They jumped apart a moment later—the same moment as the carriage moved ahead, dragging behind it what sounded like a veritable arsenal of old pots and pans. At least Flavian hoped they were old.
“Goodness gracious,” she said, looking considerably alarmed.
He grinned. “I have done it to three of my friends in the l-last year,” he said. “It is only fair that they do it to m-me.”
And he gazed into her eyes amidst all the din, and she gazed back.
“Lady Ponsonby,” he said.
It seemed unreal. He still could not quite believe that he had done it, that she had agreed to it, that they weremarried.
What was his mother going to say? And Marianne?
“Any regrets?” he asked as the carriage turned off the street and onto the drive through the woods.
“It is too late for regrets,” she said. “Gracious, that is an unholy din. We are going to be deaf.”
Yes, it was too late for regrets. Or for more considered deliberation and planning. Lord, he scarcely knew her or she him. Had he always been so impulsive? He could not remember.
He held one of her hands in both his own and looked her over with lazy eyes. She was neat and trim and pretty. She was dressed in what was obviously her best daytime outfit. It was decent, and the color suited her. It was also prim and unfashionable and clearly not new. She sat with a straight back and her knees pressed together and her feet side by side—a familiar pose. She looked quiet and demure.
If he had been asked a month ago to describe the sort of lady who least appealed to him, he might have described Agnes Keeping with uncanny accuracy, not even remembering that he had once met and danced with just such a woman. Yet even back then, five or six months ago, he had gone back for a second dance—a waltz, no less—when there had been no need. And he had found her enchanting.
Agnes Keeping—no, AgnesArnott—and enchantment ought to seem poles apart. Why were they not?
Whatwasit about her?
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her gloved fingers.
His wife.
***
Agnes might have been feeling guilty for all the trouble she was causing if Sophia had not been looking so very pleased with herself and if Lord Darleigh had not been beaming with pleasure too.
Though Sophia had pointed out last evening that luncheon would have to have been served for all their guests, even if no one had thought of getting married on the final day of their visit, and that a few more guests at table really made very little difference, it was obvious that the meal that awaited them on their return from church was very far from being an ordinary luncheon.
It was a wedding breakfast in a dining room festooned with flowers and ribbons and candles. There was even a cake—iced. How the cook could possibly have baked and decorated it along with everything else since just last night, Agnes could not imagine. Certainly no one could have slept. She would have asked Sophia whether she might go down to the kitchen to compliment the cook in person, but it struck her that doing so might merely add chaos to what must be a dizzyingly busy place indeed. She sent her compliments with Sophia instead.
There was a sumptuous meal, and there were speeches and toasts with a great deal of applause and laughter.
There was a ceremonial cake cutting.
They all lingered at the table while conversation became general, and Agnes remembered that this was the last day of the gathering for the Survivors’ Club, that they would have been clinging to one another’s company and turning a bit sentimental even without the added distraction of the wedding of one of their number. Not that they were in any way exclusive in their conversation, those seven. They were far too well-bred for that. The Harrisons were drawn into the conversation, as were Reverend and Mrs. Jones. Dora was quiet and smiling, but she was being made much of by Lord Trentham on her right.
And then, when it was already late afternoon, the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave, and the Harrisons followed suit and offered Dora a ride home.
Suddenly, it seemed, they were all in the great hall. Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Jones were hugging Agnes and telling her, with a laugh, that she was a mite beyond their touch now that she wasViscountessPonsonby.
Dora, having offered Flavian her hand, was drawn into a hug instead. And then she was standing in front of Agnes and setting both hands on her elbows.
“Be happy,” she said softly, so that no one else would hear. “Remember, it is all I ask. It is all I have ever wanted for you.” And she kissed Agnes on the cheek before stepping back, the smile she had worn all day firmly in place. “I will see you in the morning as you are leaving,” she said.
“Yes.” Agnes could not trust her voice to say more. But she grabbed Dora and hugged her tightly. It was strange that she had not felt this way when she married William. Was it because she had not expected happiness then? Did that mean she expected it now? And what did shemean—she had not expected happiness with William? She had certainly expected contentment, and she had found it. And that was better than happiness, was it not? It was more lasting, a surer foundation upon which to base one’s life. “You must come and stay with us. Youwillcome?”
“Even if I am not invited,” Dora promised, pulling back. “You will wake up one morning to find me camped on your doorstep, and you will take me in out of pity. And then I will refuse to go away again.”
She was laughing.
