Only Enchanting (4 page)

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.”