by Mary Balogh
There was some discussion over whether the betrothal party would be a mere soiree or whether it would include some dancing. The drawing room would not be large enough for dancing, Cousin Susan pointed out.
“But the ballroom would,” Wren said.
“Then it would not be a party but a ball,” Cousin Matilda remarked.
Elizabeth turned her head to exchange a look of amusement with Geoffrey. At least, there was amusement on her part. He looked gravely back at her, and she wondered if he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. She regretted for one unguarded moment that there was not some spark of romantic love between them, or at least that instant understanding there sometimes was between two people who were very close.
As between her and Colin, for example.
But thinking about Colin made her feel inexplicably melancholy. She had the strange feeling she had hurt him last evening during their waltz when she had told him she was betrothed, though that was absurd, of course. Why hurt? He had known she was half expecting a proposal and that she intended to accept it. He himself was in search of a wife and had already singled out a number of potential candidates. He had definitely been embarrassed by Geoffrey’s annoyance that he knew about the betrothal when they had agreed to keep quiet about it to all except close family members until after the official announcement. That had been her fault, of course.
Elizabeth’s thoughts had wandered. Geoffrey caught her eye again, and he half shrugged as she picked up the drift of the conversation.
The betrothal celebration, predictably, was no longer a party but a full-blown ball. And it was not to be held here at South Audley Street, though both Alex and Wren seemed to have put up a spirited argument. They had only just arrived in town, the family had pointed out. Wren was still recovering from her confinement. They would have the wedding and the breakfast to plan, and those events would occupy all their time and energy. The wedding was to be held soon, it seemed. As soon as the banns could be read, in fact.
The betrothal ball was to be given by Anna and Avery at Archer House on Hanover Square—a grand venue indeed.
“We have given a number of balls there in the past three years, Cousin Althea,” Avery was explaining to Elizabeth’s mother with his characteristic sighing ennui. “I believe I could plan one in my sleep.”
“Oh, you could not, Avery,” the dowager duchess said indignantly. “You raise one weary eyebrow and your secretary does everything for you, down to the finest detail. Even Anna and I become superfluous in the face of his efficiency.”
“Quite so,” he said. “Edwin Goddard plans and executes and I sleep.”
Cousin Louise clucked her tongue and shook her head as she gazed in fond exasperation at her stepson. “But always with one sharp eye half open,” she said.
“Archer House really is the perfect setting for a grand ball,” Anna said. “And I want to host it for you, Elizabeth. You were so kind to me when I first arrived in London. You came to live with me right here in this house, and you kept me from rushing back to Bath and hiding my head beneath my teacher’s desk in the schoolroom there.”
“Do as you will, Anna,” Elizabeth said, smiling at her. “I recognize that I have no say in any of this. I am merely the bride.”
“How do you feel about a grand ball, Sir Geoffrey?” her Aunt Lilian asked. “Men can be funny about such things.”
Uncle Richard snorted.
“Provided no jot or tittle of my agreement with Mrs. Westcott is broken,” Geoffrey said, “and I end up with Elizabeth as my wife, I will be happy to attend anything that is planned for us.”
“He is a man after my own heart, Lizzie,” her aunt said. “Do keep him.”
“Splendid.” Anna clasped her hands to her bosom. “A ball at Archer House it will be, then. If Alex and Wren and Cousin Althea will not be horribly offended, that is.”
“I think it will be quite lovely, Anna,” Elizabeth’s mother said, “to be able to attend my daughter’s betrothal ball without also having to plan it.”
And so it was settled. There was to be a ball as early as next week and the wedding in less than a month’s time—at St. George’s. And then . . . And then the rest of her life would begin and she and Geoffrey would live happily ever after.
Well, probably not quite that.
Contentedly ever after, then. She could confidently predict that. And contentment would be good enough, even preferable to exuberant happiness, in fact. Happiness did not last. There was more stability in contentment. And stability was what she had craved ever since leaving Desmond.
Happiness—and the hope that it would last forever—was for young people.
Like Colin.
She hoped fervently for his happiness with the bride he would choose and felt quite depressed again.
* * *
• • •
Colin was feeling a bit low in spirits by the time the Archer House ball rolled around. For one thing, he feared Elizabeth was making a mistake and all the ebullient high spirits and sense of fun she had displayed at Brambledean over Christmas would be lost to the quiet decorum of marriage with a dull man. Not that it was any of his business. But he was fond of her. No, more than that. He had placed her on a pedestal at Christmastime and she had remained there ever since. He . . . What was an appropriate word? Worshipped? Adored? Cherished her? He very dearly wanted to see her happy in a second marriage, even if the thought made him selfishly despondent because it would set a distance between him and her that had not been there before.
He was a bit depressed too with the direction his own affairs had taken. He was being maneuvered. He could feel it happening, yet he seemed almost powerless to do anything about it. He did try. He escorted Miss Eglington to a concert one evening with Ross Parmiter and his sister. And he took Miss Madson for a drive to Kew Gardens and a picnic on the grass. Her sister and brother-in-law accompanied them.
But he feared he was fated to marry Miss Dunmore. Though feared was surely the wrong word. He liked her. She was beautiful and sweet and accomplished and appeared to have all the qualities any gentleman could ask for in a wife. If he did not know it for himself, he had her mother to tell him so—frequently. And that was the trouble. Left to himself, he might well fall in love with the girl, make her his offer after talking with her father, marry her, and live happily ever after with her. But he was not being left to himself.
She and her mother seemed to appear at every social event he attended. They were even at the concert, and Lady Dunmore looked very contemptuous as her eyes lingered upon Miss Eglington. He half expected to see them at Kew too, though that at least did not happen. He seemed forever to be finding himself sitting next to Miss Dunmore or fetching her food or drink or turning pages of music for her or escorting her out to her carriage or dancing with her.
And then there was the letter that had come from his mother. He almost had not recognized her handwriting. He had recognized the perfume that lingered about the paper, however. She wanted him to take tea with her at the house on Curzon Street. As soon as he had named a day, she would herself write to Lady Dunmore and invite her and her daughter to come too.
Miss Dunmore is very lovely, dearest, she had written. You make a dazzlingly attractive couple. I will have to be very careful that you do not outshine me, though a number of people are saying that would be impossible. I tell them they are nothing but flatterers, but they keep saying it.
Colin wrote back, breaking a long silence, apart from that brief meeting in the park. He was not formally courting Miss Dunmore or any other lady, he informed her. It would be inappropriate, then, to single out anyone to take tea with him and his mother and hers.
His letter was brief and, he hoped, clear. But he did not like the fact that his mother was edging her way back into his life and trying to do it on her terms. She had always surrounded herself with beauty—which she then proceeded to control and us
e to draw attention to herself and her own superior and everlasting loveliness.
He was not going to let it happen to him.
But did that mean he must stop considering Miss Dunmore as a bride? It seemed unfair—to both her and himself. He believed she favored him, and not just because her mother did. And he still thought it possible that he might fall in love with her.
Determined as he was not to be manipulated, he still found that he was to dance with her twice at Elizabeth’s betrothal ball—for the opening set and for the second waltz, since she had recently been approved to dance it. Her mother had seemed a little chagrined that it could not be the first waltz, but he had explained that Lady Overfield had already promised that one to him.
“Oh well,” she had said grudgingly, “I daresay you feel obliged since she is the sister of your brother-in-law, Lord Hodges. However, I suppose you are sorry now that you know Lydia is permitted to waltz.”
He was not feeling in a particularly cheerful mood, then, when he arrived at Archer House and made his way upstairs to the receiving line and the ballroom, John Croft at his side.
* * *
• • •
Archer House on Hanover Square was indeed the perfect setting for a grand ball, the ballroom being large and spacious and luxuriously decorated and situated at the head of a wide, sweeping staircase. Elizabeth had attended balls here before—for Anna when she was being introduced to society, for Jessica at her come-out last year. But this ball was for her.
She and Geoffrey stood in the receiving line with Anna and Avery on one side, closest to the door, and her mother and Alex and Wren on the other. And she was hit by the reality of it all. Invitations had gone out to almost everyone of any social significance in London, and it seemed that almost everyone must have come—as was to be expected, of course, when the ball was hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Netherby.
It felt very real now, her betrothal. There was no going back. Not that there had been from the moment she had said yes. And not that she wanted a way back.
She was standing in the receiving line, feeling vivid and rather dashing in her new high-waisted ball gown of gold lace over bronze silk with deep and elaborately embroidered scallops at the hem and the edging of the short sleeves. She usually favored pastel shades, but Wren and Anna, who had accompanied her to the modiste on Bond Street to choose among fabrics and patterns for the ball and her wedding, had insisted upon this for her betrothal ball, and Elizabeth had meekly acquiesced.
“You are as much the tyrants over my clothing as Mama is over my wedding plans,” she had told them.
“The thing is,” Anna had said, “that you cannot be allowed to fade into the background at your own betrothal ball or at your wedding, Elizabeth. We will not allow it. Will we, Wren?”
“And you are very good at fading into the background after making sure that everyone else steps forward,” Wren had said. “Now it is your turn to bask in the warm rays of the sun. Those colors are going to look gorgeous on you.”
Well, they felt gorgeous, Elizabeth had to admit now as she shook one more hand and submitted to one more kiss on the cheek while guests passed along the line and wished her well and congratulated Geoffrey. She turned her head to smile at him. He looked stiff and large and imposing in his formal evening clothes. He had confided to her earlier that he had never expected such a public fuss over their decision to marry.
She wished suddenly that she did love him, that this moment, this event, was colored with the aura of romance. A foolish thought. She could wish too that she was eighteen years old again, but wishing it would not bring it about. Anyway, she would not really want to be eighteen again. And she would not want to be painfully in love again. Besides, there were many different kinds of love. She would continue to cultivate an affectionate respect for Geoffrey, and that would be a good kind of love. Perhaps the best.
She turned back to greet the next guest in line and found herself gazing at Colin. For a moment he seemed like a stranger, and she saw his tall, slim figure and all the golden glow of his youth and good looks. Then he was simply Colin again and she felt a rush of warm affection as she held out a hand toward him.
“Colin,” she said. “I am so glad you came.” She had been half fearful that he would not come after the embarrassment he must have felt at the Arbinger ball when Geoffrey had shown his displeasure that she had told Colin of their betrothal.
He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “You look very fine indeed, Elizabeth,” he said. “I could not possibly have missed this of all balls, could I? I do hope you have not been engaged for the first waltz.”
“I have kept it for you,” she assured him. “As always.” Ah, but always, she supposed, must end after tonight. Perhaps it ought to have ended before tonight. He withdrew his hand from hers and held it out to Geoffrey.
Elizabeth turned to greet Mr. Croft, Colin’s friend.
And then, just minutes later, it was time for the dancing to begin. Elizabeth and Geoffrey led it off with an old-fashioned quadrille. She smiled at him and settled into a conscious enjoyment of the evening. It felt like the official beginning of something, as indeed it was. It was the beginning of the rest of her life, and this time she had planned it wisely and well. Good sense was a far better guide than . . . well, than romance.
“I will lay claim to the second waltz of the evening since the first is already taken,” Geoffrey said as the dance came to an end. “At least, I hope the second is still open.”
“Of course it is and it will be yours. I shall look forward to it,” she told him in all sincerity. “It is a bit of a joke between Colin and me, you know, left over from Christmas. We danced together at a Boxing Day party in what can only be described incongruously as a jolly waltz. Since we were both planning to be in London for the Season, we agreed to waltz together at each ball we both attended.”
“A justification is not necessary, Elizabeth,” he said. “You may dance with whomever you choose.”
She expected to see a smile on his face, but there was none. And it struck her as it had once before that he did not smile often. Or laugh. He was too serious minded perhaps to indulge a strong sense of humor. There was nothing wrong with that. He was a good man.
He stood beside her until her next partner came for her before going to claim his own. Colin had danced the quadrille with Miss Dunmore, who looked at him with something of a proprietary air, as did her mother, who watched from the sidelines, her hair plumes nodding graciously in their direction. Now he was leading out the auburn-haired Miss Madson.
The first waltz came almost an hour later. Elizabeth was standing with Geoffrey and Wren and Sidney Radley, her maternal cousin, when Colin approached.
“Why is it that you are so favored, Hodges?” Sidney asked, sounding deliberately aggrieved. “I came with five minutes to spare to solicit Lizzie’s hand, but she had already promised the waltz to you.”
“It is my good looks,” Colin said with a grin. “Not to mention the fact that I am Wren’s brother.”
“Lord Hodges has the unfair advantage, Radley, of having reserved a waltz at every ball of the Season with Elizabeth as long ago as Christmas,” Geoffrey said. “I see I will have to put my foot down quite firmly after we are married.”
Everyone laughed except Geoffrey himself. And Elizabeth, turning her head to look into his face, wondered if he had been joking. But surely he had.
“I will reserve the third waltz for you if you wish for it, Sidney,” she said. “I will be dancing the second with Geoffrey. I am basking in all the novelty of being besieged by partners at my betrothal ball.” And she set her hand on Colin’s sleeve and stepped out onto the dance floor with him.
“You are happy, Elizabeth?” he asked while they waited for other couples to gather about them before the music began.
She was. Oh yes, she was. But she wondered again if this was
the last time she would waltz with Colin, and the thought that it might well be saddened her. He raised his eyebrows. She had not answered his question.
“Of course I am,” she said. “But beginnings always make me a little melancholy, for they imply endings too. The end of what came before.”
“Am I to expect to see you in floods of tears on your wedding day, then?” he asked.
“I sincerely hope not,” she said with a laugh. “Will you be there?”
“But of course,” he said. “I have already answered my invitation.”
“Have you?” She had not looked at the list of acceptances for a couple of days. But why had she doubted he would come? And why had she half hoped he would not? “I will return the compliment and come to yours.”
“Will you?” he said.
“If I am invited, that is,” she added.
“You will be at the top of the list,” he told her.
“Are you making progress?” she asked him. “Is Miss Dunmore the one? She is extremely pretty. Or Miss Madson? She looks sensible and . . . nice. Or even Miss Eglington perhaps? Or . . . someone else?”
“I think you and I ought to elope,” he said, and they both laughed.
But she looked searchingly into his eyes. Despite the laughter, he did not look quite the carefree young man she had known at Brambledean. He was not finding it easy, then, to make the changes in his life he had decided were necessary. But she suddenly remembered Christmas Eve and the family and the carolers, and Colin standing among them, looking bleak. Her heart had reached out to him then, as it did now.
“I believe the waltz is about to start,” he said. “Let us enjoy it, shall we?”
Yes, she would savor it to the full.
They danced without talking for a while, and Elizabeth focused her full attention upon a conscious enjoyment of the occasion, of this particular dance, of this particular partner. He was smiling, his eyes on hers. And how precious, oh how utterly precious was this moment. This now.