Only Enchanting: A Survivors' Club Novel

by Mary Balogh

  He lurked alone at the drawing room window so that he would have a clear view down the driveway, and he watched Miss Debbins make what seemed to be her snaillike way up to the house, though no doubt she was walking at a perfectly respectable pace. As soon as she had disappeared up the steps below the window and he had allowed a moment or two for her to move from the hall toward the music room, he went downstairs, took up his coat and hat and gloves, which he had left there earlier, nodded genially to the footman on duty, and strode off down the steps and through the formal parterres.

  It was one of those not-a-cloud-in-the-sky days again. They had been fortunate enough to have had several of them during their stay. The wind was almost nonexistent too. Tulips were blooming in a riot of color. They were surely earlier than usual this year. They would not suit Agnes Keeping’s soul, however. They were regimented and organized.

  Organized.

  He had not written a speech. He had not even planned one in his head. Every time he had decided to do it, his thoughts had scattered in fright to the four corners of the earth and stayed away, no doubt searching for corners that were not even there.

  He had no roses either. It was the wrong time of year. Tulips did not seem quite right. And, Vince’s gardeners might have looked askance at him if he had sallied forth into the beds, scissors or shears in hand. And daffodils, she would no doubt inform him, were better left to bloom in the grass.

  So he arrived outside the cottage empty-handed and empty-headed.

  He knocked on the door and then wondered whether it was too late to bolt. It was. A woman with a little boy in tow and a large basket over her free arm was passing on the other side of the street. She was watching him curiously and bobbed an awkward curtsy when she saw him looking.

  Anyway, he had said he would come.

  The door opened, and he prepared a polite smile for the housekeeper. But it was Mrs. Keeping herself who stood there in the doorway.

  “Oh,” she said, the color deepening in her cheeks.

  “May I hope,” he asked her, removing his hat and making her a bow, “that the mere s-sight of me robs you of coherent s-speech, Mrs. Keeping?”

  “Dora has gone up to the house,” she said, “and Mrs. Henry has gone to the butcher’s shop.”

  “The coast is c-clear for the big, bad wolf, then, is it?” he asked.

  She looked at him in apparent exasperation. But, really, did the woman have no more sense of self-preservation than to inform a man at the door that she was alone in the house?

  “I c-cannot come in, then,” he said. “Your n-neighbors would fall into a collective s-swoon before recovering and r-rushing off to share the scandalous news with their more d-distant neighbors. Fetch your cloak and b-bonnet and come walking with me. It is too fine a day, anyway, to s-spend indoors.”

  “Do you ever ask rather than state?” she asked him, frowning. But her shoulders lost their tension when he merely raised one eyebrow, and she sighed. “I suppose you knew Dora was at Middlebury.”

  “I did,” he admitted. “I did not know your h-housekeeper was at the butcher’s, however. Would she have informed me that you w-were not at home?”

  Mrs. Keeping gave him a speaking glance and shook her head slightly, as though she were dealing with a troublesome child.

  “I will fetch my outdoor things.”

  It did not appear that she had been waiting on pins and needles and with bated breath for him to come and renew his addresses, then. Had he expected that she would?

  9

  He made light conversation as they walked back down the street and turned through the gates to Middlebury. And she was ready enough to contribute her mite. It was better than silence, she had probably decided.

  They fell silent, though, after he had drawn her off the drive to walk among the trees. He took a diagonal path, though there was no walking a straight line in the woods, of course. They came out close to the lake, as he and George had done yesterday. She looked inquiringly at him. No doubt she had expected they would walk out to the cedar avenue and beyond again.

  “Have you been across to the island?” He nodded in its direction.

  “No, I never have.”

  He led her toward the boathouse.

  Seated in the boat a few minutes later while he rowed, she looked out across the water and then directly at him. She looked rather pale, he thought. Her cheeks looked slightly hollow, as though she had been ill or had not slept well—as she very probably had not. For someone who was supposed to be worldly-wise, he had bungled yesterday’s proposal abominably. It would have helped, he supposed, if he had known he was about to make it.

  He wanted to say something. She looked as if she wanted to say something. But neither of them spoke. They were like a pair of bashful schoolchildren just discovering that the opposite sex meant more than just people dressed differently from oneself. She shifted her gaze to the island, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure he did not crash against the little jetty there. He busied himself tying up the boat and helping her out, and he took her to look inside the little temple folly as though this were a mere sightseeing outing.

  It was a pretty shrine, complete with finely carved chair and altar and rosary and stained glass.

  “I believe it was built for a former viscountess,” Mrs. Keeping told him. “She was Catholic. I can just picture her sitting alone here in quiet meditation.”

  “With her beads clicking piously between her fingers, I suppose,” he said. “Rowed herself across, d-did she? I have my doubts. She probably b-brought a hefty, lusty footman with her.”

  “A lover, I suppose.” But she laughed softly as she moved past him back to the outdoors. “How you would destroy the romance of the place, Lord Ponsonby.”

  “That depends,” he said, “upon your d-definition of r-romance.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does.” She looked back at him. “Where is everyone else?”

  “Tramping and riding about the f-farms,” he said. “Lady Darleigh and Lady Trentham are at the h-house.”

  “Why did you not go too?” she asked. “I suppose you have an estate and farms of your own. You are surely interested. And they are your friends, and this is a special gathering. Why did you not go with them?”

  “I w-wanted to see you instead,” he said. “And I had t-told you I would come.”

  She walked back behind the folly, and he followed. There was a stretch of grass there, sloping down toward the water. It was completely secluded. The temple would hide it from the house side of the lake. Trees growing down to the banks of the lake and overhanging them hid it from prying eyes on the other three sides.

  She stopped halfway down the slope.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He stood with his back against the folly and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I m-made you what was probably the most inept m-marriage proposal in h-history yesterday,” he said. “I c-came to make amends.”

  She turned her head to look back at him.

  “Why?”

  Did all women ask why when a man proposed marriage to them? But he had trapped himself now, idiot that he was, by his failure to speak up sooner. He could hardly sink in picturesque elegance onto one knee before her now and draw some flowery speech out of the empty recesses of his mind. He would get grass stains on one knee of his pantaloons, anyway.

  And why the devil did he want to marry her? He had had all night to work it out, but his thoughts had flitted among any and every subject on earth except that one. He had even slept. Had he been so incapable of focusing before his injuries? It was hard to remember. And had it always been hard to remember?

  He stared at her from beneath half-closed lids, and she waited for his answer, her eyebrows raised, her hands clasped at her waist. She looked picturesque and wholesome and . . . safe.

  Good Lord! He had better not tell her either of those last two things.

  What she looked like was the end of the rainbow. No—ghastly image. She
bore no resemblance whatsoever to a pot of gold—crass stuff. Ridiculous image. She was like that dream everyone dreams of something that is always just out of reach but perhaps attainable if only . . .

  He swore under his breath, tossed his hat down onto the grass, sent his gloves in pursuit of it, and strode toward her. His hands closed about her upper arms and yanked her against him.

  “Why else would I want to m-marry you but to be able to d-do this and more whenever I want, night or day?” he said between his teeth before kissing her hard and openmouthed.

  He expected her to push him away, and he would have allowed her to do it. He had no right. . . . She ought to push him away. Instead she somehow slid her gloved hands up between them and cupped his face with them and gentled the kiss.

  He drew his head back a little, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against hers beneath the brim of her bonnet. He could not have made a worse ass of himself or insulted her more if he had tried. He had just told her he wanted to marry her for sex and nothing else. He had grabbed her and kissed her like a randy schoolboy who had never even heard the word finesse.

  “Let’s sit down,” she said with a sigh, and she released him and sat on the grass before removing her gloves and setting them beside her.

  He sat next to her, draped his arms over his knees, and stared out over the water to the trees at the other side.

  “Lord Ponsonby,” she said, “you do not even know me.”

  “Then tell me,” he said.

  “Oh, you know the bare facts,” she said, “and there is nothing much to add. I have not lived a life of high adventure. I am gently born on both my mother’s and my father’s sides, but there is no whisper of aristocracy in our bloodlines. We are ordinary people. I was married to William Keeping for five years.”

  “The dull dog,” he said.

  She rounded on him.

  “You did not know him,” she cried. “And I would not tolerate disrespect of him even if you had. I miss him. I miss him dreadfully. There is gaping emptiness here.” She patted a hand to her bosom.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. Maybe there had been some passion after all.

  “My father’s second wife was one of our neighbors too,” she said, “the widow of his particular friend. I was and am happy for them, though I was eager enough to marry and move away after they wed. Dora had left, and our home just did not seem the same any longer. Since I came to live here, I have involved myself in community and church activities whenever I feel I can be useful. I read and I paint and I darn and embroider. I have a modest competence from my late husband on which to live. It is quite sufficient for my needs. Sophia—Lady Darleigh—is my closest friend, not because of her grand title but because of who she is. I have never been ambitious. I am not now. The idea that I might marry a viscount does not make my heart palpitate with delirious hope. I am perfectly happy with my life as it is.”

  He was glad of that last sentence.

  “I think y-you lie, Mrs. Keeping,” he said.

  She looked cross.

  “You asked,” she said, “and I have told you. There is very little to tell. But you do not know me for all that. Facts tell only a small part of the whole story of who a person is.”

  “You are not p-perfectly happy,” he said. “No one is except m-maybe for brief moments. And you admitted once before that you are n-not fully contented. P-Perhaps there is marriage and motherhood in your f-future, you told me, and your voice was w-wistful when you said it. But you d-did not know who in this neighborhood was likely to offer. I am offering.”

  “Why?” She frowned at him. “You could have any woman you wanted. Any lady of rank and fortune. And beauty.”

  “You are beautiful,” he said.

  “Yes, I am,” she surprised him by saying, and her chin came up and her cheeks warmed with color. “But not in any way that might attract a man like you, Lord Ponsonby.”

  She was determined to see him as a libertine.

  He smiled and regarded her lazily.

  “Is there a c-correct answer to your why?” he asked her. “If I give it, will I w-win the prize?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I would be mad to marry you,” she said.

  “Why?” Now it was his turn. “Is it over m-me you have been losing sleep?”

  “I have not been—” she began, but he had set a hand behind her neck and moved purposefully toward her.

  “Liar.”

  He kissed her and then raised his head. She gazed back into his eyes and did not complete her interrupted sentence. He untied the ribbon bow beneath her chin and tossed her bonnet to the grass on top of her gloves.

  And he kissed her again before unbuttoning his coat and then her cloak at the neck. He slid his hands into the warmth beneath it and drew her to him inside his coat.

  Sometimes, he thought, there was something more erotic than naked flesh.

  He reached his tongue into her mouth, held her head steady with one hand, and circled one of her breasts with the other. It was small, firm, uptilted above her stays. Not voluptuous. Just . . . perfect.

  When one of her hands cupped his cheek, he withdrew a few inches. Her eyes were bright with tears.

  “Do you w-want me to—” he began.

  “No,” she said, her mouth slanting, open, over his.

  She was on the grass then, on her back, and he was half over her, bracing himself above her with his elbows, his hands on her breasts, one of his legs nestled between hers, his mouth moving over her cheeks, her temples, her eyes, her ears, and back to her own. His erection was pressed to her hip.

  He moved himself more fully over her, his hands moving down her sides and beneath her to cup her buttocks. He nestled and rocked against her between her thighs, the layers of their clothing separating them. He wanted nakedness then. He wanted to explore her heat with his hand, and he wanted to put himself there and press inside her. He wanted to claim her body for his own.

  And he would be safe.

  Strange thought—and it was not the first time it had popped into his head like an alien thing.

  Safe.

  Safe for whom?

  And from what?

  He set his face in the hollow between her shoulder and neck and willed his heartbeat to a more normal rate.

  “W-Would you stop me?” he asked, raising his head at last and looking down at her. “Would you h-have stopped me?”

  It was probably an unfair question. But he did not think she would have.

  He moved off her and lay beside her, the back of one hand draped over his eyes. He breathed as deeply and as silently as he was able, bringing his body under control.

  “I lost my v-virginity when I was sixteen,” he told her. “I have not been celibate since then, except for the three years I spent at P-Penderris Hall. But I do not b-believe I am a rake. And I do believe that any solemn vow f-freely given ought to be binding in honor, including marriage vows.”

  She sat up and clasped her arms about her knees. One lock of her hair had come loose from the knot at her neck and lay along the back of her cloak, shiny and slightly wavy. He raised one hand and ran the backs of his fingers along it. It was smooth and silky. She hunched her shoulders but did not move away from him.

  “I just accused you of not knowing me,” she said. “But I do not know you either, do I? I have made assumptions, but they are not necessarily true. But I do know that you hide behind a mask of careless mockery.”

  “Ah, but the question is, Mrs. Keeping,” he said, “do you w-want to know me? Or do you wish to c-continue undisturbed with your placid, blameless, not quite happy but not entirely unhappy existence here? I may be d-dangerous to know.”

  * * *

  Agnes got to her feet and moved to the water’s edge. But it was not far enough. She walked along the shore until it bent away to her right. She stood still and gazed sightlessly across at the west bank and the trees that overhung it. He did not follow her, and she was thankful for that.

&nbs
p; He had been lying right on top of her. For a minute or two all his weight had borne her down into the grass. He had been between her thighs. She had felt him. . . .

  Only their clothes had stopped them.

  And she had wanted him. Not just the being-in-love sort of wanting. Not just the desire for kisses. She had wanted him.

  She had never wanted William—which was just as well, she supposed, since she had not had him very often. Once a week, as a regular routine, for the first year or so, then at less frequent intervals, and finally, for the last two years, not at all. She had never denied him his rights when he had claimed them, and she had never shrunk from their encounters or found them particularly unpleasant. But there had been a certain relief, a certain feeling of freedom, when he had stopped coming to her—except that she would have liked to have had a child. The friendship and affection between them had endured, though, and the comfortable sense of belonging. He had often told her how fond he was of her, and she had believed him. She had been fond of him too, though, if she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had married him only because home had no longer felt quite like home with Dora gone and her father’s new wife in her place, with the strong likelihood that her mother and sister would come to live with them soon—as they had.

  She had wanted Viscount Ponsonby as she had never wanted her husband. She could still feel the tenderness of physical longing in her breasts and along her inner thighs. And it frightened her—or at least it disturbed her, if fright was too extreme a word. But it was not too extreme. She was terrified of passion, of wanton abandon.

  Her thoughts touched upon her mother, but she pushed them firmly away, as she always did when they threatened to intrude.

  She continued along the shore until she could see the house across the water. He was sitting on the jetty close to the boat a short distance away, one knee raised, an arm draped over it, the picture of relaxation and well-being—or so it seemed. He was watching her approach.

  I do believe that any solemn vow freely given ought to be binding in honor, including marriage vows.