Only Enchanting by Mary Balogh

19

Flavian did not sleep or even try to. He had one week. Seven days. He was not about to waste even an hour of one of them catching up on his beauty sleep. The trouble was, though, that he did not know what he could do to convince Agnes to stay with him, beyond making love to her night and day. He was good at that, at least. Or, rather, they were good at it.

He did not think sex alone would persuade her to stay, however. And he was not even sure she was going to allow him near her bed in the next seven days or nights. Besides, good sex might actually convince her not to stay. She had that alarming belief that passion must be obliterated from her life if she was to maintain any sort of control over it. All because of her mother.

He had his valet prepare a bath for him. He felt a bit better once he was clean and in fresh clothes, and once he was shaved. He had also done some thinking. He had not come up with any short-term solutions, and they were what he really needed, but at least he could do something. He went back to the book room, seated himself at the desk, and wrote two letters—not his favorite activity at the best of times. But they were necessary and overdue. He could hardly call in person on his father-in-law, since to do so he would have to leave London and squander his precious week. The same applied to his brother-in-law. It was a courtesy to write to them both. More than that, though, he had a few questions to ask them, and he hoped at least one of them would be more forthcoming with him than they had ever been with Agnes.

Having written the letters more or less to his satisfaction, and sealed and franked them and handed them into the care of his butler, Flavian sallied forth to White’s Club, partly because he could not think of anywhere else to go, since Agnes had other plans for the day and he was not involved in them. But partly he went in the hope that he might find someone to whom he might address a few discreet questions. Maybe there was something he could do.

Any number of gentlemen greeted him there. He might have attached himself to congenial company for the rest of the day and most of the night if he had wanted to, despite the fact that at least half the ton was still waiting for Easter to come and go before descending upon London. Most of the company was roughly his own age, however, and of no use to him today. And he was not well enough acquainted with any of the older men, he realized as he sat down in the reading room and gave the morning papers only a small amount of his attention.

And then two of his uncles and one of his cousins arrived together and greeted him with hearty good humor, slapping his back and pumping his hand, talking and laughing. Not surprisingly, they drew the frowning attention of other occupants of the room, who had been quietly reading their papers until now.

Uncle Quentin and Uncle James had just arrived in town, Flavian understood, with the aunts and all the cousins for whose existence they claimed responsibility. One of the latter, Cousin Desmond, Uncle James’s eldest son and heir, beamed his pleasure at seeing someone roughly his own age. Two of the other cousins, one for each uncle, were female and eighteen years old and ripe for the marriage mart, so there had been all the necessity of descending upon the capital early enough to do a mountain and a half of shopping, all of which was absolutely necessary, according to the aunts, and all of which would beggar them for the next half century or so, according to the uncles.

Flavian shepherded his relatives into the coffee room, where they could talk without drawing upon their heads the censure of the newspaper readers.

They had just heard about Flavian’s marriage, and both uncles professed themselves delighted that he was showing some sense at last, though rumor had it that he had married an unknown, a matter that could be easily remedied, of course, by making her known without further ado, an endeavor in which the aunts would be only too happy to have a hand. The uncles were positively bursting with curiosity. Who was the lucky lady, eh? Eh? Or was it the groom who was the lucky one?

The uncles were twins. They spoke in tandem, the one often beginning a sentence, the other completing it, so that one’s head tended to swivel rhythmically between the two of them.

Hearty guffaws ended their latest series of questions.

Flavian relaxed into the pleasure of seeing some family members again. He explained that Agnes had been a widow living with her unmarried sister in the village close to Middlebury Park, where he had just spent three weeks with friends. He was careful to add that he had met her six months ago, so his courtship and marriage were not quite the whirlwind affair people were undoubtedly thinking.

“I say, though, Flave,” Desmond said, “there may be a spot of trouble brewing around Lady Ponsonby. I suppose you have heard?”

“Eh?” Uncle James said.

“What’s that, Des?” Uncle Quentin asked.

Flavian merely looked his inquiry.

“There was a bit of a party at Lady Merton’s last night,” Desmond said. “Bidulph and Griffin dragged me along there with them. It was a crashing bore, actually. But your wedding seemed to be big news, and a bit of a surprise to some just when the Countess of Hazeltine had come back to town. She was there too last night, though all the gossips were careful not to talk in her hearing. She is looking as fetching as ever, by the way. Have you seen her, Flave?”

“What was the s-spot of trouble?” Flavian asked.

“It seems Lady Ponsonby’s mother was not all she ought to be,” Desmond said. “Ran off with a lover, you know, and her husband—Debbins, was it?—divorced her. You need to be careful, Flave, if it is true, or even if it is not, for that matter. It is awkward enough that your wife is unknown, but if she is also seen to be not quite respectable . . .”

He did not complete the thought, perhaps because he saw the expression on his cousin’s face.

Who knew? Flavian scoured his mind. Who knew? They had told his mother who she was, and Marianne and Oswald too. They had named her father and her late husband. But they had not made any mention of the old scandal. He had told no one, and he was sure Agnes had not either. No one else had even been told who her father was.

Except the Fromes. And Velma.

He could almost hear Velma asking him who Agnes was, and himself answering.

She is the daughter of a Mr. Debbins from Lancashire.

His main purpose in coming here this morning suddenly seemed of the greatest urgency. And it struck him that both uncles were of the approximate age to help with answers. Both spent as much time in London or at one of the fashionable spas as they did in their own country homes, and were always a mine of information and news and gossip. And what the uncles did not know, the aunts very well might.

“If anyone w-wishes to know if my w-wife is respectable,” he said, “he m-may address the question to m-me.”

Desmond recoiled and held up both hands, palms out.

“I am merely saying what was being whispered last night, Flave,” he said. “It was nothing much, but you know how gossip can fan the flames of the smallest fire.”

And Velma had been at last night’s party.

“Does either of you remember that divorce?” he asked his uncles. “A Debbins from Lancashire. Twenty years or so ago.”

“Divorce,” Uncle James said. “By act of Parliament, do you mean? A bit drastic, that, on the part of your father-in-law, Flavian. It would have cost a king’s ransom and been horridly public. Nasty for his children too. And she was your mother-in-law? That’s the devil’s own luck for you, boy. I don’t recall it. Do you, Quent?”

Uncle Quentin had planted one elbow on the table and was drumming his fingernails against his teeth.

“I remember old Sainsley divorcing his wife for adultery when everyone knew it was a trumped-up charge,” he said. “She was starting to cut up nasty about his three mistresses and all the natural children he was supporting. That must have been, oh, ten, fifteen years ago. Remember, James?”

“Was it that long ago?” James asked. “Yes, I suppose it was. I remember. . . .”

Desmond exchanged a long-faced stare with Flavian. The uncles could never be rushed.

“Havell,” Uncle Quentin said suddenly, slapping a hand flat on the table and causing some of Uncle James’s coffee to slosh into his saucer. “Sir Everard Havell, the one everyone called the beautiful boy on account of his smile. He had a mouthful of perfect white teeth.”

“I remember,” Uncle James said. “The ladies used to swoon at one smile from him.”

“He was forced to rusticate when he ran low on funds,” Uncle Quentin continued. “Went to stay with some doddering uncle or other who might or might not leave him everything. Went to butter up the old boy, I suppose. And it was Lancashire. I am sure of that. I thought, poor fellow, having to be incarcerated somewhere in Lancashire, of all the godforsaken places.”

“He was not to be envied,” Uncle James agreed.

“He ran off with someone’s wife, and her husband divorced her, and Havell got cut off without a penny.” Uncle Quentin looked triumphantly across the table at Flavian. “That was it. Must be. I can’t remember the husband’s name, but it was about twenty years ago, and it was Lancashire. It would be too much of a coincidence if there had been two such elopements and two such divorces.”

“But does Lady Ponsonby not know,Flave?” Desmond asked.

“She chooses not to talk of it,” Flavian said, sitting back in his chair. “She does not even know the name of the man with whom her mother ran away.”

“She is not going to be able to hide her head in the sand for much longer, though, is she?” Desmond was frowning. “It will not take the tabbies long to find out the details, Flave. If Uncle Quent remembers, other people will too. It could bode trouble for Lady Ponsonby. And for you.”

“We are a big enough family, heaven knows,” Uncle James said. “And your family on your mother’s side is almost as large.”

“And families stand together,” Uncle Quentin said.

“Heaven help us,” Desmond murmured.

“What happened after the divorce?” Flavian asked.

“Eh?” Uncle James said.

“Havell did the decent thing and married the lady,” Uncle Quentin said. “Apparently she was a beauty, even though she was no spring chicken, and older than he, if I remember rightly. They were given the cut direct by the whole of the beau monde, though.”

“Is either of them still living?” Flavian asked. “And where did or do they live?”

Uncle Quentin tapped his teeth again, and Uncle James rubbed his chin with one hand.

“Damned if I know,” Uncle James said. “You, Quent?”

Uncle Quentin shook his head. “But you might ask Jenkins,” he said. “Peter Jenkins. He is related in some way to Havell—second cousin once removed or some such thing. He may know.”

“First,” Uncle James said. “First cousin twice removed.”

Peter Jenkins happened to be dining at White’s with friends. Flavian had to wait all of an hour and a half to catch him alone.

*   *   *

Agnes was exhausted. Not that the evening had been a busy one. It had been rather pleasant, in fact. She had donned one of the least fancy of her evening gowns and had dined with Flavian and his mother, then sat in the drawing room with them afterward. While she worked at some tatting and her mother-in-law drew up her embroidery frame, Flavian had read to them from Mr. Fielding’s Joseph Andrews, an amusing spoof on Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, which Agnes had read and not particularly enjoyed a few years ago.

He had read well and with very little stammering. And when he finally closed the book and set it on the table beside him, he had propped the side of his face on one hand and watched Agnes work, with an expression that might have been contentment or fondness or mere tiredness. He had not slept last night, after all, and she doubted he had slept this morning.

They were invited to Lord Shields’s house the following evening for an impromptu party with family and friends. Flavian explained that some of his relatives had arrived in town and were eager to meet her. Agnes was a little wary of the word party that appeared in Marianne’s invitation, but the dowager reminded her that town was still really rather sparse of company this early in the year. Anyway, if she was to stay with Flavian—and she was going to stay—she must meet the ton sooner or later.

She would allow Madeline to choose the most suitable of her evening gowns.

She was dressed now in a new nightgown. It was not nearly as daring and revealing as some she might have chosen. It covered her shoulders and upper arms and all but a modest expanse of bosom, and, despite the fineness of the linen, it was opaque. It did tend to cling a bit, though, according to Madeline, that was what it was supposed to do in order to show off her lovely figure.

She was not at all sure anyone but Madeline would see her in the nightgown. When Agnes had agreed this morning to give their marriage a week, they had not discussed what the nature of the marriage would be during that week. She did not know whether Flavian would come to her, and she did not know whether she would go and seek him out tonight as she had done last night—if he did not come, that was.

She ought not to want him to come. She had been very angry indeed with him. Not angry in the way that a good quarrel might solve, but angry in a way that could not be mended, angry from the feeling she had been cruelly used and that sheer lust had made her into a willing victim. The fact that she was in love with him had been quite irrelevant. Indeed, that very fact had only made her more determined to exert some control over her life, to act with her head instead of her heart—or the cravings of her body.

But she had done a lot of thinking in the course of the day. And a lot of remembering.

She was sitting on the side of the bed when he came. He tapped on the door, waited a moment—she did not call to him—and came inside. He stood there in his dressing gown, which was tightly belted about his waist, looking gorgeous with his blond hair slightly tousled. She felt a tightening in her breasts and hoped that in the dim candlelight he could not see the evidence of that fact through her nightgown.

“Are you about to throw a s-slipper at my head?” he asked.

“I would probably miss and feel foolish,” she said.

He folded his arms and tipped his head slightly to one side.

“It is to be a marriage for seven days, then, is it?” he asked.

“Oh, you are not going to get off that lightly,” she said. “It is to be a marriage forever, Flavian. You married me. It does not matter why you did it. You married me, and you will jolly well live up to that commitment. I will not allow you not to. And I married you. It does not matter why I did it. For better or worse, we are married. People marry for all sorts of reasons. It is not those that matter. It is what they do with their marriages that counts. We are going to make this a good marriage. Both of us.”

Good heavens, where had that all come from? Her heart was thumping so loudly that she was half-deafened.

He had not moved or changed posture. But his eyelids had drooped half over his eyes, and his mouth had curved upward slightly at the corners, and he was watching her keenly.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly—and advanced on her.

And so they made love—tentatively, sweetly, slowly, and finally with fierce urgency. When they were done, she lay on her back half across the bed, minus her lovely new nightgown, Flavian heavy on top of her. They were both hot and sweaty and relaxed. Her legs were stretched on either side of his. He was still inside her. He was breathing deeply and evenly. She was about to follow him into sleep. He would wake up soon and move off her with a murmured apology, but she did not mind the slight discomfort of his weight. She would not mind if he slept on her all night.

Some things could never be stopped once they had been allowed to start, she thought. Passion could not. She had married him very largely because she wanted him. But having him on her wedding night had not slaked her appetite except very temporarily. Quite the opposite, in fact. She wanted him more and more.

She was deeply wedded to him—a strange thought.

But passion was not to blame, she thought, for what people did with their lives. If she had met Flavian while she was still married to William, she would not have given in to her attraction to him. She knew she would not. Which was another strange thought to be having when she was on the verge of sleep and utterly sated with passion.

“Mmm,” Flavian said against her ear, tickling it with his breath, “I am not exactly a feather cover, am I. S-Sorry.”

And he disengaged from her and rolled to her side, his arm beneath her bringing her with him to lie against him from head to toe. What a glorious creation the male body was, she thought as she relaxed against him again and drifted off. This male body, anyway.

*   *   *

Flavian awoke with a crashing headache and a panicked urge to lash out at all about him. He got up off the bed, groped around on the floor for his dressing gown, belted it about his waist, and staggered to the window. He pushed the curtains wide and gripped the window frame on either side of his head before touching his forehead to the glass.

He gazed into the near darkness of the outdoors and counted his breaths. His hands gripped harder. He dared not release his hold yet. He might start laying about him with his fists if he did. He felt as if someone were pounding a drum inside his head, though the pain was receding gradually.

What the devil . . . ?

He remembered that trouble loomed.

And that he had been almost happy when he fell asleep. She had decided to stay with him, to work on their marriage. They had made love, and he had been happy.

With trouble looming.

Caused, he was almost sure, by Velma. She had gone digging, and she had found gold. Yet it seemed so out of character for her. She was all sweetness and light.

The drum pounded at his head from the inside again.

“Flavian?” The voice came from just behind him. “What is it?”

He had woken her. But, dash it all, was it surprising? His grip on the window frame tightened again, and he closed his eyes.

“I could not sleep,” he said. “Go b-back to bed. I’ll be with you shortly.”

He felt her hand come to rest against his back, between his shoulder blades, just below his neck. For a moment he tensed. And then a door opened in his mind, and he knew it was what had woken him. Memory had come bursting in upon him—a whole set of memories that had been closed to him for years to such a degree that he had not even realized there was anything missing.

“God!” he said.

“What is it?” Agnes asked again. “What woke you in such a panic? Tell me. I am your wife.”

“She schemed and lied,” he said, “and broke his heart.”

There was a short silence.

“Lady Hazeltine?” she asked.

“Velma, yes,” he said. “It s-started the year we were fifteen.”

He lowered his arms and turned from the window. Agnes was wearing her nightgown again, a flimsy, pretty new one. The room was chilly. He strode over to her dressing room and in the near darkness found a woolen shawl. He brought it back, wrapped it about her shoulders, and led her back to the bed. He seated them side by side on the edge of it and took one of her hands in his. He closed his other hand into a fist and rubbed it over his forehead.

“I lost a whole chunk of memory,” he said. “And then it came b-back and woke me, and shut down again. It is how it used to h-happen when I was still at Penderris. Not so much now, though. I always assume I have remembered everything.”

“Have you recalled it again?” she asked, turning slightly so that she could hold his hand with both of hers.

Yes, it was there. In the open. It was not going to wink out again.

“Len—Leonard Burton, my school friend who later became Earl of Hazeltine—had not c-come to stay that summer, as he usually did,” he said. “He had to go home to Northumberland for some family event. I can’t recall what. Marianne had just made her come-out and was off at a house party with our m-mother. David stayed in the house or close to it most of the time. He did not have the energy for much else. So I wandered about the park alone—riding, swimming, fishing, doing whatever took my fancy. I was easy to p-please. I always enjoyed just being home.”

“And you visited Farthings Hall?” she asked.

“I do not think so,” he said. “Not to see Velma, if that is what you mean. We were never really f-friends, except perhaps when we were very young. She was a girl.”

He frowned at his bare feet, which were stretched out before him.

“She came to Candlebury, though,” he said. “To see David, she always claimed. They were to be officially betrothed when she was eighteen, and m-married when she was nineteen—that had been planned by both sets of parents when she was still in the c-cradle. No one ever questioned it. She ought not to have come. There were only the two of us—David and me—there apart from the servants, and she never brought either a groom or a maid with her. She came by all sorts of different routes too. She had an uncanny knack of coming across me on her way to the house.”

“Was it just coincidence?” Agnes asked.

“I thought so,” he said. “She was always so s-surprised to see me and so full of apologies for disturbing me. But she always stayed to stroll or sit with me. Sometimes she spent so long with me that she never did get to the house to see David. Whenever she did, though, he would send immediately for a m-maid to sit with them and then for a groom to accompany her back to Farthings. She told me she liked David, even l-loved him, that she l-longed to be old enough to m-marry him so that she could look after him.”

He could remember being annoyed the first few times she had found him and not simply ridden on and left him to his own company. But he had been fifteen, for God’s sake. It had not taken him long. . . .

“And then I started touching her,” he said, “and kissing her, even though she used to cry afterward and tell me we absolutely must not do it ever again. Because of D-David. Then one afternoon we went farther than kisses. Considerably farther, though not . . . all the way. And that was the end of it. She cried and t-told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too but that it was over, that we m-must not meet like that again. And I m-meant it. I could not do such a thing to my brother. I knew he adored her. I d-don’t think I set foot outside the house for a week, and then I went to stay with another school friend who had been p-pestering me to visit him. It meant l-leaving David alone, but I was having a hard time looking him in the eye anyway.”

“And all this you have just remembered?” Agnes asked him.

He frowned. Velma had come to Candlebury that summer because his mother and Marianne were away, and David was more or less housebound, and Len was home in Northumberland. She had come to see him. David could have held little attraction for a fifteen-year-old girl, not when he had a more robust brother, and not when that brother would surely be Viscount Ponsonby of Candlebury Abbey in the not-too-distant future.

But could she be blamed for such conniving?

“No,” he said. “This I remembered, and the apparently random meetings during the next three years, and the t-temptation. She was a lovely girl, and I was a l-lusty boy. But the date for their betrothal was coming c-closer, and D-David was happy, though he once confided in me that he thought p-perhaps it was selfish of him to hold her to a promise made by our parents and hers so many years ago. She was always so f-fond of him, though, whenever they were together.”

“What have you remembered, then, Flavian?” she asked.

He swallowed once and then again. She was holding the back of his hand against her cheek, he realized.

“When Velma turned eighteen,” he said, “and plans were being made for a betrothal party and an announcement to be sent to the London papers, David suddenly refused to marry her. He said it would be unfair when he was not w-well enough to give her the life she deserved. He set her free to find someone else. He hoped she would go to London for a Season and make a b-brilliant marriage. She was inconsolable, and he was heartbroken. And all this I remembered too.”

She set her lips against the back of his hand.

“Our families immediately devised an alternate plan,” he said. “It seemed almost as if they were r-relieved, as if they were far h-happier with the idea of Velma’s marrying me. And then D-David s-spoke privately with m-me.”

He shivered and got to his feet to go and stand close to the window again. His hands found the pockets of his dressing gown and shoved inside.

“He asked me if it was t-true,” he said. “And he asked me if I l-loved her. And he t-told me that I had his blessing anyway, and that he would not stop loving me. Though he did add, as a sort of j-joke, that if he only had a bit more energy, he m-might challenge me to pistols at d-dawn.”

He opened and closed his hands inside his pockets. Agnes said nothing.

“She had told him—and sworn him to secrecy,” he said. “She had told him that she and I had l-loved each other p-passionately for three years and were l-lovers, and that I had assured her we would s-still be lovers after she married David, but that she had decided she could not c-continue with the deceit. She had b-begged him to set her free to m-marry the man she loved.”

He could hear Agnes draw an audible breath.

“He believed her?” she asked.

“She was sweet and without guile,” he said. “Or so we both thought. And perhaps her motive was understandable. She was more or less l-locked into a marriage plan in which she had had no say. But what she did was . . . cruel. He would have set her free if she had but asked.”

Her arms came about his waist from behind, and her cheek came to rest against his back.

“Did you explain?” she asked.

“I d-did,” he said. “I told him everything, as I have told it to you. I t-told him I did not w-want to marry her. And he told me that I would have little choice, given the determination of our families to bring about the match. And she would surely see to it that she got her w-way. I b-begged him to purchase a commission for me, and he agreed, even though I was his heir and ought not to have put myself at risk as a soldier. Worse, my going away to war for an indefinite time made it l-likely that we would never see each other again.”

“You did not love her, then?” Agnes asked.

“I was eighteen,” he said. “I had barely tested my wings.”

“Did she love you?”

“I cannot answer for her,” he said. “She was always ambitious, though. She always talked quite openly about the time when she would be a viscountess and half the world would have to curtsy and bow to her and obey her every bidding. Her father is a baronet, but he is not particularly well off. She m-might not have done so well on the marriage mart. Though, as it happened, she married an earl.”

“Your friend?”

“Len,” he said. “Hazeltine. Yes.”

He must have fallen in love with her, though, he thought, when he was home on leave the year David died, must he not? He had left his brother on his deathbed in order to dash off to London to celebrate at the lavish betrothal ball the Fromes gave in their honor. Unless . . .

It frightened him to realize that there might still be great holes in his memory in places he did not even suspect. And he was beginning to wonder about those weeks of his leave. He was quite aware of the fact that he could not remember the whys of his behavior.

He turned to Agnes and wrapped his arms about her and rested one cheek against the top of her head.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I am s-sure the last thing any new wife needs to hear in the middle of the night is the story of her husband’s dealings with another woman.”

“Part of the story,” she said softly. She tipped back her head and looked into his face, her own dimly lit by the light from the window. “This is not the whole of it, is it? You do not remember the whole?”

His stomach churned slightly.

“The trouble is,” he said, flashing her a grin, “that I cannot always remember what I cannot remember—or that I cannot remember. Perhaps there are still all sorts of gaps in my mind. I am a m-mess, Agnes. You have married a mess.”

“We are all a mess.” He could see the flash of her teeth in the darkness, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I think it must be part of being human.”

“But not many of us are walking around free and unfettered with heads like those cheeses with g-great holes in them,” he said. “You have married a man with cheese for a head.”

She was laughing now. So, astonishingly, was he.

“What an adventure,” she said.

“Speak for yourself.” He lowered his head and brushed his nose across hers. Briefly, he thought about warning her of what had been buzzing about Lady Merton’s party the night before last. But there had been enough drama for one night. “Cold nose.”

“Warm heart,” she retorted.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

“I am not,” she told him. “Come back to bed and pull up the blankets. It is chilly.”

“I have something better to offer than b-blankets,” he said.

“Braggart.”

“If I cannot w-warm you more effectively than blankets,” he told her, “I will need to find a mouse hole somewhere and curl up inside it for the r-rest of my life.”

“Come and warm me, then,” she said, her voice a soft caress.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He felt a dizzying sort of happiness, as though some great load had been lifted from his shoulders. What a relief to know he had not loved Velma.

At least . . .

But for the moment he was safe and even happy with his wife.