Only Enchanting (21 page)

“If it is the f-former,” he said, moving his head back just a little so that he could look down into her face, his eyelids lazy, his eyes keen beneath them, “then there is all the t-trouble of deciding upon a venue. St. George’s on Hanover Square in London would p-probably be the most sensible choice because one can invite half the world, and a g-good half of that number already has a town house there or knows someone who does, and the other half will have no bother in f-finding a good hotel. If it is elsewhere—your f-father’s home, mine, here—one has all the h-headache of deciding where everyone will stay. If it is the l-latter—”

“Oh, do stop,” she cried, snatching her hands away. “There is to be no wedding, so it does not matter which type I would prefer.”

He ran the backs of his fingers lightly along her jaw to her chin and up the other side to cup her cheek.

“In five d-days with nothing much to do but drive a curricle,” he said, “I did not compose an affecting marriage proposal. Or even an
un
affecting one, for that matter. But I do know that I w-want you. In bed, yes, but not just there. I want you in my life. And p-please do not ask your usual question.
Why
is the h-hardest question in the world to answer. Marry me. Say you will.”

And suddenly it seemed ridiculous to say no when she ached to say yes.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“Of me?” he asked her. “Even at my worst, I n-never
physically hurt anyone. The w-worst I did was fling a glass of wine in someone’s face. I lose my t-temper at times, more than I did before, but it does not last. It is all just sound and fury—am I quoting s-someone again? If I ever yell at you, you may f-feel free to yell b-back. I would never hurt you. I can safely promise that.”

“Of myself,” she said, fixing her eyes on the top button of his coat and leaning her cheek a little into his palm despite herself. “I am afraid of
me
.”

He gazed deeply into her eyes. It was strange how she could see that in the darkness.

“Even tonight,” she said, “I was angry. I
am
angry. I had no idea I was going to be, but it has happened. You play with my emotions, though perhaps not deliberately. You find me and talk with me and kiss me and then—
nothing
for days, and then it all starts again. You made me promise five days ago that I would not say no, and then you left and gave me no chance to say either yes or no. You did not tell me you were going away. You did not need to, of course. I had no right to expect it. And now I have a premonition that this is what marriage with you would be like, but on a grander scale. Life as I have known it for years, including the five years of my marriage, would be turned on its head, and I would not know
where
I was. I could not stand the uncertainty.”

“You fear passion?” he asked her.

“Because it is
uncontrolled,
” she cried. “Because it is selfish. Because it hurts—other people if not oneself. I do not want passion. I do not want uncertainty. I do not want you yelling at me. Worse than that, I do not want me yelling back. I cannot stand it. I cannot stand
this
.”

His face was closer again.

“What has happened in your life to hurt you?” he asked her.

Her eyes widened. “
Nothing
has happened. That is the point.”

But it was not. It was not the point at all.

“You w-want me,” he said, “as much as I want you.”

And his eyes blazed with a new light.

“I am afraid,” she said again, but even to her own ears her protest sounded lame.

His mouth, hot in the chill of the late evening, covered hers, and her arms went about his neck, and his about her waist, and she leaned into him, or he drew her against him—it did not matter which. And she knew—ah, she knew that she could not let him go, even though she
was
afraid. It was going to be like stepping off the edge of a precipice blindfolded.

He had said
nothing
about love. But neither had William. What was love, after all? She had never believed in it or wanted it.

He raised his head.

“We could marry tomorrow,” he said. “I was thinking of the d-day after, but that was when I did not expect to s-see you until the morning. And the vicar is here at the house. I could have a word with him tonight. We could marry tomorrow morning, Agnes. Or would you rather that g-grand wedding in St. George’s? With all your family and mine in attendance.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders and laughed, though not with amusement. She was more afraid than ever before in her life. She was afraid she was about to do something she would forever regret.

“There is the small matter of banns,” she said.

He flashed a grin at her.

“Special license,” he said. “I h-have one on the table beside my bed upstairs. It is why I went to L-London, though it struck me when I was on the way there that I
c-could probably have got one somewhere closer, maybe even Gloucester. I am not v-very knowledgeable on such things. No matter. I managed to avoid everyone I know except an uncle, who was not to be avoided by the time I s-spotted him. He is a g-good fellow, though. I informed him that he had not seen me, and he raised his glass and asked who the devil I was anyway.”

Agnes was not listening.

“You went to London to get a
special license
?” she asked, though he had been perfectly clear on the matter. “So that you could marry me here without the benefit of banns?
Tomorrow?
”

“If it were done,”
he said,
“then ’twere well it were done quickly.”

She stared at him, speechless for a moment.

“Macbeth was talking about
murder
,” she said. “And you missed
when ’tis done
in the middle—
If it were done when ’tis done . . .
Those words make all the difference to the meaning.”

“You have this disturbing effect upon me, Agnes,” he said. “I s-start spouting p-poetry. Badly. But—
’twere well it were done quickly
. I stand by that.”

“Before you can change your mind?” she asked him. “Or before I can?”

“Because I want to be s-safe with you,” he said.

She looked at him in astonishment.

“Because I w-want to make l-love to you,” he added, “and I cannot do it before we are m-married, because you are a v-virtuous woman, and I have a rule about not seducing v-virtuous women.”

But he had said,
Because I want to be safe with you
.

Yet she was afraid of
not
being safe with him.

“Lord Ponsonby—” she said.

“Flavian,” he interrupted her. “It is one of the m-most
ridiculous names any parents could possibly inflict upon a son, but it is what my parents d-did to me, and I am stuck with it. I am Flavian.”

She swallowed.

“Flavian,” she said.

“It does not sound so b-bad spoken in your voice,” he said. “Say it again.”

“Flavian.” And, surprisingly, she laughed. “It suits you.”

He grimaced.

“Say the rest of it,” he said. “You spoke my name, and there was m-more to come. Say the rest.”

She had forgotten. It had something to do with whether they would be safe together or not. But—
safe
? What did it mean?

Tomorrow. She could be married
tomorrow
.

“I think my father and my brother would find it an inconvenience to travel all the way to London,” she said. “Especially for a second marriage. Do you have a large family?”

“Enormous,” he said. “We could fill two St. George’s and still allow for s-standing room only.”

It was her turn to grimace.

“But what will they all
say
?” she asked him.

He threw back his head, his arms still about her, and—bayed at the moon. There was no other way of describing the sound of triumph that burst from him.

“
Will
say?” he said. “Not
would
say? They will be as cross as b-blazes, all s-seven thousand and sixty of them, at being denied the fuss and anguish of having a say in my w-wedding. Tomorrow, Agnes, if it can be arranged? Or the day after tomorrow at the latest? Say yes. Say
yes
.”

She still could not understand. Why her? And why the complete turnaround from the time, not long distant,
when he had told her he would never have marriage to offer anyone? What sort of attraction did she hold for a man like Viscount Ponsonby?

Because I want to be safe with you.

What could those words possibly mean?

She slid her hands behind his neck again and raised her face to his.

“Yes, then,” she said in exasperation. “You will not take no for an answer anyway, will you? Yes, then. Yes, Flavian.”

And his mouth came down on hers again.

12

F
lavian 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.