Only Beloved (3 page)

“But will you not have a seat, Your Grace?” She indicated the chair across the hearth from her own. “Did you walk from Middlebury? It is a lovely day for air and exercise, is it not?”

He had arrived from London
an hour ago
? He had taken tea with Viscount and Lady Darleigh and had stepped out immediately after to come . . .
here
? Perhaps he brought a message from Agnes?

“I will not sit,” he said. “This is not really a social call.”

“Agnes—?” Her hand crept to her throat. His stiff, formal manner was suddenly explained. There was something wrong with Agnes. She had miscarried.

“Your sister appeared to be glowing with good health when I saw her a few days ago,” he said. “I am sorry if my sudden appearance has alarmed you. I have no dire news of any kind. Indeed, I came to ask a question.”

Dora clasped both hands at her waist and waited for him to continue. A day or two after the dinner at Middlebury last year he had come to the cottage with a few of the others to thank her for playing and to express the
hope that she would do so again before their visit came to an end. It had not happened. Was he going to ask now? For this evening, perhaps?

But that was not what happened.

“I wondered, Miss Debbins,” he said, “if you might do me the great honor of marrying me.”

Sometimes words were spoken and one heard them quite clearly, but as a series of separate, unconnected sounds rather than as phrases and sentences that conveyed meaning. One needed a little time in order to put the sounds together and understand what was being communicated.

Dora heard his words, but for a few moments she did not comprehend their meaning. She merely stared and gripped her hands and thought, with a strange, foolish sort of disappointment, that he did not after all want her to play the harp or the pianoforte this evening.

Only to marry her.

What?

He looked suddenly apologetic, and thereby resembled more the man she remembered from last year. “I have not made a marriage proposal since I was seventeen,” he said, “more than thirty years ago. But even with that fact as an excuse, I realize that this was a very lame effort. I have had ample time since leaving London to compose a pretty speech but have failed to do so. I have not even brought flowers or gone down upon bended knee. What a sad figure of a suitor you will think me, Miss Debbins.”

“You want me to marry you?” She indicated herself
with a hand over her heart, as though the room was full of single ladies and she was unsure that he meant her rather than any of the others.

He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed aloud. “You know about the wedding in London less than a week ago, of course,” he said. “You doubtless heard about the Survivors' Club when we were all staying here at Middlebury Park last year. You would know about us from Flavian even if from no one else. We are very close friends. During the past two years all six of the others have married. After Imogen's wedding was over last week and the last of my guests left my London home a few days ago, it occurred to me that I had been left behind. It occurred to me that . . . I was perhaps just a touch lonely.”

Dora felt half robbed of breath. One did not expect a nobleman with his . . .
presence
either to experience such a lack in his life or to admit to it if he did. It was the last thing she would have expected him to say.

“And it struck me,” he continued when she did not fill the short silence that succeeded his words, “that I really do not want to be lonely. Yet I cannot expect my friends, no matter how dear they are, to fill the void or to satisfy the hunger that is at the very core of my being. I would not even wish them to try. I could, however, hope for such a thing, even perhaps expect it, from a wife.”

“But—” She pressed her hand harder to her bosom. “But why
me
?”

“I thought that perhaps you are a little lonely too, Miss Debbins,” he said, half smiling.

She wished suddenly that she were sitting. Was this the impression she gave the world—that she was a lonely, pathetic spinster, still holding out the faint hope that some gentleman would be desperate enough to take her?
Desperate,
however, was not a word that could possibly describe the Duke of Stanbrook. He must be some years older than she, but he was still eminently eligible in every imaginable way. He could have almost any single woman—or girl—he chose. His words, though, had wounded her, humiliated her.

“I live a
solitary
life, Your Grace,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “By choice. Solitude and loneliness are not necessarily interchangeable words.”

“I have offended you, Miss Debbins,” he said. “I do apologize. I am being unusually gauche. May I accept your offer of a seat after all? I need to explain myself far more lucidly. I did
not,
I assure you, search my mind for the loneliest lady of my acquaintance, pick on you, and dash off to propose marriage to you. Forgive me if I have given that impression.”

“It would be too absurd to believe that you need choose thus anyway,” she said, indicating the chair opposite hers again and sinking gratefully back into her own. She was not sure how much longer her knees would have held her upright.

“It occurred to me after I had given the matter some thought,” he said as he seated himself, “that what I most need and want is a companion and friend, someone with whom I can be comfortable, someone who would be content to be always at my side. Someone . . . all my own.
And someone to share my bed. Forgive me—but it ought to be mentioned. I wished—wish—for more than a platonic relationship.”

Dora was looking at her hands. Her cheeks were hot again—well, of course they were. But she lifted her eyes to his now, and the reality of what was happening rushed at her. He was
the Duke of Stanbrook
. She had been flattered, made breathless, been ridiculously pleased by his courteous attentions last year. One afternoon he and Flavian had escorted Agnes and her all the way home from Middlebury, and he had drawn her arm through his and conversed amicably with her and set her quite at her ease while they outpaced the other two. She had relished every moment of that walk and had relived it over and over again in the days following, and, indeed, ever since. Now he was
here
in her sitting room. He had come to propose marriage to her.

“But why me?” she asked again. Her voice sounded shockingly normal.

“When I thought all these things,” he said, “they came with the image of you. I cannot explain why. I do not believe I know why. But it was of you I thought. Only you. If you refuse me, I believe I will remain as I am.”

He was looking directly into her face, and now she saw not just an austere aristocrat. She saw a man. It was a stupid thought, one she would not have been able to explain if she had been called upon to do so. She felt breathless again and a bit shivery and was glad she was sitting down.

And someone to share my bed.

“I am thirty-nine years old, Your Grace,” she told him.

“Ah,” he said and half smiled again. “I have the effrontery, then, to be asking you to marry an older man. I am nine years your senior.”

“I would be unable to bear you children,” she said. “At least—” She had not gone through the change of life yet, but it must surely happen soon.

“I have a nephew,” he said, “a worthy young man of whom I am dearly fond. He is married and already father to a daughter. Sons will no doubt follow. I am not interested in having children in my nursery again, Miss Debbins.”

She remembered that he had had a son who had been killed in Portugal or Spain during the wars. The duke must have been very young when that son was born. Then she recalled what he had said earlier about not having made a marriage proposal since he was seventeen.

“It is a companion I want,” he repeated. “A friend. A
woman
friend. A wife, in fact. I do not have grand romance or romantic passion to offer, I am afraid. I am past the age of such flights of fancy. But though I do not know you well or you me, I believe we would deal well together. I admire your talent as a musician and the beauty of soul it suggests. I admire your modesty and dignity, your devotion to your sister. I like your appearance. I like the idea of looking at you every day for the rest of my life.”

Dora gazed at him, startled. She had been pretty once upon a time, but youth and she had parted company long ago. The best she saw in her glass now was neatness and . . . ordinariness. She saw a staid spinster in her middle years. He, on the other hand, was . . . well, even with his forty-eight years and his silvering hair, he was gorgeous.

She bit her lower lip and gazed back at him. How could they possibly be
friends
?

“I would not have any idea how to be a duchess,” she said.

She watched his eyes smile, and she smiled ruefully back at him and then actually laughed. So, incredibly, did he. And she was glad yet again that she was sitting. Was there a word more powerful than
gorgeous
?

“I grant,” he said, “that if you were my wife you would also be my duchess. But—I hesitate to disappoint you—it does not mean wearing a tiara and an ermine-trimmed robe every day, you know. Or even every year. And it does not involve rubbing shoulders with the king and his court every week. On the other hand, there may be some amusement to be derived from being addressed as ‘Your Grace' instead of just plain Miss Debbins.”

“I am rather fond of Miss Debbins,” she said. “She has been with me for almost forty years.”

His smile faded and he looked austere again.

“Are you happy
,
Miss Debbins?” he asked. “I recognize that you may well be. You have a cozy home here and productive, independent employment doing something you love. You are much appreciated both at Middlebury and, I believe, in the village for your talent and for your good nature.” He paused and met her gaze again. “Or is there a chance that you too would like a friend and companion all your own, that you too would like to belong exclusively to one other person and have him belong to you? Is there a chance that you would be willing to leave your life here and come to Cornwall and Penderris with me? Not just as my friend, but as
my life's partner?” He paused once more for a moment. “
Will
you marry me?”

His eyes held hers. And all her defenses fell away, as did all the assurances she had given herself over the years that she was happy with the course her life had taken since she was seventeen, that she was contented at the very least, that she was not lonely. No, never that.

She did have a cozy home, a busy, productive life, neighbors and friends, an independent, adequate income, family members not too far away. But she had never had anyone of her very own that she would not have to relinquish at some time in the future. She had had her sister until Agnes married William Keeping, and she had had her again for a year before she married Flavian. But . . . there had been no one else and no one permanent to fill the void. No one who had ever vowed to cleave unto her alone until death did them part.

She had never allowed herself to dwell upon how different her life might have been if her mother had not run away from home so abruptly and unexpectedly when Dora was seventeen and Agnes was five. Her life had been as it had been, and she had made free choices every step of the way. But was it possible that now, after all . . . ?

She was thirty-nine years old.

But she was not
dead
.

She would not marry, though, just out of desperation. A poor marriage could—and would—be far worse than what she already had. But a marriage to the Duke of Stanbrook would not be from desperation, she knew without having to ponder the matter. She had dreamed of him
for a whole year—fourteen months to be precise. Oh, not in
that
way, she would have protested even just an hour ago. But her defenses had come tumbling down, and now she could admit that, yes, she had dreamed of him in
that
way. Of course she had. She had walked beside him all the way from Middlebury on that most vividly wonderful of all the afternoons of her life, her hand through his arm as they talked easily to each other. He had smiled at her and she had smelled his cologne and sensed his masculinity. She had dared to dream of love and romance that day and ever since.

But only to
dream
.

Sometimes—oh, just sometimes—dreams could come true. Not the love and romance part, of course, but he had companionship and friendship to offer. And marriage.
Not
a platonic marriage.

She could know what it was like . . .

With him? Oh, goodness, with him. She could know . . .

And someone to share my bed.

She became aware that a longish silence had succeeded his proposal. Her eyes were still locked upon his.

“Thank you,” she said. “Yes. I will.”

G
eorge had been taken rather by surprise when he first stepped into the room and set eyes upon Miss Debbins once more. He had thought he remembered her clearly from last year, but she was a bit taller than he recalled her being, though she was not above average height. And he had thought her a little plumper, a little plainer, a little older. It was strange in light of his purpose in coming here that she was actually more attractive than he recalled her being. One might have expected it to be other way around.

She was a good-looking woman for her age despite the primness of the clothes she wore and the simple, almost severe style of her hair. She must have been very pretty as a girl. Her hair was still dark, with no discernible signs of gray, and she had a flawless complexion and fine, intelligent eyes. She also had an air of quiet dignity that she maintained despite the shock of his unexpected appearance and his sudden, abrupt question to her. Overall, she looked like a woman who had come to terms with her life and accepted it for what it was.

It was that air about her, he recalled, that had drawn his admiration last year. It had not been just her musical talent or her sensible conversation or her pleasant looks. He had told her a few moments ago that he did not know why his sudden idea of marrying and the image of her had come to him simultaneously, the one inextricably bound up with the other, neither one possible without the other. But he
did
know why. It was her air of serene dignity, which must not have come easily to her. There were doubtless some women who remained single purely from choice, but he did not believe Miss Debbins was of their number. Spinsterhood had been forced upon her by circumstances—he knew some of them from her sister. She had, however, made a rich and meaningful life for herself despite any disappointment she may have suffered.

Yes, he admired her.

Thank you. Yes. I will,
she had said.

He got to his feet and reached out a hand for hers. She stood too, and he raised her hand to his lips. It was a soft, well-cared-for hand with long fingers and short nails. That at least he remembered accurately from last year. It was a musician's hand. It created music that could bring him to the verge of tears.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will do my utmost to see that you never regret your decision. It is unfortunate that in almost any marriage it is the woman who must relinquish her home and friends and neighbors and all that is familiar and dear to her. Will it be very difficult for you to give up all this?”

Most people would think it an absurd question to ask when he had Penderris Hall in Cornwall to offer her and
Stanbrook House in London and wealth untold and the glamorous life of a duchess, not to mention marriage itself to replace her spinsterhood. But she did not rush her answer.

“Yes, it will,” she said, her hand still in his. “I made a life for myself here nine years ago, and it has been good to me. Not many women have the privilege of knowing independence. The people here have been welcoming and amiable. When I leave, those of my pupils with the will to learn, a few of them with real talent, will be left without a teacher, at least for a while. I will regret doing that to them.”

“Vincent?” he asked her, smiling. “Does he have talent?”

After he had been blinded and had clawed his way out of the fright and anger and despair of knowing that his sight would never return, young Vincent had challenged himself in a number of ways rather than sink into the despair of living half a life. One thing he had done was learn to play not only the pianoforte but the violin and, more recently, the harp. That last he had undertaken only because one of his sisters had suggested selling the harp that was already in the house when he inherited it because “obviously” he would never have any use for it. Vincent's fellow Survivors, who were never sentimental with one another, had teased him mercilessly about his proficiency on the violin, but he had persevered, and he was constantly improving. They did not tease him about the harp, which had caused him endless frustration and distress. Now that he was finally conquering its mysteries, however, he might expect the insults to start flying.

Again Miss Debbins did not rush into an answer, though she knew Vincent to be one of the duke's closest friends.

“Viscount Darleigh has
determination,
” she said. “He works hard to be proficient and will never make an excuse of the fact that he cannot see the instrument he plays or the music he must learn by ear. He does extremely well and will get better. I am very proud of him.”

“But there is no talent there?” Poor Vince. He did indeed have the determination not to see himself as handicapped.

“Talent is rare in any field,” she said. “
Real
talent, I mean. But if we all avoided doing anything for which we are not exceptionally gifted, we would do almost nothing at all and would never discover what we can become. Instead we would waste much of the span of life allotted us in keeping to safe, confining activities. Lord Darleigh has a talent for perseverance, for stretching himself to the limits of his endurance despite what must be one of the most difficult of handicaps—or perhaps because of it. Not many people given his circumstances would achieve what he has. He has learned to give light to the darkness in which he must live out his life, and in so doing he has shed light upon those of us who think we can see.”

Ah, and here was something else that reminded him why he felt such admiration and liking for her—this calm and thoughtful gravity with which she spoke upon topics most people would dismiss lightly. Many people would speak condescendingly of what Vincent had achieved despite the fact that he could not see. Not her. And yet
she spoke honestly too. Vincent did indeed lack outstanding musical talent, even allowing for his blindness, but it did not matter. As she had just observed, he had the talent in superabundance for pushing the boundaries of his life beyond the limit of what might be expected of him.

“I am sorry that in marrying you I will be taking you away from this life, Miss Debbins,” he said. “I hope Penderris and marriage to me will prove to be compensation enough.”

She rested her eyes thoughtfully upon him. “When I came here nine years ago from my father's home in Lancashire,” she said, “I knew no one. Everything was strange and a little depressing—living in a cottage that seemed incredibly small compared to what I was accustomed to, being alone, working for my living. But the adjustment to a new life was made, and I have been happy here. Now I have freely agreed to another complete change. You have not coerced me in any way. I will make the necessary adjustments. If you are quite sure, that is, now that you have seen me and spoken to me again.”

He was still holding her hand, he realized. He squeezed it and raised it to his lips once more.

“I am,” he said. “Quite sure.”

He wondered what she would say or do if he dipped his head and kissed her lips. She could hardly object—she was now his affianced bride. The shock of that thought caused him to pause, and he wondered for a moment if he really
was
sure. It was suddenly difficult to picture himself kissing her, making love to her, becoming as familiar with her body as he was with his own. But he did know that he would have been horribly disappointed
if she had said no. For it really was not just marriage itself that had come to his mind a few nights ago in London. It was Miss Dora Debbins and the strange, unexpected yearning to be married to her.

“When?” she asked him. “And where?” She bit her lower lip as though she feared she was displaying an inappropriate overeagerness.

He patted her hand and released it, and she sat down again. Rather than loom over her, he resumed his seat too. Idiot that he was, he had not thought much beyond the proposal itself. Or, at least, he had not thought of the actual process of wedding her. His mind had been focused more upon the imagined contentment of the years ahead. Yet he had just been caught up in all the frantic busyness of a wedding and knew it did not just happen without planning.

“Ought I to go to Lancashire,” he asked her, “to speak to your father?” It had not occurred to him until now that perhaps he ought.

“I am thirty-nine,” she reminded him. “My father lives his own life with the lady he married before I moved here. There is no estrangement between us, but he has little or nothing to do with my life and certainly no say in how I live it.”

George wondered about that family situation. He knew some of the facts but not the full reason why she had left home and moved so far away. It was an unusual thing for an unmarried lady to do when there were male relatives to support her.

“We have none but our own wishes to consult, then,
it would seem,” he said. “Shall we dispense with a lengthy betrothal? Will you marry me soon?”

“Soon?” She looked across at him with raised eyebrows. And then she lifted both hands and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, what will everyone think? Agnes? The viscount and viscountess? Your other friends? The people in the village here? I am a
music
teacher. I am almost forty. Will I appear very . . . presumptuous?”

“I believe,” he said, “indeed I know that my friends will be more than delighted to see me married. I am equally sure they will approve my choice and applaud your willingness to have me. Your sister will surely be happy for you. I am not a bad catch, after all, am I, even if I am nine years older than you? Julian and Philippa—my only nephew and his wife—will also be pleased. I am certain of it. Your father will surely be happy too, will he not? And I believe you have a brother?”

Her hands fell to her lap. “This is all so very sudden,” she said. “Yes, Oliver is a clergyman in Shropshire.” She worried her lower lip again. “We will marry soon, then?”

“In a month's time if we wait for banns to be read,” he said, “or sooner if you would prefer to marry by special license. As to the where—the choices would seem to be here or in Lancashire or at Penderris or in London. Do you have a preference?”

Her sister and Flavian had married here at the village church last year by special license. The wedding breakfast had been held at Middlebury Park, and Sophia had insisted that the newly married couple spend their
wedding night in the state apartments in the east wing there. It had all been lovely, perfect . . . but did she want to do exactly what her sister had done?

“London?” she said. “I have never been there. I was to go for a come-out Season when I was eighteen, but . . . Well, it never did happen.”

He thought he knew the reason. Scandal had almost erupted last year after her sister went to London with Flavian following their wedding. A former fiancée of Flavian's, who had abandoned him when he was badly injured in order to marry his best friend, was now a widow and had hoped to marry Flavian after all. When she discovered that she had missed her chance, she had dug into Agnes's past and found dirt there. Agnes's mother—
and Miss Debbins's
—was still living, but her father had divorced her years ago upon the grounds of adultery. It was a spectacular scandal at the time, and even last year it had threatened malicious gossip and social ostracism for Agnes, the divorced woman's daughter. The
ton
would have eaten her alive if Flavian had not stepped in boldly and skillfully to handle the situation and avert disaster. That initial scandal would have been happening when Agnes was a child and Miss Debbins a young lady about to make her debut in society. It would have deprived her of all that excitement and, more important, of the respectable marriage she could have expected to result from a London Season, the annual grand marriage mart. She had stayed home instead to raise her sister.

Miss Debbins undoubtedly had a few ghosts to put
to rest as far as London and the beau monde were concerned. Perhaps now was the time.

“May I suggest London for our wedding, then?” he said. “As soon as the banns have been read? Before the end of the Season? With almost all the
ton
in attendance? If we are going to marry, we may as well do it in style. Would you not agree?”

“Would I?” She looked unconvinced.

“And, on the more practical side,” he continued, “if we want friends and acquaintances around us, and I would suggest that we do
,
then London poses the least inconvenience to the largest number of people. I believe Ben and Samantha, Hugo and Gwen, Flavian and Agnes, and Ralph and Chloe are still there after Imogen's wedding. Percy and Imogen should be back from Paris. Vincent and Sophia will be happy to travel back to town, I believe, if the alternative is to miss our wedding. Perhaps your father and your brother can be persuaded to make the journey. I would guess Agnes and Flavian would be delighted to house them.”

“London.” She was looking a bit dazed.

“At St. George's on Hanover Square,” he said, “where most society weddings are solemnized during the Season.”

Her cheeks flushed as she gazed across at him, and her eyes were bright. It was only as she lowered her head that he realized the brightness was caused by tears.

“I am to be married after all, then?” Her voice was almost a whisper. He had the feeling she was not really talking to him.

“In London at St. George's one month from now,” he told her, “with the very crème-de-la-crème of society filling the pews. And then a honeymoon if you wish in Paris or Rome or both. Or home to Cornwall and Penderris, if you would prefer. We may do whatever we wish—whatever
you
wish.”

“I am to have a wedding with all the world present.” She still sounded a bit dazed. “Oh, my. What will Agnes say?”

He hesitated. “Miss Debbins,” he asked softly, “would you like to invite your mother?”

Her head snapped back, her eyes widened, her mouth opened as though she was about to say something—and then it closed again as did her eyes.