Only Enchanting by Mary Balogh

12

Flavian was feeling as fresh as a daisy—or some such idiotic thing. He had gone to bed at midnight and had awoken at eight o’clock only because his valet was bumping around in his dressing room with deliberate intent.

And then he had remembered that it was his wedding day.

And that he had slept all night without a hint of a dream or any other disturbance.

Good Lord, it was his wedding day.

He had gone back up to the drawing room with Agnes Keeping last night, and no one would have shown they had noticed the two of them had gone or returned—until he cleared his throat. That had got an instant silence. And he had told them that Mrs. Keeping had just done him the honor of accepting his hand in marriage. Yes, he believed he really had used pompous words like those. But they had got the message across.

And, looking back, it seemed to him that everyone had collectively smirked, though that smug reaction had soon been followed by noise and backslapping and hand shaking and hugs and even tears. Miss Debbins had shed tears over her sister, and so had Lady Darleigh. And even George. Not that he had shed tears exactly, and certainly not over Agnes, but his eyes had looked suspiciously bright as he squeezed Flavian’s shoulder fit to dislocate it.

Flavian had followed up with the announcement that the nuptials were going to be in the morning, provided Reverend Jones was willing to perform the ceremony on so little notice.

“Tomorrow morning?” Miss Debbins and Hugo had chorused in unison.

The vicar had merely nodded congenially and reminded Lord Ponsonby that there was the small matter of banns to be considered.

“Not if there is a s-special license,” Flavian had said. “And there is one. I have just c-come from London with it.”

“Why, you old rogue, Flave,” Ralph had said. “This is the use to which you put my curricle?”

And there had been more noise and backslapping, and Lady Darleigh had rushed off to find her cook and housekeeper, and rushed back a while later with the news that the state bedchamber in the east wing was to be prepared for tomorrow night so that the bride and groom could spend their wedding night in luxury and privacy. George had offered to give Agnes away, but, after thanking him, she had said she would rather have her sister do that for her if there was no church law against a woman performing the office. And Flavian had asked Vincent to be his best man, which would be, Vince had replied, beaming with pleasure, a bit like the blind leading the blind.

And then, some time later, the outside guests had left, including Agnes Keeping, and it was close to midnight, and Flavian had felt drunk without the benefit of liquor and so exhausted that he could scarcely persuade his legs to carry him to his room, and might not have made it there if George and Ralph had not accompanied him to his door. He might not have got undressed either if his valet had not been waiting for him and insisted that he was not going to be allowed to sleep in his evening clothes.

But here he was, almost eleven hours later, as fresh as a daisy and waiting at the front of the village church for his bride to arrive. His friends and their wives were sitting in the pews behind him, and the vicar’s wife and the Harrisons were in the pews across the aisle.

Vincent was afraid he would drop the ring—Flavian had remembered to buy one, though he had had to guess the size—and then not be able to find it.

“But I would,” Flavian said, patting his friend’s hand. “I would like nothing better than to g-grovel about on the stone floor of a country church on my w-wedding day in my white knee breeches and s-stockings.”

“That is supposed to comfort me?” Vincent asked. “And wait a minute—it is supposed to be the best man soothing the bridegroom’s nerves, not the other way around.”

“A bridegroom is s-supposed to have n-nerves?” Flavian asked. “Better not warn me about it, old chap, or I m-might discover I have some.”

But he did not—unless it was a sign of nerves that he half expected his mother to appear in the doorway behind him, twice her usual size, forefinger twice its usual length as it pointed full at him while she ordered him to cease and desist.

He was feeling . . . happy? He did not know what happy felt like and was not sure he wanted to, for where there was happiness, there was also unhappiness. Every positive had its corresponding negative, one of the more annoying laws of existence.

He just wanted her to come. Agnes. He wanted to marry her. He wanted to be married to her. He still could not free his mind of the notion that he would be safe once he was. And he had still not worked out what his mind meant by that.

Some things were best not analyzed.

His valet was a wonder and a marvel, he thought. What on earth had possessed him to pack knee breeches, and white ones at that, for a three-week stay in the country with the Survivors’ Club?

Fortunately, perhaps, for the quality of his thoughts, there was a minor stir at the back of the church, and the vicar came striding down the aisle, resplendent in his clerical robes, to signal that the bride had arrived and the marriage service was about to begin.

*   *   *

Agnes donned her moss green morning dress and pelisse with the straw bonnet she had bought new just last year. There was no time, of course, to purchase new clothes for her wedding. It did not matter. It was just as well, in fact. If she had had time to shop or to sew, then she would also have had time to think.

Thought, she suspected, was her worst enemy at the moment. Or perhaps it was the lack of thought that was the long-term enemy. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

What on earth had possessed her?

But, no, she would not think. She had said yes last night because she had found it impossible to say no, and it was too late to change her mind now.

Besides, if she had said no, he would be going away tomorrow with everyone else, never to return, and she could not have borne that. Her heart would have broken. Surely it would have, extravagant and silly as the idea seemed.

The state bedchamber . . .

No, she would not think.

There was a tap on her door, and Dora stepped into her room.

“I keep expecting to wake up, as from a dream,” she said. “But I am glad it is no dream, Agnes. I am happy for you. I believe you will be happy. I like that young man, though I would still not trust that eyebrow of his any farther than I could throw it. And that image does not bear scrutiny, does it?”

“Dora.” Agnes clasped her hands very tightly to her bosom. “I feel dreadful. About leaving you.”

“You absolutely must not,” Dora said. “It was inevitable that you would remarry one day. I never expected that you would be here with me forever. All I ask is that you be happy. I have always loved you more than anyone else in my life, you know, which is a shocking thing to say when I have a father and a brother and nieces and a nephew. But you have always felt almost as much like a daughter to me as a sister. You were five when I was seventeen.”

When they had been left alone except for their father, who had retired into himself after their mother left, and been an almost invisible presence in their lives. Oliver, their brother, had already been at Cambridge.

“Dora.” Agnes hesitated. She had never asked, had thought she never would. It was certainly not a question for today. But it came out anyway. “Are we sisters?”

Dora stared back at her, eyes like empty caves, mouth half-open.

“I mean,” Agnes said, “are we full sisters?”

Their father, Oliver, and Dora all had dark coloring and brown eyes. So had their mother. But not Agnes, born so many years after the other two. It was a small thing. There were explanations other than the one she had tried half her life not to consider. Traits of appearance sometimes skipped a generation.

“If we are not,” Dora said, “I have never known it—I was only twelve when you were born, remember. And I have never wanted to know.”

So she had wondered too.

“I do not want to know,” Dora said with emphasis. “You are my sister, Agnes. My beloved sister. Nothing—nothing—could ever change that.”

“You gave up so much for me,” Agnes said.

Dora had been planning and dreaming about the come-out Season she was to have in London when she was eighteen. The five-year-old Agnes had shared her hopes and her excitement and had thought her grown-up sister vibrantly pretty and certain to get herself a handsome husband. But when their mother was gone suddenly, everything came to an end for Dora, and she had stayed to care for Agnes, to raise her, to love her, to keep house for their father. And she had never been vibrantly pretty since.

“What I gave up,” Dora told her, “I gave up, Agnes. It was my choice. Aunt Millicent would have had me. She would have brought me to Harrogate and found a husband for me there. I chose to stay, just as I chose to come here when Father remarried. This is my life, Agnes. I have done with it and am doing with it what I have chosen to do. You owe me nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing. If you feel you owe me something anyway, then do this for me, something you could not really do with William, good and worthy though he was. Be happy, Agnes. It is all I ask. And even that is a request, not a demand. I have made no sacrifices for you. I have always done only what I have wanted to do.”

Agnes swallowed awkwardly.

“And I absolutely forbid you,” Dora said, her voice wobbling strangely, “to shed tears, Agnes. It is time to leave for church, and you do not want Lord Ponsonby to take one look at you and imagine that I have had to drag you there.”

Agnes laughed and then bit her upper lip.

“I love you,” she said.

“That,” Dora said, wagging a finger at her, “is enough. It is unlike you to be sentimental, Agnes. But it is your wedding day, and I will make allowances and forgive you. Come along, now. You do not want to be late.”

They were not late. It was right on eleven o’clock when they stepped inside the church. There were three carriages outside, one of them festively decorated with flowers. And there were people there too. Word must have spread, though who could have spread it, Agnes could not imagine. News in a village seemed to travel on the very air. People nodded and smiled at her and looked as though they planned to stay awhile.

And then they were inside, and Agnes could see that the church had been decorated too. The familiar smells of ancient stone and incense and candles and old prayer books mingled with the perfumes of spring flowers. And it struck her, as if for the first time, that this was her wedding day. Her second. She was leaving behind her first forever, even relinquishing William’s name today, and entering upon her second.

To Viscount Ponsonby.

Flavian.

She almost panicked for a moment then. Flavian what? She did not even know his last name. It was going to be hers within the next few minutes, yet she did not know what it was.

Dora took her hand in a firm clasp and smiled at her, and they proceeded along the aisle together, hand in hand.

He was standing waiting for her, dressed with old-fashioned and magnificent formality in white knee breeches and linen with a dull gold waistcoat and a formfitting dark brown tailed coat. His hair gleamed golden in a shaft of light from one of the high windows. He looked as handsome as a prince in any fairy tale.

Foolish, foolish thought.

*   *   *

Last night Flavian had tried to convince Lady Darleigh that they would have the wedding breakfast at the village inn, at his expense, and that he and his bride would be happy to stay for the night somewhere on the road to London. The viscountess was a small lady, a little slip of a thing, in fact, and she looked scarcely older than a girl. But when she made up her mind about something, there was no moving her. And last night, even before he was able to speak up on the matter, she had made up her mind.

They would eat together at Middlebury, she had told him, and she would have the guest suite in the state apartments prepared. It had been furnished a hundred years or so ago, apparently, for a royal prince and his princess who had been expected to grace Middlebury Park with their company. Whether they had come or not was a detail lost to history, but the apartments were still there in all their opulent splendor.

And so it was to Middlebury Park they went after the marriage ceremony was over and the register signed. The church bell was ringing its single note as they stepped outside, and the sun was just breaking free of a cloud, and a small crowd of villagers exclaimed and applauded and set up a self-conscious cheer. And Ralph and Hugo, damn their eyes, were waiting with grins they could have hooked over their ears, and fistfuls of flower petals, which were soon raining about Agnes’s head and his. Flavian would be willing to wager half his fortune that his carriage was now bedecked with more than just a ton and a half of flowers.

He turned his head to look at Agnes, so familiar though he had known her for only three weeks and for two dances five or six months ago, and so . . . safe. He could still think of no more appropriate word. She was flushed and bright eyed and familiar, and he felt a welling of contentment. It sounded almost like a contradiction in terms.

“This is unbelievable,” she said, laughing.

The others were coming out behind them, and there was all that noise and backslapping and hand shaking and hugging and kissing business going on again. And the villagers beamed from out on the street.

“Well, Agnes,” Flavian said at last, taking her by the hand, “sh-shall we lead the way?”

He handed her into the carriage, while George held the door open like a footman, and then shut it upon them and gave the signal to the coachman. Flavian bent his head to kiss his bride so that all the spectators would not be disappointed.

They jumped apart a moment later—the same moment as the carriage moved ahead, dragging behind it what sounded like a veritable arsenal of old pots and pans. At least Flavian hoped they were old.

“Goodness gracious,” she said, looking considerably alarmed.

He grinned. “I have done it to three of my friends in the l-last year,” he said. “It is only fair that they do it to m-me.”

And he gazed into her eyes amidst all the din, and she gazed back.

“Lady Ponsonby,” he said.

It seemed unreal. He still could not quite believe that he had done it, that she had agreed to it, that they were married.

What was his mother going to say? And Marianne?

“Any regrets?” he asked as the carriage turned off the street and onto the drive through the woods.

“It is too late for regrets,” she said. “Gracious, that is an unholy din. We are going to be deaf.”

Yes, it was too late for regrets. Or for more considered deliberation and planning. Lord, he scarcely knew her or she him. Had he always been so impulsive? He could not remember.

He held one of her hands in both his own and looked her over with lazy eyes. She was neat and trim and pretty. She was dressed in what was obviously her best daytime outfit. It was decent, and the color suited her. It was also prim and unfashionable and clearly not new. She sat with a straight back and her knees pressed together and her feet side by side—a familiar pose. She looked quiet and demure.

If he had been asked a month ago to describe the sort of lady who least appealed to him, he might have described Agnes Keeping with uncanny accuracy, not even remembering that he had once met and danced with just such a woman. Yet even back then, five or six months ago, he had gone back for a second dance—a waltz, no less—when there had been no need. And he had found her enchanting.

Agnes Keeping—no, Agnes Arnott—and enchantment ought to seem poles apart. Why were they not?

What was it about her?

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved fingers.

His wife.

*   *   *

Agnes might have been feeling guilty for all the trouble she was causing if Sophia had not been looking so very pleased with herself and if Lord Darleigh had not been beaming with pleasure too.

Though Sophia had pointed out last evening that luncheon would have to have been served for all their guests, even if no one had thought of getting married on the final day of their visit, and that a few more guests at table really made very little difference, it was obvious that the meal that awaited them on their return from church was very far from being an ordinary luncheon.

It was a wedding breakfast in a dining room festooned with flowers and ribbons and candles. There was even a cake—iced. How the cook could possibly have baked and decorated it along with everything else since just last night, Agnes could not imagine. Certainly no one could have slept. She would have asked Sophia whether she might go down to the kitchen to compliment the cook in person, but it struck her that doing so might merely add chaos to what must be a dizzyingly busy place indeed. She sent her compliments with Sophia instead.

There was a sumptuous meal, and there were speeches and toasts with a great deal of applause and laughter.

There was a ceremonial cake cutting.

They all lingered at the table while conversation became general, and Agnes remembered that this was the last day of the gathering for the Survivors’ Club, that they would have been clinging to one another’s company and turning a bit sentimental even without the added distraction of the wedding of one of their number. Not that they were in any way exclusive in their conversation, those seven. They were far too well-bred for that. The Harrisons were drawn into the conversation, as were Reverend and Mrs. Jones. Dora was quiet and smiling, but she was being made much of by Lord Trentham on her right.

And then, when it was already late afternoon, the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave, and the Harrisons followed suit and offered Dora a ride home.

Suddenly, it seemed, they were all in the great hall. Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Jones were hugging Agnes and telling her, with a laugh, that she was a mite beyond their touch now that she was Viscountess Ponsonby.

Dora, having offered Flavian her hand, was drawn into a hug instead. And then she was standing in front of Agnes and setting both hands on her elbows.

“Be happy,” she said softly, so that no one else would hear. “Remember, it is all I ask. It is all I have ever wanted for you.” And she kissed Agnes on the cheek before stepping back, the smile she had worn all day firmly in place. “I will see you in the morning as you are leaving,” she said.

“Yes.” Agnes could not trust her voice to say more. But she grabbed Dora and hugged her tightly. It was strange that she had not felt this way when she married William. Was it because she had not expected happiness then? Did that mean she expected it now? And what did she mean—she had not expected happiness with William? She had certainly expected contentment, and she had found it. And that was better than happiness, was it not? It was more lasting, a surer foundation upon which to base one’s life. “You must come and stay with us. You will come?”

“Even if I am not invited,” Dora promised, pulling back. “You will wake up one morning to find me camped on your doorstep, and you will take me in out of pity. And then I will refuse to go away again.”

She was laughing.

But where would she invite Dora? Agnes almost panicked again. She did not even know where her home was going to be. She knew nothing—except that her last name was Arnott. She was Agnes Arnott, Viscountess Ponsonby. She sounded like a stranger to herself.

And then everyone was gone. The vicar’s gig was already clopping along the terrace and turning to skirt about the formal parterres. The Duke of Stanbrook was handing Dora into Mr. Harrison’s carriage, and it too moved off as soon as Mr. Harrison had climbed in after her and shut the door.

Dora was gone home to a cottage that was no longer Agnes’s. Her trunk and bags were already packed—she had spent a few hours of last night getting them ready, as well as a bag of things she would need tonight and tomorrow morning. Her possessions would be picked up tomorrow, and then she would no longer belong in Inglebrook. She did not know when she would see Dora again.

Flavian had drawn her arm through his and was peering into her face, a large white handkerchief in his free hand.

“I will see to it that you are never s-sorry,” he said, his voice low. “I p-promise, Agnes.”

The tears that had been brimming in her eyes spilled over then, and she took the handkerchief from him to mop them up.

“I am not sorry,” she said. “I am only sad about saying good-bye to Dora. It is not easy to leave one’s home, even though it has been my home for less than a year. And I do not even know where my new home is to be. I did not even know what my name was to be when I arrived at the church this morning.”

“Arnott?” he said. “I kept it from you. I thought it m-might tip the scale against me last night. I thought you might not like the s-sound of Agnes Arnott.”

She folded the handkerchief and allowed him to take it from her.

“You are sometimes quite absurd,” she said.

He smiled. It was a new expression, one she had not seen before. It crinkled his eyes at the corners and contained not a discernible trace of mockery. She thought he was going to say something else, but he appeared to change his mind. He merely patted her hand on his arm and turned back into the house with her.

Oh, dear heavens, he was her husband.