Only Enchanting (34 page)

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.