Only Enchanting (27 page)

He drew her hand through his arm, and they followed Biggs’s stiff, impassive back up the stairs. This, he thought, was massively unfair to both Agnes and his mother. But what was he to do? He flatly refused to feel like a naughty little boy caught out in some childish mischief. Deuce take it, he was thirty years old. He was the head of his family. He was free to marry whomever he pleased whenever and however he pleased.

He had not expected his mother to be alone in the drawing room. He had steeled himself to find Marianne there too and possibly her husband, Shields, as well. And he was quite right—all three of them were there.

So were Sir Winston and Lady Frome.

And so was their daughter, Velma.

15

T
he sudden realization that Flavian’s mother was actually in London and in this very house almost completely unnerved Agnes, who was already feeling weary after another day of travel and a little overwhelmed at the discovery that Arnott House was a massive, imposing edifice on one side of a large and stately square. When her foot was on the bottom stair, she almost drew her hand free of his arm and urged him to go up to the drawing room alone, while she went . . . where?

She did not have a room yet, and she did not know where his was. She could not simply turn and flee. Besides . . . well, besides, she was going to have to go through the ordeal of meeting her mother-in-law sooner or later. She had just not expected it to be
now
. She had hoped for a few days, perhaps even a week, and some exchange of letters first. It seemed highly unlikely that Flavian’s letter had reached his mother before she came to town. Which meant
she did not know
.

It really did not bear thinking of.

And then they were upstairs, and the butler was opening the high double doors of what Agnes assumed was the drawing room, and she was stepping inside on
Flavian’s arm—and realizing in some horror that there were people in the room.
Six
of them, to be exact.

She slid her hand free and came to a stop just inside the doors, which Mr. Biggs was closing behind her, while Flavian proceeded a few steps farther.

There were four ladies, three of them seated, one standing to one side of the fire that was crackling in the hearth. Of the two gentlemen, the elder stood on the other side of the fireplace, while the younger stood behind the chair of one of the ladies.

All of them looked fashionable and formidable and . . . But there was no time for any further details to impress themselves upon Agnes’s mind. The lady in the chair closest to the door had risen to her feet, her face lighting up with gladness and . . . relief?

“Flavian, my dear,” she said. “At last.”

She set her cheek to his and lightly kissed the air beside his ear. His mother, no doubt. She seemed the right age, and he looked a bit like her.

“We were beginning to think you must have delayed your journey by a day or two, Flavian,” a younger lady said, also getting to her feet and hurrying forward to kiss his cheek, “without a word to anyone, which would have been
just
like you, but most provoking today of all days.”

There was a family resemblance with this lady too. She must be his sister.

One of the other two ladies, the one standing by the fire, took a few hurried steps toward him before stopping, her eyes shining with some barely repressed emotion, her hands clasped to her bosom. She was probably Agnes’s age, perhaps a little older, but she was quite breathtakingly lovely. She was on the small side of medium height, slender and shapely, with a delicately featured, beautiful face, wide blue eyes, and very blond hair.

“Flavian,” she murmured in a soft, sweet voice. “You are home.”

And he spoke for the first time.

“Velma.”

It all happened within moments. Agnes could not go long unnoticed, of course. Unfortunately she was not invisible. And everyone seemed to notice her at the same moment. Flavian’s mother and sister both turned their heads toward her and looked blank. The blond lady—
Velma
—stopped advancing. The gentleman on the other side of the fireplace raised a quizzing glass to his eye.

And Flavian turned and held out a hand for hers, looking noticeably paler than he had in the carriage a couple of minutes or so ago.

“I have the great pleasure of presenting Agnes, my wife,” he said, gazing unsmiling into her eyes before turning toward back to the others. “My mother, the D-Dowager Viscountess Ponsonby, and my sister, Marianne, Lady Shields.” He indicated the others in turn as he introduced them. “Oswald, Lord Shields, Lady Frome, Sir Winston Frome, and the Countess of Hazeltine, his d-daughter.”

Sir Winston had taken a step closer to his daughter. Lady Frome had got to her feet and also moved closer as if to protect the younger lady. From what? She was the Countess of Hazeltine.

There was a moment—an eternity—of silence.

Lady Shields reacted first.

“Your wife, Flavian?” she said, looking at Agnes with mingled shock and revulsion. “Your
wife
?”

His mother clutched one hand about the pearls at her throat. “What have you done, Flavian?” she asked faintly, her eyes fixed upon her son’s face. “You have married. And you have done it quite deliberately, have you not? Oh, I might have expected it. You have always been an unnatural
son. Always, even before your brother died. And even before you went off to war when it was irresponsible to do so and were wounded and took leave of your senses and turned violent. You ought never to have been let loose from that place we sent you. But this . . .
this
 . . . Oh, this is the
outside
of enough.”

“Mother,” Lord Shields said sharply, striding around the chair on which his wife had been sitting and catching his mother-in-law by the upper arm as she stumbled back to her own chair. He leaned over her, frowning.

Flavian’s fingers had closed so tightly about Agnes’s hand that he was actually grinding her fingers together and hurting her. But she was unsurprised to see when she glanced up at him that he was regarding the scene about him with lazy eyes and a mocking mouth.

And you have done it quite deliberately, have you not?

“This is a sudden thing, Ponsonby,” Sir Winston Frome said, his voice cold and haughty. He completely ignored Agnes. “You might have given more consideration to your mother’s sensibilities.”

“You are married, Flavian?” Lady Hazeltine said with a smile that looked ghastly in a face turned almost as pale as her hair. “But what a delightful surprise. My congratulations. And to you too, Lady Ponsonby. I hope you will be very happy.”

She came the rest of the way across the room, her eyes upon Agnes, her right hand extended. It was as cold as ice, Agnes discovered when it rested limply for a moment in her own.

“Thank you.” Agnes smiled back.

“I have just completed a year of mourning for my husband,” the countess said. “Mama and Papa insisted upon bringing me to town before the Season begins so that I may shop at some leisure for new clothes, though it has been very much against my inclinations to put off
my blacks. Lady Ponsonby came up early too—pardon me, the
Dowager
Lady Ponsonby—with Marianne and Lord Shields. We were invited to tea this afternoon. I came because your husband was expected, and it is years since we last saw each other. We grew up as neighbors, you know, and were always the dearest of friends.”

She was all pale, smiling dignity.

“I was s-sorry to hear of your b-bereavement, Lady Hazeltine,” Flavian said. “I o-ought to have written.”

“But you were never much of a letter writer, were you?” she said, flashing him a smile.

“Lady Ponsonby,” Lady Frome said, addressing Flavian’s mother, “we will take our leave and allow you some privacy in which to rejoice with your son over his delightful news and acquaint yourself with your new daughter-in-law. The tea and conversation have been most pleasant. Lord Ponsonby, it is to be hoped you will be happy.”

She smiled uncertainly at Agnes as she left. Her husband ignored her completely. Their daughter expressed the wish that she would make Agnes’s better acquaintance soon.

The door closed behind them, but their presence still seemed to loom large in the room. There was something, Agnes thought. There was most definitely
something
.
Flavian,
the countess had said with a look of bright welcome on her face.
Velma,
he had said in response.

Velma.

But they had grown up as neighbors. As friends. Childhood friends called one another by their first names.

There was no time to ponder the matter, however. Her mother-in-law and her sister- and brother-in-law were still in the room. And Flavian’s news had shocked them deeply.

You have always been an unnatural son. Always, even before your brother died. And even before you went to war when it was irresponsible to do so and were wounded and took leave of your senses and turned violent. You ought never to have been let loose from that place we sent you. But this . . .
this 
. . . Oh, this is the
outside
of enough.

That place
was presumably Penderris Hall in Cornwall, the Duke of Stanbrook’s home.

. . . You have done it quite deliberately, have you not?

His mother was recovering some of her poise. She was sitting very upright in her chair.

“You have married, then, Flavian,” his sister said. “And Mama was quite right. Of course it was deliberate and just the sort of thing you
would
do. Well, you are the one who must live with the consequences. Agnes, you will pardon us, if you please. We have had a severe shock and have quite forgotten our manners. But, really, where on earth did the two of you meet? And how long have you known each other? And who exactly
are
you? I am quite certain I have never set eyes upon you in my life before today.”

And that was hardly surprising, her expression seemed to say as her eyes swept over her new sister-in-law from head to toe.

“We met at Middlebury Park last autumn,” Agnes explained, “and again this past month. We were married by special license there four days ago.”

She was given no chance to answer her sister-in-law’s last question. Flavian had released Agnes’s hand in order to set his own firmly against the small of her back.

“C-come and sit down, Agnes,” he said. “Sit by the f-fire. Pull the b-bell rope, if you will, Oswald, and order up a f-fresh tray of tea in case Biggs has not thought of it himself. I thought you were all remaining at Candlebury for Easter. I s-sent a letter there.”

“In punishing us so cleverly, Flavian,” his mother said
as if he had not spoken, “you have, of course, punished yourself too. It is so typical of you. But, as Marianne observed, it is you who must suffer most as a result, just as you did when you refused to sell out after your brother’s death. How very different your life might have been if you had done your duty then.
Agnes.
Who are you? Who
were
you before my son elevated you to a viscountess’s title?”

It was all worse than Agnes’s worst nightmare. But she tried to make allowances for shock. She suspected this first meeting would not have been quite as bad if events had been allowed to unfold according to plan. If his family had remained in the country and had read his letter with a few days to spare before meeting her, and if
she
had had a chance to write before going, then they would have had at least a little time to prepare themselves and to hide the rawest of their horror behind good manners.

“I was born Agnes Debbins in Lancashire, ma’am,” she explained. “My father is a gentleman. I married William Keeping, a gentleman farmer and our neighbor, when I was eighteen, but I was widowed three years ago. I stayed for a short while in Shropshire with my brother, a clergyman, and then moved to the village of Inglebrook, close to Middlebury Park in Gloucestershire, to live with my unmarried sister.”

“Debbins? Keeping? I have never heard either name,” the dowager complained, looking at her daughter-in-law with obvious irritation.

“Neither my father nor my late husband moved in tonnish circles, ma’am,” Agnes said, “or had any interest in spending time in London or at any of the fashionable spas.”

Though Papa would have come to London the year Dora turned eighteen if his wife had not left him for a
lover. Even then, though, they would not have mingled with the very highest echelons of society.

“They were not prosperous gentlemen, I suppose.” The dowager’s eyes swept over Agnes as her daughter’s had done a few moments before.

“I have never coveted riches, ma’am,” Agnes said.

Her mother-in-law’s eyes snapped to hers. “And yet you have married my son. You surely knew that you were making a brilliant match.”

“Agnes has m-married a m-madman, Mama, as you can a-attest, and deserves some s-sort of m-medal of h-honor,” Flavian said in his bored voice, though he was having a harder time than usual getting his words out. “I am the one who has m-made a b-brilliant m-match. I have f-found someone w-willing to t-take me on. I am s-sorry you had no chance to r-read my letter before we w-walked in upon you, b-but you did not inform me you were c-coming to my London home—of which Agnes is now m-mistress. Ah, the tea t-tray at last.”

“We have been heaping blame upon Flavian’s head for springing such unexpected news upon us,” Lord Shields said, smiling at Agnes, “when it is we who are at fault for coming up to town so impulsively and even inviting visitors here the very day we were expecting my brother-in-law home. Agnes, you have had a sorry welcome to your husband’s family, and I apologize most profusely. I can only hope that Flavian would be having just such a welcome if you had sprung him upon your papa without any warning. Shall I set the tray before you?”

It had been set down before the dowager, and she had already reached out a hand to the teapot.

“Oh, no, please,” Agnes said, holding up a staying hand. “I will be very happy to be waited upon.”