
She was struck by the familiarity of the words and then remembered where and when he had spoken them before. She smiled back at him.
“I have been waiting for the right partner, sir,” she replied. And, more softly, “I have been waiting for you.”
She set her hand on his and he led her onto the dance floor and set one arm about her waist. He moved her into the lilting rhythm of the waltz while their wedding guests watched. His eyes smiled into hers.
And then she remembered something else from that fateful May Day about the village green in Trellick.
Beware of a tall, dark, handsome stranger. He can destroy you—if you do not first snare his heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bestselling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over four million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. You can learn more about her novels at her website: www.marybalogh.com.
Follow the passionate and spirited adventures of the Bedwyn family in Mary Balogh's dazzling novels…
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
Aidan's story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY WICKED
Rannulfs story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
Freyja's story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
Morgan's story
Now On Sale
Plus, read on for a preview of the glorious series finale …
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
Wulfric's story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
MOST OF THE GUESTS WERE WEARY FROM traveling and used the time between tea and dinner to rest quietly in their rooms. Wulfric took the opportunity to slip outdoors for some fresh air and exercise. He did not know his way about the park, of course, but he instinctively sought out cover so that he would not be seen from the house and thus invite company. He made his way diagonally across a tree-dotted lawn and took a path through denser trees until he came to the bank of a man-made lake, which had clearly been created for maximum visual effect. He should have gone home to Lindsey Hall. But he had not, and so there was no point in wishing now that he had made a different decision.
He was still standing there, content for the moment to be idle, when he heard the distinct rustle of footsteps on the path behind him—the path by which he had come. He was annoyed with himself then that he had not moved off sooner. The last thing he wanted was company. But it was too late now. Whichever of the side paths he took, he would be unable to move out of sight before whoever it was emerged onto the bank and saw him.
He turned with barely concealed annoyance.
She was marching along with quite unladylike strides, minus either bonnet or gloves, and her head was turned back over her shoulder as if to see who was coming along behind her. Before Wulfric could either move out of the way or alert her to impending disaster, she had collided with him full-on. He grasped her upper arms too late, and found himself with a noseful of soft curls before she jerked back her head with a squeak of alarm and her nose collided with his.
It seemed somehow almost inevitable, he thought with pained resignation—and with the pain of a smarting nose and watering eyes. Some evil angel must have sent her to this house party just to torment him—or to remind him never again to make an impulsive decision.
Her hand flew to her nose—presumably to discover if it was broken or gushing blood or both. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Mrs. Derrick,” he said with faint hauteur—though it was too late to discourage her from approaching him.
“Oh, dear,” she said, lowering her hand and blinking her eyes, “I am so sorry. How clumsy of me! I was not looking where I was going.”
“You might, then,” he said, “have walked right into the lake if I had not been standing here.”
“But I did not,” she said reasonably. “I had a sudden feeling that I was not alone and looked behind me instead of ahead. And of all people, it had to be you.”
“I beg your pardon.” He bowed stiffly to her. He might have returned the compliment but did not.
More than ever she looked countrified and without any of the elegance and sophistication he expected of ladies with whom he was obliged to socialize for two weeks. The breeze was ruffling her short curls. The sunlight was making her complexion look more bronzed even
than it had appeared in the drawing room. Her teeth looked very white in contrast. Her eyes were as blue as the sky. She was, he conceded grudgingly, really quite startlingly pretty—despite a nose that was reddening by the moment.
“My words were ill-mannered,” she said with a smile. “I did not mean them quite the way they sounded. But first I spilled lemonade over you, then I engaged you in a staring match only because I objected to your eyebrow, and now I have run into you and cracked your nose with my own. I do hope I have used up a whole two weeks' worth of clumsiness all within a few hours and can be quite decorous and graceful and really rather boring for the rest of my stay here.”
There was not much to be said in response to such a frank speech. But during it she had revealed a great deal about herself, none of which was in any way appealing.
“My choice of path appears to have been serendipitous,” he said, turning slightly away from her. “The lake was unexpected, but it is pleasantly situated.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she agreed. “It has always been one of my favorite parts of the park.”
“Doubtless,” he said, planning his escape, “you came out here to be alone. I have disturbed you.”
“Not at all,” she said brightly. “Besides, I came out here to walk. There is a path that winds its way all about the lake. It has been carefully planned to give a variety of sensual pleasures.”
Her eyes caught and held his and she grimaced and blushed.
“Sometimes,” she added, “I do not choose my words with care.”
Sensual pleasures. That was the phrase that must have embarrassed her.
But instead of striking off immediately onto her chosen path, she hesitated a moment, and he realized that he stood in her way. But before he could move, she spoke again.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you would care to accompany me?”
He absolutely would not care for any such thing. He could think of no less desirable a way of spending the free hour or so before he must change for dinner.
“Or perhaps,” she said with that laughter in her eyes that he had noticed earlier across the drawing room after he had raised his eyebrow and so offended her, “you would not.”
It was spoken like a challenge. And really, he thought, there was something mildly fascinating about the woman. She was so very different from any other woman he had ever encountered. And at least there was nothing remotely flirtatious in her manner.
“I would,” he said, and stepped aside for her to precede him onto the path that led back in among the trees though it ran parallel to the bank of the lake. He fell into step beside her, since the person who had designed this walk had had the forethought to make it wide enough for two persons to walk comfortably abreast.
They did not talk for a while. Although as a gentleman he was adept at making polite conversation, he had never been a proponent of making noise simply for the sake of keeping the silence at bay. If she was content to stroll quietly, then so was he.
“I believe I have you to thank for my invitation to Schofield,” she said at last, smiling sidelong at him.
“Indeed?” He looked back at her with raised eyebrows.
“After you had been invited,” she said, “Melanie suddenly panicked at the realization that she was to have one more gentleman than lady on her guest list. She dashed off a letter to Hyacinth Cottage to invite me, and, after I had refused, came in person to beg.”
She had just confirmed what he had been beginning to suspect.
“After I had been invited,” he repeated. “By Viscount Mowbury. I daresay the invitation did not come from Lady Renable after all, then.”
“I would not worry about it if I were you,” she said. “Once I had rescued her from impending disaster by agreeing to come after all, she admitted that even if having the Duke of Bewcastle as a guest was not quite such a coup as having the Prince Regent might have been, it was in fact far preferable. She claims—probably quite rightly—that she will be the envy of every other hostess in England.”
He continued to look at her. Then an evil angel really had been at work. She was here only because he was—and he was here only because he had acted quite out of character.
“You did not wish to accept your invitation?” he asked her.
“I did not.” She had been swinging her arms in quite unladylike fashion, but now she clasped them behind her back.
“Because you were offended at being omitted from the original guest list?” She was normally treated as a poor relation and largely ignored, then, was she?
“Because, strange as it may seem, I did not want to come,” she told him.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you feel out of your depth in superior company, Mrs. Derrick.”
“I would question your definition of superior,” she said. “But in essence you are quite right.”
“And yet,” he said, “you were married to a brother of Viscount Elrick.”
“And so I was,” she said cheerfully.
But she did not pursue that line of conversation. They had emerged from among the trees and were at the foot of a grassy hill dotted with daisies and buttercups.
“Is this not a lovely hill?” she asked him, probably rhetorically. “You see? It takes us above the treetops and gives us a clear view of the village and the farms for miles around. The countryside is like a checkered blanket. Who would ever choose town life over this?”
She did not wait for him or mince her way up the rather steep slope. She strode up ahead of him to the very top of the hill, though they might have skirted around its base, and stood there, spreading her arms to the sides and twirling once about, her face lifted to the sunlight. The breeze, which was more like a wind up there, whipped at her hair and her dress and set the ribbons that tied the latter at the waist streaming outward.
She looked like a woodland nymph, and yet it seemed to him that her movements and gestures were quite uncontrived and unselfconscious. What might have been coquetry in another woman was sheer exuberant delight in her. He had the strange feeling of having stepped—unwillingly—into an alien world.
“Who indeed?” he said.
Mrs. Derrick stopped to regard him.
“Do you prefer the countryside?” she asked.
“I do,” he said, climbing until he was beside her and turning slowly about in order to see the full panorama of the surrounding countryside.
“Why do you spend so much time in town, then?” she asked.
“I am a member of the House of Lords,” he told her. “It is my duty to attend whenever it is in session.”
He was looking down at the village.
“The church is pretty, is it not?” she said. “The spire was rebuilt twenty years ago after the old one was blown off in a storm. I can remember both the storm and the rebuilding. This spire is twenty feet higher than the old one.”
“That is the vicarage next to it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “We practically grew up there, my two sisters and I, with the old vicar and his wife. They were kind and hospitable people. Their daughters were our particular friends, and so was their son, Charles, to a lesser degree. He was one boy among five girls, poor lad. We all went to the village school together, girls as well as boys. Fortunately my father, who taught us, was not of the persuasion that girls have nothing but fluff to keep their ears from collapsing in on each other. Louisa and Catherine both married young and now live some distance away. But after the old vicar and his wife died, within two months of each other, Charles, who had been a curate twenty miles from here, was given the living himself and married Hazel—the middle sister of my family.”
Yes, he thought, she really was from a different world—the world of the lower gentry. She had indeed made a brilliant marriage.
She stretched out one arm and moved a step closer to him so that he would be able to see just what it was she pointed at.
“There is Hyacinth Cottage,” she said. “It is where we live. I have always thought it pictures
que. There was a moment of anxiety after my father died, since the lease was in his name alone. But Bertie—Baron Renable—was kind enough to lease it to Mama and Eleanor for the rest of their lives.”
“On the assumption,” he said, “that you will not outlive the two of them?”
She returned her arm to her side. “I was still married to Oscar at the time,” she said. “His death was not predictable, but even if it had been, Bertie would have assumed, I suppose, that I would remain with his family.”
“But you did not?” he asked her.
“No.”
He looked at Hyacinth Cottage in the middle distance. It looked a pretty enough home with its thatched roof and sizable garden. It looked like one of the larger houses in the village, as befitted the home of a gentleman by birth, even if he had also been the schoolmaster.
Mrs. Derrick, standing quietly beside him, chuckled softly.
Wulfric turned his head to look at her.
“I have done something to amuse you again, Mrs. Derrick?” he asked.
“Not really.” She smiled at him. “But it has struck me how like a doll's house Hyacinth Cottage looks from up here. It would probably fit into one corner of the drawing room at wherever you live.”
“Lindsey Hall?” he said. “I doubt it. I perceive that there are four bedrooms upstairs and as many rooms downstairs.”
“Perhaps the corner of your ballroom, then,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though he doubted it. It was an amusing image, though.
“If we follow the path right around the lake at this pace,” she said, “we may arrive back at the house in time to scrounge a biscuit or two with our late-evening tea.”
“Then we will move on,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you did not intend to walk so far. Perhaps you would prefer to return the way we have come while I continue on my way.”
There it was—his cue to escape. Why he did not take it, he had no idea. Perhaps it was that he was unaccustomed to being dismissed.
“Are you by any chance, Mrs. Derrick,” he asked, grasping the handle of his quizzing glass and raising it all the way to his eye to regard her through it—simply because he knew the gesture would annoy her, “trying to be rid of me?”