The Arrangement by Mary Balogh

22

Sophia was dressed for the ball. She did not believe she had ever felt so excited or so sick or so altogether delirious in her life before. She knew she had not, in fact.

“You see, my lady?” Rosina said just as if Sophia had been arguing with her. “I told you.”

“You did indeed,” Sophia agreed, gazing back at her image in the pier glass in her dressing room. Rosina was standing behind her shoulder, and she was somehow reminded of another occasion when she had stood in front of a full-length glass with someone behind her.

Sebastian had taken her aside yesterday after luncheon. His nose had been looking a little less bulbous than the day before, and the bruises on his chin and both sides of his jaw had looked more blue than black. He had spent the day before laughing good-humoredly at all the teasing to which he had been subjected and declaring that the next time he challenged a blind man to a friendly sparring bout, he would make sure it was out of doors at noon on Midsummer Day.

“Sophia,” he had said when they were alone together, “Darleigh is under the impression that I hurt you quite grievously when you were still at Aunt Mary’s. I could not altogether avoid hurting you. I had not realized you were developing tender feelings toward me, and I could not encourage you to continue with those sentiments. To me you were still just a child, you know, and I did not see you that way.”

“No, of course you did not,” she had agreed. He was quite right. But that was not the point.

“You understood, surely,” he had said, “that when I said you were ugly, I was just teasing you.”

The easiest thing would be to say yes. It did not really matter after all this time, anyway. But she would make what Vincent had done yesterday seem foolish. Besides, it did matter. The effect of his words had lived with her for years after they were spoken.

“No, Sebastian,” she had said. “I did not understand that, for you were not teasing.”

“Oh, I say.” He had looked uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps you are right. You had embarrassed me, and I was annoyed because I did not know quite what to say to you. And you really were a funny-looking girl, you know. You are very much improved now. Please accept my deepest apologies. I probably did you a favor, anyway. You probably took yourself in hand as a result of what I said, did you?”

What was the point of withholding her forgiveness? He had been smiling endearingly at her, his nose slightly glowing. And Vincent had punished him.

“Your apologies are accepted, Sebastian,” she had said. “And you do not look so pretty yourself today, you know. Perhaps you will look better tomorrow.”

She had laughed and held out her right hand toward him, and he had taken it, laughing heartily with her.

“I am so glad I got to be your maid,” Rosina said now. “There is so much I can do with you.”

Before she could wax even more rapturous, there was a tap on the dressing room door, and Vincent stepped inside.

“My lord.” Rosina curtsied.

“Rosina,” he said, and she withdrew.

He always dressed neatly and elegantly. But tonight, in his black, form-fitting tailed evening coat with silver embroidered waistcoat, pale gray knee breeches with white stockings and linen, and black shoes, he looked nothing short of magnificent. The knee breeches were slightly old-fashioned, but Sophia was very glad he wore them. He certainly had the legs to show them off, and the waist to show off his waistcoat, and the shoulders and chest to make his coat look as though it must have been sewn around him. His fair hair, slightly overlong as usual, had been brushed into a neat style, but soon it would be its usual unruly, attractive self.

“You look extremely handsome, my lord,” she said.

He laughed. “Do you think?”

“I think.”

“Tell me.” He gazed across at her. “Describe yourself.”

“I look ravishing,” she told him, and there was only a very little self-mockery in her tone. “My gown is a bright turquoise, the skirts all soft and floaty and trimmed with a wide flounce at the hem. It is low at the bodice and the back and has little puffy sleeves. My dancing slippers and my gloves are silver, my fan Chinese bamboo and finely wrought and delicately painted. And my hair, Vincent! Rosina has magic in her fingers, I swear.”

“Am I going to have to double her salary?” he asked her.

“Oh, at least that,” she said. “She has made it look long when really it has only just started to grow below my chin. I have no idea how she has done it. It is all sleek at the sides and swept up at the back, and all the curls are gathered high on the crown of my head so that there appears to be a great mass of hair there. And she has let a few curls wave artfully over my ears, and I suspect there will be some along my neck before much time has passed. There must be a whole arsenal of pins in my head, Vincent, though I cannot see a single one in the mirror. And Lady Trentham’s hairdresser was quite right—and Rosina too. The style does show my neck to advantage. And I do have good cheekbones. I look older. More grown-up, that is. More … Hmm.”

“Beautiful?” he suggested. “Impossible, Sophie.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she agreed.

“You cannot possibly be more beautiful than you already were,” he said.

She laughed and he grinned at her.

“Happy?” he asked.

Her smile faded.

“Ask me again at the end of the evening,” she told him, and the baby chose that moment to perform what felt like a sideways somersault. “If no grand disaster strikes, the answer ought to be yes.”

“Come.” He reached out a hand toward her and drew her against him.

“Don’t squash my hair,” she told him.

He lowered his head and kissed her. She kissed him back and clung to him, her arms about his waist.

“Don’t squash my waistcoat,” he murmured against her lips and deepened the kiss.

She drew back, picked up her fan, and took his arm.

There were guests to receive.

Sophia had described the scene. Vincent had had the state apartments described to him before, but he had not come here often. They had not particularly interested him except that he knew they gave great pleasure to visitors and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing himself to be the owner of such magnificence.

This evening’s description, of course, had more life to it than it ever had before, partly because Sophia was the teller, and partly because the apartments were being used as they had been intended to be.

The grand salon had been set up as a card room and sitting room for those who wished to withdraw from the bustle of the ballroom for a while. There were four tables and a number of sofas. A fire had been lit in the large marble fireplace. The walls were paneled with narrow bands of oak alternating with wider panels with painted scenes. The high coved ceiling was also decorated with paintings. There was gilding everywhere and a single large chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, every candle lit for the occasion.

The small salon, exactly half the size of its grander neighbor, was similarly decorated. It was set up with refreshments—dainty savories and sweets, wines and liquors, lemonade, tea.

The state dining room was to be used later for supper and toasts and speeches—and a four-tier wedding cake, which had been his grandmother’s idea. A wedding cake with Sophia several months pregnant and beginning to show, if his hands were to be believed!

He hoped it showed. He was bursting with pride—and with suppressed terror.

The ballroom was twice the size of the grand salon and not unlike it except that where there were painted panels in the salon, there were mirrors in the ballroom. And there were three chandeliers overhead and an orchestra dais at one end and a floor that gleamed with polish and French windows that opened onto the terrace.

It must all be magnificent indeed to behold. But it was more so than usual tonight, of course, because it was filled with guests. Oh, it was not the sort of grand squeeze so beloved of hostesses in London during the Season, he supposed, but all his family and Sophia’s were here, and all their neighbors. And Flavian.

Everyone was glittering with jewels and waving with plumes and glowing with color, Sophia reported. She had heard that it was fashionable in London ballrooms for even the youngest of girls and the spottiest of youths to affect an air of ennui. Henrietta had practiced the look when she first made her come-out. No one had that look tonight.

“Not even your aunt and cousin?” Vincent asked when she reported on the fact as the last trickle of arriving guests had been greeted at the doors and had passed inside the ballroom.

“No.” She laughed. “They are too busy looking superior. But they are enjoying themselves too, Vincent. They are very important people here. Our neighbors are looking upon them with deference and admiration. Aunt Martha’s hair plumes must be four feet tall, and they are nodding in very stately fashion.”

“I detect a bit of the caricaturist in that remark,” he said.

“Well, perhaps three feet tall,” she conceded. “She is talking with everyone. So is Sir Clarence. If he puffed his chest out any more, his waistcoat buttons would all pop off in unison. Oh, dear! Please stop me.”

“Not for worlds,” he told her. “And Henrietta?”

“Setting her cap at Viscount Ponsonby,” she said, “though it looks as if he has solicited the hand of Agnes Keeping for the opening set.”

“Talking of the opening set,” he said.

“Yes.” Even over the buzz of animated conversation about them, he heard her draw a deep breath. “Where is Uncle Terrence? Ah, here he comes.”

“Shall I give the orchestra the signal to strike up a chord for the opening set, Darleigh?” he asked. “It looks to me, Sophia, as if this is going to be a grand success of an evening.”

“If you will,” Vincent said. He took Sophia’s hand in his and raised it to his lips.

“Enjoy yourself,” he said.

He stood in the doorway listening to the music and the rhythmic pounding of dancing slippers all hitting the wooden floor at the same time. His own foot tapped and he smiled.

He was not left alone. Neighbors came to compliment him upon reviving the old tradition in such grand fashion, and they stayed to chat. His grandmother came to take his arm for a while. Andy Harrison’s wife brought him a glass of wine.

He had come a long way in a few months. Thanks to Sophia. Though not entirely. He must not be unfair to himself. He had exerted himself. He had pulled himself free of the smothering protection of the female members of his family—without hurting them, he believed. He had worked hard with Shep so that he had a far larger measure of freedom of movement than he had had in the past six years. He had spent long hours with his steward, both in the man’s study and out on the land, learning the ins and outs of his estates and taking an active role in the decision making. He had got to know his neighbors and his laborers. He had made a few real friends. He had gone fishing. He had helped Sophia recover from the terrible trauma of the past five years, and even perhaps from the insecurities of the fifteen before that. He had brought her contentment, he believed, even if not active happiness, and some pleasure, both in and out of the marriage bed. He could now play the harp without wishing every moment that he could simply hurl it through the nearest window. He might even be reasonably competent upon it within the next year or so. He was soon to be a published author.

That last thought made him grin. His toe was still tapping. Sophia was apparently dancing a set with Flavian.

He was very much enjoying having one of his fellow Survivors at Middlebury. They had sat for a couple of hours or longer in the parterre garden yesterday, huddled inside their greatcoats against the unseasonable chill of the day. Sophia had joined them there after a while, and Flavian had commented that it was a pity Vincent would not be able to join the rest of the Survivors at their annual gathering at Penderris Hall next spring.

“But it is so that he can answer a higher c-calling,” he had said, amusement in his voice. “Congratulations are in order, Lady Darleigh. Or am I n-not supposed to know?”

Flavian had not had to be told, of course, that Sophia was with child.

“What do you mean,” Sophia had asked, “that he cannot go? Of course he will go. He must.”

“It will be soon after your confinement, Sophie,” Vincent had said. “Wild horses would not drag me away from you so soon, you know.”

She had been silent for a while. So had Flavian.

“Well, then,” she had said, “everyone must come here instead. Would that ruin everything? Must it be at Penderris? I know it is where you all spent those years and where you naturally choose to gather. But must it be there? Is not having you all together more important than the place? Vincent, may we invite everyone here? Would you come, Lord Ponsonby? Or would you rather go to Cornwall, even if it means being without Vincent for one year?”

“We can and we will, Sophie,” Vincent had said. “But—”

“No buts about it, Vince,” Flavian had said. “You will be awarded the year’s prize for b-brilliance, Lady Darleigh. With all our seven heads put together, we would never have seen the solution. W-would we, Vince?”

“Perhaps everyone else will disagree with you,” Sophia had said.

“P-perhaps,” he had agreed. “There is one way of finding out.”

“Have you heard from Ben?” Vincent had asked him. “Has anyone?”

“He has fallen off the face of the earth,” Flavian had said. “Just as you did back in the spring, Vince. His sister has been seen in town—the one with whom he is supposedly staying in the north of England, that is, b-but Ben was not clinging to her skirts when she was spotted. Perhaps he is tramping through heather in the Lake District as you were and will emerge with a bride. I rather hope not. It may prove c-contagious.”

Now the dancing was in full swing, and Vincent relaxed in the conviction that Sophia would be happy at the success of all her efforts.

That was all that really mattered tonight—that she be happy.

It was all that mattered anytime, he thought a little sadly.

Sophia was happier than she ever remembered being in her life. Not a single thing had gone wrong all evening, and it was close enough to the end to make her relax and decide that nothing would go wrong.

Though something still might, of course. There was still a big moment to come.

She had danced every set. She had also seen to it, as had Vincent’s mother and sisters, that everyone else danced too who wished to dance. There were no wallflowers allowed at the Middlebury ball!

Even Henrietta had danced every set, all but one of them with gentlemen she must have considered inferior to herself. Viscount Ponsonby was the exception. He had danced the third set with her.

He had danced twice with Agnes.

The supper had been perfect. The state dining room had looked quite dazzlingly magnificent, and the food had been perfection itself. There had been toasts and speeches—one by Vincent. And there had been the cake, which they had cut into before it was sliced by the servants and set on trays for them to take about to make sure that everyone had a slice. Vincent had come with her, though he had neither held the tray nor dished out the slices of cake. He had charmed everyone with his conversation instead. It was amazing that he had more or less hidden inside the walls of the park for three years, Sophia thought. In the past few months he had grown enormously popular, just as he had used to be at Barton Coombs.

There were two sets remaining after supper, the first of which was a waltz. It was the only one all evening, since even now it was not a really well known dance out in the country. But Sophia knew it—she had practiced the steps with her uncle in the music room. And Vincent had watched it danced out in the Peninsula and knew the steps. He had been present when she had waltzed with her uncle, and she had seen his foot tapping in time to the music Miss Debbins played.

It was announced when she was at his side. He was smiling genially about him, though she guessed that it must have been a trying evening for him. Though perhaps not. He seemed to enjoy talking with everyone. Perhaps the fact that he was standing in his own state ballroom added to his enjoyment.

But how sad it was that he could not see all the splendor or participate in the more energetic of the activities.

“It is a waltz, Vincent,” she said.

“Ah.” He smiled. “You must dance it, then, Sophie. With your uncle? You practiced with him.”

“With you,” she said. “I mean, I must dance it with you.”

She took his hand in both her own and backed a short way onto the dance floor.

“With me?” He laughed. “I think not, Sophie. That would be a spectacle for everyone to behold.”

“It would,” she agreed and backed up one more step.

No one else had yet stepped onto the floor, and they had caught the attention of those people who were close to them, and awareness quickly spread. The volume of conversation decreased considerably.

“No.” He laughed. “Sophie—”

“I want to waltz,” she said. “With my husband.”

Someone—Mr. Harrison?—began to clap his hands slowly. Viscount Ponsonby joined him. And soon it seemed that half the guests in the ballroom were clapping in time with one another.

Oh, dear. Sophia had not intended this moment to be half as public. But it was too late now to do it differently.

“Waltz with me,” she said as softly as she could.

Not softly enough.

“Waltz with her,” Mr. Harrison said—it was unmistakably he this time.

And then it became a chant from their segment of the ballroom.

“Waltz with her. Waltz with her.”

“Sophie—” Vincent laughed.

So did she.

And he walked out onto the empty floor with her.

“If I make a thorough spectacle of myself,” he said just loudly enough to be generally heard, “would everyone be kind enough to pretend they have not noticed?”

He laughed again.

And the orchestra played the opening chord and did not wait for anyone else to take the floor.

It was very clumsy and awkward at first, and Sophia was terrified that she really was going to cause him great humiliation—not to mention herself. But she had practiced the steps very carefully. She had also, with her uncle’s full collaboration, practiced leading without appearing to do so.

His feet found the steps, and his fingers spread against the back of her waist and his other hand nestled her own within it more comfortably. His head came up and he smiled very nearly into her eyes. He danced her into a spin and she laughed and had to make an effort to keep them both on their feet and within the confines of the dancing floor.

It was probably not the most elegant demonstration of the waltz ever performed. But it was wonderful nevertheless. And they had the whole floor to themselves. Whether that was because everyone else was terrified of being collided with or whether it was because everyone was enjoying watching, she did not know. She was aware at one point that most people were clapping to the rhythm of the music.

“Vincent,” she said after a few minutes, “will you ever forgive me?”

“Maybe after a century or so,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Well, maybe after a decade.”

And then he spun her again, but she was ready for it this time and steered them safely.

“I have always, always wanted to do this,” she said.

“Waltz?”

“Waltz with you.”

“Oh, Sophie,” he said, and his hand tightened slightly at her waist. “I am so sorry I cannot—”

“But you can,” she told him. “You can see with every part of your being except your eyes. Tell me you are enjoying it.”

“I am,” he said, and he drew her so close that she almost brushed against him. “Oh, I am.”

Candlelight was wheeling overhead. Colored gowns were a kaleidoscope of pastels about the perimeter of the ballroom. Mirrors multiplied the candlelight and the twinkling of jewels to infinity.

“Such sounds and smells,” he said. “I will never forget this moment. Sophie. I am actually waltzing.”

She bit hard on her upper lip. It certainly would be humiliating to have all their guests see her weep. And then somehow her eyes focused upon his mother, who was standing with Ursula close to the doors. Tears were openly trickling down her cheeks.

And then there was a break in the music, and before the next waltz tune began, other dancers joined them on the floor.

When Sebastian Maycock came to ask Sophia for the final set of the evening, Vincent gave her as much freedom of choice as she had given him before the waltz.

“My wife has already promised the set, I am afraid, Maycock,” he said. “To me.”

He could almost feel her look of surprise.

“Yes, I have,” she said with scarcely a moment’s pause. “But thank you for asking me, Sebastian. It looks as if the elder Miss Mills is without a partner. The lady in green.”

“You are not contemplating dancing the Roger de Coverley, are you?” she asked when Maycock had apparently taken himself off to solicit the hand of Miss Mills.

“I am contemplating a quiet stroll on the terrace with my wife,” he said. “It is probably too cold out there for you, though.”

“I shall send someone for our cloaks,” she said and promptly deserted him.

She was back a few moments later, and only a couple of minutes after that she murmured thanks to someone and handed him his evening cloak. He could hear the sets forming on the floor. The noise level had increased. It was to be the final set.

It seemed they were the only ones out on the terrace. His ears told him so, and Sophia confirmed the fact when he asked. It was not surprising. Though it was not a really cold night, the breeze was nippy.

“Happy?” he asked as she tucked an arm beneath his and guided him in what he guessed was the direction of the parterre gardens.

He heard her exhale.

“Happy,” she said. “Everything has gone well, has it not? More than well. Oh, Vincent, we must do this more often. Perhaps when your friends come next spring. They will come, will they not?”

He did not answer her.

“Sophie,” he said, “you will stay, will you not? I mean, for the baby’s sake? I could not bear to part with it as well as with you, and I do not believe you could bear to leave it with me. Could you?”

“Oh, of course not,” she said. “Yes, of course I will stay. I am only sorry—”

“I am very sorry about your cottage,” he said. “I know you would love it and your life there more than anything, but—”

“Oh, Vincent,” she said, “I would not.”

“But when you were showing your sketchbook to Ursula and Ellen out here in the garden—”

“I sketched it for our stories,” she told him. “I did not intend for it to look like my dream cottage, but that is how it turned out. And then I could not resist putting Tab in the picture. Yes, it is a dream of a cottage, Vincent. When my life was so desperately empty and lonely, and when I thought myself ugly and unlovable, I thought nothing could be more desirable. But compared with the reality of my life now, it is … Well, it is pitiful.”

“You mean,” he said, “you no longer wish for it? Even if you were not increasing?”

“No,” she said quite emphatically. “How could I? But, Vincent, I wish I were not a woman.”

“What?” He laughed. He was feeling a bit light-headed actually.

“Just another woman interfering with your freedom,” she said.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“You said it to Mr. Croft,” she said. “The day he left Shep with you. You said I was just another woman looking after you and interfering with your independence.”

“I am sure I said no such thing,” he told her indignantly, trying to remember what exactly he might have said. “How could I unless I had been lying through my teeth?”

“But you said it,” she said. “I heard you.”

“Sophie,” he said, “my mother and my sisters loved me to distraction and did everything for me and quite inadvertently stifled me. You came along with your wonderful ideas and did just the opposite. You gave me my freedom back and a large measure of independence. You silly goose, whatever you overheard on that day, you must have misunderstood. I would never have said you took away my freedom. Never, Sophie. You brought light back into my life.”

“You do not mind that I will have to remain here, then?” she asked him.

They had stopped walking, he realized.

He heaved a great sigh and wished he could remember the exact words he had spoken to Croft.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

She was still holding his arm. She tipped her head sideways to rest her cheek against his shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “You are always very good to me. And I love you too.”

“Ah, the inadequacy of words.” He sighed again. “And the deceptive nature of words that have so many different meanings that they become virtually meaningless. Do you remember that song I sang at Covington House? I’d crowns resign to call thee mine. Remember that line?”

“Yes.” She slipped her hand from his arm.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he told her. “If I had a crown, Sophie, or multiple crowns, as in the song, I would give them all up. For you. That is what I mean when I say I love you.”

He heard her swallow awkwardly.

“But you do not have a crown.”

“I would give up Middlebury Park, then,” he told her, “and my title. If I had to make a choice between them and you, there would not even be a contest. It is easy to say, I know, when there appears to be no danger that I will ever have to make that choice. But I would do it if I had to. There is no doubt in my mind. I love you.”

“Vincent.” One of his hands was in both of hers.

“It was not a part of our agreement, was it?” he said. “I am perfectly happy to make do with contentment, Sophie, if you do not want to be burdened with more. Really I am. And we are contented, are we not? It is just—Well, I am selfish, I suppose. I wanted the pleasure of saying it. Of telling you. It really does not matter if—”

“Does not matter?” She half shrieked the words and threw herself against him with such force that she almost knocked him off his feet. Her arms came about his neck. “You have just told me you love me to all eternity and it does not matter? Of course it matters. It matters more than anything in the whole wide world and throw the sun and moon and stars in for good measure. I love you so very, very, very much.”

“Do you, Sophie?” His arms came about her and he hugged her to himself. “Do you, my love?”

“Add a few more verys,” she said.

“You had better save a few for me.” He laughed against her hair, which felt as if it was breaking free of the bonds Rosina had imposed upon it.

She lifted her face to him and he kissed her.

Sounds of merry conversation and laughter and a vigorous country dance came from the ballroom somewhere behind them. In the distance an owl hooted and a dog barked. A light, chill wind caught at the edges of their cloaks.

All of which Vincent ignored for the moment, for he held all the world clasped to himself. Ah, yes, and the sun and moon and stars too.

And all eternity.