by Eliza Casey
“It has been far too long since Danby looked quite so grand, Redvers,” she said.
“Much too long, my lady.” Redvers sounded strangely wistful as he, too, watched the dancers whirling past. Was he bored, she wondered, pining for the house’s glory days when her parents were young?
He smiled at her and drifted away, disappearing into the crowd who eagerly reached for his tray. Cecilia wandered around the edge of the room, greeting neighbors, laughing, talking, sharing the local gossip. Who was engaged, who had gone abroad, who was redecorating their house—nothing about what had happened at the bazaar. It was all quite lovely, quite ordinary, yet somehow she, like Redvers, felt a touch of some cold wistfulness deep down inside.
“Lady Cecilia,” she heard Mr. Brown say, and she smiled at him when she saw he was examining the cases of jeweled snuffboxes her grandfather had collected. No doubt he was hiding at the edge of the room from all his eager female parishioners. Not that she could blame them—he did look quite splendid in his evening dress, his brown hair gleaming in the lights that wound their way through the bowers of roses. “How beautiful you look tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brown. You do look quite well yourself.”
He laughed and ruefully smoothed his hair. “It’s not every day a vicar gets to drag out his best city clothes, you know.” Then his expression grew serious as he watched her. “I do hope you have recovered from—well, from everything that has happened. It’s all been most shocking.”
“I have recovered—I think. I am glad justice was served. But I’m sorry your lovely bazaar was ruined. The St. Swithin’s roof . . .”
He laughed gently. “You mustn’t worry about that, Lady Cecilia. Drama does seem to be a boon for charity. We now have more than enough for the repairs. In fact, I’m hoping to have a small dinner at the vicarage to celebrate. My own cook is nothing like your splendid Mrs. Frazer, of course, but I think we can carry something off creditably. It would be splendid if you and your family could attend. Nothing as large as this . . .”
Cecilia studied the dancers again. The drawing room seemed even more crowded now, warmer, more filled with the kaleidoscopic whirl of color. “Nothing ever really is this grand, Mr. Brown.”
The orchestra finished the polka with a flourish, and she heard the opening strains of an old-fashioned waltz.
“May I have the honor of this dance, Lady Cecilia?” Mr. Brown asked.
Cecilia smiled and nodded as she reached for his hand. His clasp was light, gentle, but his fingers felt warm and safe through their gloves. He whirled her into the dance, quite graceful for a vicar, leading her into a series of twirls and swoops that made her laugh. Her silken skirts swayed, and for a moment she felt just as she had told Jane—as if she floated on a marshmallow cloud, held up by Mr. Brown.
As the music swirled to an end, her head was quite spinning, giddy with what a surprisingly good dancer he was, how far from the world she had felt for just a moment. She curtsied to him, and he bowed, his velvety dark eyes smiling down at her.
She felt herself blushing and was glad of the distraction from Mr. Brown’s eyes when her father stepped onto the dais.
“Our dear friends,” Lord Avebury said, beaming out over the crowd. “How very kind of you to join us on this special evening. For not only has our neighbor Lord Byswater bagged dozens of pheasants on our shoot, lucky fellow . . .” A cheer went up, and Lord Byswater gave an exaggerated bow as Lord Avebury laughed. “But we also have our own very special family news. I am most pleased to announce the betrothal of my son, Lord Bellham, to Miss Annabel Clarke. The wedding will be at Christmastime.”
Cecilia felt a pleasant shock of warmth at the sudden news. Annabel would be her sister-in-law! She and Jane would not leave, and Danby would be saved! It would have Annabel’s American money, plus her energy and ambition.
Patrick and Annabel joined Lord and Lady Avebury on the dais, holding hands. Annabel looked as fashionable and elegant as always, in one of her new London gowns in bronze chiffon and burgundy velvet, and a tiara of rubies in her golden hair. Patrick appeared as careless as ever with his collar crooked and his hair tousled. No one would ever have imagined, looking at them, that they belonged together. But the pleasure in their eyes as they looked at each other, the tender way they squeezed each other’s hand, was unmistakable.
Cecilia felt Mr. Brown studying her, and that blasted blush burned hotter in her cheeks. Bates complexion indeed! She clapped harder to cover her flustered confusion.
“So please, everyone, raise your glasses to the happy couple,” Lord Avebury said. “And to Danby Hall. May we see many happy years to come.”
“To Danby!” everyone cried, and the orchestra played a fanfare as Patrick kissed Annabel’s cheek. It was as if all the good things would go on and on now, forever.
About the Author
Eliza Casey is a pseudonym for a multipublished author. Her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA Award, the Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers' Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.