Only Enchanting by Mary Balogh
2
Five months later
It was a pleasant enough day for early March, a bit nippy, perhaps, but it was neither raining nor blowing, both of which it had been doing with great frequency and enthusiasm almost since Christmas, and the sun was shining. Flavian Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, was happy not to be obliged to proceed over the English landscape in the stuffy confines of his traveling carriage, which was trundling along somewhere behind him with his valet and his baggage while he rode his horse.
It was going to feel odd to have the annual gathering of the Survivors’ Club at Middlebury Park, Vincent’s home in Gloucestershire, this year instead of at Penderris Hall, George, Duke of Stanbrook’s home in Cornwall, as usual. The seven of them had spent three years together at Penderris recovering from their various war wounds. When they left, they had agreed to meet there for a few weeks each year to renew their friendship and to share their progress. They had done just that, and only once, two years ago, had one of them been absent, Hugo’s father having died suddenly just as he was about to leave for Cornwall. Hugo had been sorely missed.
And this year they had been in danger of missing Vincent, Viscount Darleigh, who had declared all of five months ago that he would not leave Middlebury Park in March when Lady Darleigh was expecting her first confinement in late February. To be fair, the lady herself had tried to convince him not to miss something she knew meant a great deal to him. Flavian could vouch for that—he had been at Middlebury for the harvest ball at the time. When she had understood, though, that Vincent was quite adamant in his refusal to leave her, she had solved the impasse by suggesting that the Survivors come to them for their gathering instead so that Vincent would not have to miss it or leave her.
The remaining five of them had all been consulted, and they had all agreed to the change of venue, though it did feel strange. And there would be wives this year too—three of them, all acquired since their last gathering—to make things even stranger. But nothing in life ever stood still, did it? Sometimes that was regrettable.
He was almost at the end of his journey, Flavian realized as he rode into the village of Inglebrook and nodded to the butcher, who was sweeping the threshold of his shop, clad in a long apron he had obviously been wearing the last time he cut meat. The turn onto the driveway to Middlebury Park was just beyond the far end of the village street. He wondered whether he would be first to arrive at this gathering of the Survivors’ Club. For some strange reason, he usually was. It suggested a shocking overeagerness in him that was quite out of character. He was usually fashionably late—or even later—to social events.
On one memorable occasion last spring he had been turned away from the hallowed doors of Almack’s in London because he had arrived there for the weekly ball, correctly clad in old-fashioned knee breeches as the rules of the club demanded, at two minutes past eleven. Another of the club’s rules was that there would be absolutely no admission after eleven. He had been crushed and heartbroken at the realization that his pocket watch was slow—or so he had assured his aunt the next day. He had promised a dance to his cousin, her daughter. His aunt had looked upon him with reproach and had made an ungracious comment on his poor attempt at an apology. Ginny, though, was made of sterner stuff, and had merely stuck her nose in the air and informed him that her dance card had been so full at Almack’s that she would have had to disappoint him if he had deigned to put in an appearance.
Good old Ginny. He wished there were more females like her.
He touched his whip to the brim of his hat as he rode past the vicar’s wife—he had a lamentably poor memory for names, though he had been introduced to her—who was chatting with a large woman across the garden gate of the vicarage. He bade both ladies a good afternoon, and they chirruped cheerfully back at him and assured him that it was indeed good and long may it last.
Another lady was proceeding alone along the street toward him, a largish sketching easel tucked under one arm, a bag, presumably of supplies, in her free hand. She had a trim, youngish figure, he noticed appreciatively. She was dressed neatly, though without any nod to high fashion. She lifted her head, having no doubt heard the approach of his horse, and he recognized her.
Mrs. . . . Working? Looking? Darling? Weeding? Drat it, he could not recall her name. He had danced with her at Vince’s ball, at the request of the viscountess, whose particular friend she was. He had waltzed with her too—yes, by Jove, he had.
He tipped his hat to her as they drew level.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said.
“My lord.” She dipped into a slight curtsy and regarded him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Then she blushed. It was not just the March chill that rouged her cheeks. One moment they were not rosy, and the next moment they were. And her eyelids went down to hide her eyes.
Well. Interesting.
She was a good-looking woman without being in any way dazzling, though she did have fine eyes, now decently hidden beneath her eyelids, and a mouth that looked designed for humor—or for kissing. There was something about that humor—but, no, though an image pricked at the edges of his memory for a moment, it flitted away without revealing itself. Annoying, but memories tended to be like that for him—little, or perhaps huge, blanks in the past of which he remained unaware until they blinked into existence, sometimes long enough to be grabbed and brought into focus, sometimes winking out again before they could be nailed down. This was one of the not times. No matter.
She was past the first blush of youth, though she was probably younger than he was. Undoubtedly younger, in fact. Good Lord, he was thirty, practically a relic.
He did not draw his horse quite to a stop. What the devil was her name? He moved on, and so did she.
Sensible,he thought as he reached the end of the street, saw that the gates into Middlebury stood open, and turned his horse onto the winding, wooded driveway. That had been his impression of the woman after he had dutifully solicited her hand for the first set at the harvest ball. And he had asked her for the waltz after supper with the explanation that he hoped for some sensible conversation from her.
Not very flattering, that, he thought now, five months too late. It was hardly the sort of word to induce a woman’s heart into fluttering with romantic dreams over him. But that had not been the point, had it? There had been no conversation, sensible or otherwise, during that waltz. Only . . . enchantment.
Odd that he should remember that impression now, when the thought had vanished completely from his memory as soon as the ball ended. Odd and a little embarrassing too. What the devil had his mind meant by conjuring that particular word? And—was he remembering correctly? Had he spoken it aloud in her hearing?
Not sensible after all, then. Only enchanting.
What the devil had he meant?
She was not enchanting. Trim and neat, vaguely pretty, yes. Nothing more startling than that, though. Fine eyes and a humorous, even perhaps kissable, mouth were not sufficient in themselves to dazzle either the eyes or the mind—or to arouse one’s spring fancy. Anyway, it had been October at the time.
Enchantment, indeed. It was not a word that was particularly active in his vocabulary.
He hoped she had not heard. Or, if she had, he hoped she had not remembered.
She had blushed just now, though.
The driveway drew free of the woods, and he was afforded a magnificent view along a neatly clipped topiary garden and then formal flower parterres—colorful even this early in the year—to the wide, impressive front of the house. And it struck him, as it had each time he came here, that his friend had never been able to see any of it. Blindness, Flavian had always thought, must be one of the worst afflictions of all. Even now, knowing Vincent as he did and how cheerful he always was and how he had got on with his life and made something really quite happy and meaningful of it, even now he felt choked up with grief over Vince’s blindness.
It was just as well there was still some distance to ride before he had to face anyone at the house. What would people think of Viscount Ponsonby of all men riding up with tears in his eyes? The very idea was enough to give him the shudders.
His approach had indeed been noted, he saw when he turned onto the terrace before the great double doors a few minutes later. They were open, and Vincent was out on the top step, his guide dog on a short leash beside him, his free hand clasped in his viscountess’s. Both were beaming down at him.
“I was beginning to think no one was going to come,” Vincent said. “But here you are, Flave.”
He was first to arrive, then.
“How did you know it was me?” Flavian asked, looking fondly up at him. “Confess now. You have been p-peeping.”
The two of them came down the steps as Flavian swung from the saddle and abandoned his horse to the care of a groom who was hurrying across the terrace from the direction of the stables. He caught Vincent up in a tight hug and then turned to take the viscountess’s hand in his own. But she was having none of such formality. She hugged him too.
“We have been so impatient,” she said. “Just like a pair of children awaiting a special treat. This is the first time we have entertained guests entirely alone. My mama-in-law stayed with us until after my confinement, but she went home to Barton Coombs last week. She has been simply pining to be back there, and I was finally able to assure her that we could do without her, though we would miss her dreadfully—which we do.”
“I trust you have recovered your health, ma’am,” Flavian said.
She certainly looked as if she was blooming. She had been brought to bed of a boy about a month ago, a couple of weeks earlier than expected.
“I have no idea why people speak of a confinement as though it were some deadly disease,” she said, linking her arm through his and proceeding up the steps with him while Vincent, guided by his dog, came up on his other side. “I have never felt better. Oh, I do hope everyone else arrives soon so that we do not burst with excitement or do something equally ill-bred.”
“You had better come up to the drawing room for a drink, Flave,” Vincent said, “before one of us takes it into our head to suggest that you come to the nursery to worship and adore our son and heir. We are trying to understand that other people may not be as besotted with him as we are.”
“Does he have all ten toes and fingers?” Flavian asked.
“He does,” Vincent said. “I counted.”
“And everything else in its p-place, I trust?” Flavian said. “I am vastly relieved and satisfied. And I am p-parched.”
Viewing and cooing over infants had never been one of his preferred activities. But here he was swallowing a suspicious soreness in his throat again at the realization that Vincent had never seen his son and never would. He hoped the others would arrive soon. Vince had always been their collective favorite, though none of them had ever said as much. Flavian found it easier to barricade his feelings against a quite inappropriate pity when the others were around too.
Dash it all, Vince would never play cricket with the child.
And here was he, Flavian thought, feeling all fragile and on the verge of tears or worse, just because he was here, because he was home, though that word had nothing to do with place but only everything to do with the people who would be here with him soon along with Vincent. Then he would be safe again. Then he would be well again, and nothing could harm him. Absurd thoughts!
They had scarcely stepped inside the drawing room when they became aware of the clopping of horses’ hooves on the driveway below and the jingling of carriage traces. And it was not his own coach, Flavian saw when he looked through the long windows. It was not George’s either, or Ralph’s. Hugo’s, maybe? Or Ben’s? Ben—Sir Benedict Harper—had recently taken up residence in Wales, of all the godforsaken places he might have chosen, and was managing some coal mines and ironworks there for the grandfather of his new wife. It was all rather bizarre and improbable and not a little alarming. Even more astonishing was the fact that all of them except Vincent had traipsed off there in January for the wedding. They might have been marooned there for a month or more. What would one do in Wales for a month? In the middle of winter? They all needed their heads examined. Of course, his own head had never been quite right since he had been shot through the side of it and then tumbled down onto it from his horse’s back during one memorable battle in the Peninsula. Memorable for others, that was. It remained a huge, colossal blank for him, as if it were something he had slept through and merely heard about afterward.
“Oh,” Lady Darleigh said, clasping her hands to her bosom, “here comes someone else. I must go back down. Will you stay here, Vincent, and see that Lord Ponsonby has his drink?”
“I shall come with you, Sophie,” Vince said. “Flavian is a big boy. He can pour his own drink.”
“And without spilling any,” Flavian agreed. “But I will c-come down too if I may.”
There was that foolish excitement again, the one that always ensured he was first to arrive for the annual gatherings. Soon they would be together again, the seven of them. His favorite people in the world. His friends. His lifeline. He would not have survived those three years without them. Oh, perhaps his body would have, but his sanity most assuredly would not. He would not survive now without them.
They were his family.
He had another family of people who shared his bloodlines and his ancestral history. He was even fond of them, almost without exception, and they of him. But these, his six friends—George, Hugo, Ben, Ralph, Imogen, and Vincent—were the family of his heart.
Devil take it, what a phrase—family of his heart. It was enough to make any self-respecting male want to vomit. It was a good thing he had not said it aloud.
Keeping,he thought apropos of nothing as he went back downstairs to greet the new arrival. His mind had winked, and there it was—the woman’s name. Mrs. Keeping, widow. An odd name, but then, perhaps his own name, Arnott, was odd too. Any name was, when one thought about it long enough.
* * *
By the time Agnes had arrived home and removed her bonnet and pelisse, and tidied her hair and washed her hands, her heart had stopped thumping sufficiently that she did not think Dora would hear it when she went downstairs to join her in the sitting room.
It really, really was not fair that he looked even more handsome and virile on horseback than in a ballroom. He had been wearing a long, drab riding coat with goodness knows how many shoulder capes—it had not occurred to her to count them—and a tall hat set at a very slightly jaunty angle on his near-blond head. She had been suffocatingly aware of his supple leather boots and powerful thighs in tight riding breeches, and of his military posture and broad chest and mocking, handsome face.
The very sight of him just when she thought she was going to make it home safely had thrown her into such a stupid flutter that she could not remember now how she had behaved. Had she acknowledged him in some civil way? Had she gawked? Had she shaken visibly like a leaf in a hurricane? Had she blushed? Oh, dear God, please let her not have blushed. How dreadfully lowering that would be. Good heavens, she was twenty-six. And she was a widow.
“Oh, there you are, dearest,” Dora said, lifting her hands from the keyboard of her ancient but lovingly cared-for and meticulously well-tuned pianoforte. “You are later than you said you would be—but when are you not when you have been painting? You have been missing all the fun.”
“I never mean to be late,” Agnes said, stooping to kiss her sister’s cheek.
“I know.” Dora got to her feet and rang the silver bell on top of the instrument as a signal to their housekeeper to bring in the tea tray. “It happens to me when I play. It is a good thing we are both absentminded artists, or we might be forever bickering and accusing each other of neglect. You found something absorbing to paint, then?”
“Daffodils in the grass,” Agnes said. “They are always so much lovelier there than they are in flower beds. What is the fun I have missed?”
“The guests for Middlebury Park have begun to arrive,” Dora said. “A single horseman rode by a short while ago. He was past the house before I could dash to the window, even though I went at breakneck speed, and I saw only his back, but I believe he might have been the handsome viscount of the mocking eyebrow who was at the October ball.”
“Viscount Ponsonby?” Agnes said, and her heart began its heavy thumping again, threatening to deafen her and make her voice breathless. “Yes, you are quite right. I passed him farther along the street, and he actually acknowledged me and bade me a good afternoon. He could not remember my name, however. I could almost hear him searching his mind for it. He called me ma’am instead.”
Goodness, had she really noticed that much?
“And just a few minutes ago,” Dora said, “there were a couple of carriages. There were two people in the first, a lady and gentleman. The second was loaded down with a prodigious pile of baggage and contained a man who looked so superior that he was either a duke or a valet. I suspect the latter. I almost called up to you, but if I had done that, then Mrs. Henry would have heard too and come bustling to one of the front windows, and all three of us would have been seen to be gawking outward and not minding our own business as genteel ladies ought.”
“Absolutely no one would have paid us any heed,” Agnes said. “Everyone else would have been too busy gawking on their own account.”
They both laughed and took their seats on either side of the fireplace, while Mrs. Henry carried in the tray and informed them that the guests had begun to arrive at Middlebury Park, but she expected Miss Debbins had been too engrossed in her music to notice.
Agnes and Dora smirked at each other when she had left, and then got to their feet to see who was approaching along the village street this time. It was a young gentleman driving himself in a very smart curricle, with a young tiger in livery up behind him. The driver looked like another lithe and handsome man, except that a wicked scar slashing across the cheek nearest their window was horribly visible despite his hat. It gave him a ferocious, piratical appearance.
“I quite despise myself,” Dora said. “But this really is fun.”
“It is,” Agnes agreed. Though she wished it was not happening. She had really not wanted to see him again. Oh, yes, of course she had. No, she had not. Oh, she hated this . . . this juvenile turmoil over a man who had scarcely noticed her five months ago and had forgotten even her name since then.
Sophia had told her about the Survivors’ Club and had explained about their annual gatherings in Cornwall, and how she had persuaded them all to come to Middlebury Park instead this year because her husband, the foolish dear—Sophia’s words—had refused to leave her so soon after her confinement. There were seven of them, including Viscount Darleigh—six men and one woman. Three of them were married, all within the past year. They were going to be here for three weeks. The whole neighborhood was agog with excitement, even though it was to be a mainly private gathering. Every one of the Survivors was titled: the least illustrious of them a baronet, the most illustrious a duke.
Agnes had decided to keep well out of their way. It should not be difficult, she had thought, although she often went up to the house to see Sophia, especially during the last couple of months before Thomas was born, when it had been increasingly difficult for Sophia to come to see her, and during the month since his birth. She would stop going while there were houseguests. She would have stopped even if he was not one of the Survivors, for Sophia would be busy entertaining them all. And though Agnes often went into the park to sketch, at the express invitation of both Sophia and Lord Darleigh, she would avoid the parts of it where the guests were most likely to stroll, and she would be very careful not to be seen coming and going.
She had been careful today—until she had lost track of time. None of the guests would be likely to arrive before the middle of the afternoon, Sophia had told her. Agnes had gone, then, to paint the daffodils, when it was still morning. She could not delay altogether for three weeks, because the daffodils would not delay. She would be home soon after noon, well before anyone could be expected to arrive, she had told Dora before she left. But then she had started to paint and had forgotten the time.
Even then she had taken great care while walking home. She had been painting way over beyond the lake and the trees, close to the summerhouse, not even nearly within sight of the main house. The park about Middlebury was vast, after all. She did not return around the lake and across the bottom of the lawn to the drive. That would have brought her within distant sight of the house for a few minutes, and she would have been exposed along much of the length of the driveway too. No, she had walked down into the woods that grew in a thick band inside the southern wall of the park, and had threaded her way about the ancient trunks, enjoying the green-hued solitude and the lovely smells of the trees. She had emerged far down the driveway, only a few yards from the gates, which stood wide-open, as they usually did during the daytime. Then she had proceeded along the village street toward home. There had been no one in sight except Mrs. Jones, who was standing at the gate outside the vicarage indulging in a gossip with Mrs. Lewis, the apothecary’s wife. And Mr. Henchley was brushing sawdust out through the door of his butcher’s shop at the far end of the street for someone else to have to deal with. Agnes had put her head down and hurried toward home.
She had thought herself safe until she heard the clopping hooves of an approaching horse. She had not looked up. Horses were not an uncommon sight in the village, after all. But she had had no choice as it drew closer. It would be very ill-mannered of her not to acknowledge a neighbor. So she raised her head and looked straight into the sleepy green eyes of the very guest she had most wanted to avoid. Indeed she had no reason to avoid any of the others, all of whom were strangers to her.
It was wretchedly bad luck.
And she had despised herself anew as she looked at him. She had shaken off the whole nonsense of falling in love only weeks after that infernal ball. Nothing like it had ever happened to her before, and she would make good and sure nothing like it ever happened again. Then Sophia had told her about the Survivors’ Club coming here. And Agnes had convinced herself that if she set eyes upon him—which she would take great pains not to do—she would be able to look at him quite dispassionately and see him merely as one of Lord Darleigh’s aristocratic friends with whom she happened to have a slight acquaintance.
He was quite impossibly handsome. And a whole lot of other things she would prefer not to put into words—or even thoughts, if the wretched things could only be suppressed.
Which they could not.
All the nonsense from last autumn had come rushing back, just as if she did not have a droplet of common sense in her whole body or brain.
“I wonder,” Dora said as they returned to their chairs, “if we will be invited to the house at all, Agnes. I suppose not, but you are a particular friend of the viscountess, and I am her music teacher as well as Lord Darleigh’s. Indeed, he remarked to me just last week that since his friends will merely ridicule his efforts on the harp, I had better come and play it for them as it ought to be played, and then they would not laugh. But he was laughing as he said it. I think his friends tease him a great deal, and that means that they love him, does it not? I believe they must be very close friends. I do not suppose Lord Darleigh will invite me to play, will he?”
Agnes shook off her own foolish palpitations and focused her attention upon her sister, who both looked and sounded wistful. Dora was twelve years her senior and had never married. She had lived at home in Lancashire until their father remarried, a year before Agnes’s own marriage. Then she had expressed her intention to answer the advertisement she had seen for a resident music teacher in the village of Inglebrook in Gloucestershire. Her application had been accepted, and she had moved here and stayed and prospered in a modest way. She was well liked and respected here, and her talent was recognized. She always had more work than she could accept.
Was she happy, though? She had a whole neighborhood of friendly acquaintances but no particular friend. And no beau. She and Agnes had grown very close since they had lived together here—as they had always been at home. But they were for all intents and purposes of different generations. Dora was contented, Agnes believed. But happy?
“Perhaps you will indeed be invited to play,” she said. “All hosts like to entertain their houseguests, and what better way than with a musical evening? And Lord Darleigh is blind and therefore more attached to music than any other form of entertainment. Unless there is a great deal of musical talent among the guests, it would make perfect sense for him to invite you to play for them. You have more talent than anyone else I have known, Dora.”
Perhaps it was not wise to raise her sister’s hopes. But how insensitive not to have realized until this moment that Dora too had feelings and anxieties related to the arrival of these guests and that she dreamed of playing for an appreciative audience.
“But confess, dear,” Dora said, a twinkle in her eye. “You have not known many people, talented or otherwise.”
“You are quite right,” Agnes admitted. “But if I had known everyone in the polite world and had heard them all display their talents at musical evenings galore, I would absolutely have discovered that there is no one to match you.”
“What I love about you, Agnes, dear,” her sister said, “is your remarkable lack of partiality.”
They both laughed and then scrambled to their feet again to watch yet another carriage go by, this one with a distinguished-looking older gentleman and a young lady inside—and a ducal crest emblazoned on the door.
“All I need to be entirely happy,” Dora said, “is a discreet and genteel little telescope.”
They laughed again.
