Only Beloved (6 page)

Dora was staggered by the number of new clothes of every description and for every imaginable occasion she needed—dresses for walking, for riding in the carriage, for morning wear, for afternoon tea, for riding, gowns for dinner, for formal evening wear, for balls. And each garment needed its own exclusive accessories—hats, gloves, reticules, shoes, slippers, fans, parasols, shawls, ribbons and bows, shifts and petticoats . . . the list went on.

There was an undeniable pleasure about seeing herself outfitted in such splendor, of course, but the expense! The modest savings she had acquired through hard work and careful management during the past nine years dwindled at an alarming rate. But she would not panic. If absolutely necessary, she would accept a loan from Flavian, though she had flatly refused a money gift from him when he had tried to press it upon her with the argument that she surely must have a birthday
some
time. Her funds would be replenished as soon as her cottage sold and she would be able to repay him. And after her marriage she would not need money of her own, though her carefully cultivated independence of spirit did not like the prospect of being wholly dependent upon a man, wealthy though he undoubtedly was. She would have to accustom herself to that aspect of marriage.

And then, just before Dora felt that she must indeed
apply to her brother-in-law for a loan, a letter of congratulation from her father's wife brought with it a bank draft from her father for a considerable sum to help her with the wedding expenses. From him she would accept a gift, she decided, with deep gratitude.

All the members of the Survivors' Club who were still in town following Lady Barclay's wedding called at Arnott House within a day or two of Dora's arrival to express unqualified delight at the news of her betrothal. She was begged to call them all by their first names since she was soon to be one of their number. Soon she was on terms of familiarity with all her betrothed's closest friends—but not with him. It was an amusing fact, but really she could not quite imagine herself ever calling him George. It would seem far too presumptuous.

Each of the ladies of the group—Samantha, Lady Harper; Chloe, Duchess of Worthingham, whom Dora met now for the first time; and Gwen, Lady Trentham—accompanied Dora and Agnes on at least one of their shopping excursions, and each was free with advice and opinions on her proposed purchases. Dora found herself enjoying their company immensely and realizing that in all the years since her youth she had never really had any close friends.

Her days were not taken up entirely with shopping, however. Agnes and Flavian took her to the Tower of London and to some art galleries. Ben and Samantha took her to Kew Gardens, which quite took her breath away, and then to Gunter's for ices, having noted her remark that she had never tasted that particular delicacy. Hugo and Gwen took her to see St. Paul's Cathedral and
Westminster Abbey, to climb to the Whispering Gallery in the former and to read all the inscriptions in Poets' Corner in the latter. Ralph and Chloe invited her with the duke and Agnes and Flavian to join them in their private box at the theater one evening, and Dora sat enthralled by a witty comedy of Oliver Goldsmith's.

The Duke of Stanbrook did not neglect her. On the day the announcement of their betrothal appeared in the morning papers he took her driving in Hyde Park at what Dora soon understood to be the fashionable hour of the afternoon. Large numbers of the beau monde moved about one small oval area of the park, less intent upon taking the air and exercise, it seemed, than upon greeting one another and exchanging news and gossip. It was instantly apparent that the two of them were the day's focus of attention. Dora was introduced to so many people that she felt rather as though her head must be spinning upon her shoulders by the time the duke's carriage left the park.

“I doubt I will remember a single face or name,” she lamented. “And if I do, I will never recall which name goes with which face.”

“It is understandable that you are feeling quite overwhelmed,” he said, turning his head to look kindly upon her. “But one thing you will soon realize is that you will see the same people almost wherever you go. Soon you will begin to distinguish one person from another and even remember a few names. There is no need to be flustered until that happens. A smile and a regal nod will suffice for most people. And even if I am not always at your side, Agnes or Flavian will be or another of our friends.”

“A regal nod,” she said. “Does it differ from all other kinds of nods? I shall have to practice. I may have to indulge in the purchase of a bejeweled lorgnette.” His eyes were crinkled at the corners, she could see, though he did not laugh aloud. “I have enjoyed the afternoon.”

“Have you?” He turned his horses onto the busy street outside the park with consummate skill. “I have been afraid that you would regret not opting for a quieter wedding at Inglebrook.”

“Oh, no,” she said quite firmly. Despite moments of bewilderment, she had actually enjoyed every moment since arriving in London.

Her betrothed also organized a small party for a visit to Vauxhall Gardens one evening. It was somewhere Dora had long dreamed of going, and she was not disappointed. They approached the pleasure gardens by boat across the River Thames rather than by carriage over the new bridge, and the sight of the lights shivering across the water was quite enchanting. They listened to an orchestral recital, strolled along the wide avenues, illumined by colored lanterns strung from the trees that stretched on either side. They dined upon—among other delicacies—the wafer-thin slices of ham and succulent strawberries for which the Gardens were famous, and they watched a display of fireworks at midnight. Dora arrived home with the feeling that she had surely been robbed of breath all night. What a glorious wonderland Vauxhall was.

She felt as though she had grown backward a few years during the weeks since she had left Inglebrook. Even her looking glass lied to her and showed her a
woman with the glow of youth apparently restored. She peered closely but . . . still not a single gray hair.

Sometimes she thought back to her days at Inglebrook and marveled that life could change so suddenly and so completely. Just one month ago—less—she had had no inkling that all this was in her future. Not that she wanted to stay in London indefinitely. She was longing to be married and to go to Penderris Hall, her new home. They were going to be happy, she and the duke, she dared to hope. There was going to be affection as well as friendship in their marriage. There surely already was.

The betrothal party the Duke of Stanbrook had promised while they were still in Gloucestershire was planned for two evenings before the wedding, and it was to be Dora's formal debut into the world of the
ton
. She had been seen at a number of public places since arriving in London but had chosen not to attend any private party or ball until she was properly outfitted and felt up to the ordeal. It seemed appropriate that she meet the beau monde at Stanbrook House just before she wed the duke. A number of people had been invited, he had informed her, though it was not to be a ball. He had explained by way of apology that there had not been sufficient time to organize such a grand event to his satisfaction.

By the day of the party Dora was very glad that it was not a grand ball she was facing, for panic was setting in. She had been introduced to a number of members of the
ton
in various places over the past three weeks, it was true, but she had not yet been called upon to mingle with them in large numbers, to make social
conversation with them for a number of hours, to be on display as she surely would be as the Duke of Stanbrook's betrothed.

Panic was replaced by practicality and common sense, however, before she left for Stanbrook House. If her life had taken the course she had expected as a girl, by now she would be so accustomed to
ton
entertainments that she would approach a party like this evening's without a qualm of nervousness. She was, after all, the daughter of a baronet, and this life into which she was at last being drawn was her birthright. She had been brought up to expect it. Besides, she was perfectly familiar with a number of tonight's guests—her father and his wife; her brother, Oliver, and his wife, Louisa, who had arrived for the wedding and were staying at Arnott House; Aunt Millicent and Uncle Harold Shaw from Yorkshire; all six of the friends she had invited from Inglebrook and the one couple from Lancashire; and of course, the members of the Survivors' Club and their spouses.

The Earl and Countess of Hardford—Imogen, the former Lady Barclay—would be there too, having just returned from abroad. There had been some anxiety that they would not return soon enough for the duke's wedding, but they had arrived just in time. On the morning of the betrothal party they called first at Stanbrook House and then at Arnott House.

“I cannot tell you how very happy I am that George has decided to marry again,” the countess said, squeezing both of Dora's hands in her own. “And I really cannot imagine a more suitable bride for him than you, Miss
Debbins.” She turned to her husband. “Percy, when you hear Miss Debbins play the harp or the pianoforte, you will think yourself transported to heaven, I promise you.”

Dora regarded the countess in some wonder. Could this warm, vibrant woman possibly be the same lady of rather marble demeanor she remembered from Middlebury Park last year? Her extremely handsome husband smiled warmly at her before shaking Dora's hand.

The evening of the party drew inevitably closer, and Dora found herself looking forward to it with real pleasure and distinct flutters of apprehension.

T
he betrothal party might not be a grand ball, Dora thought later in the evening, but when the duke had spoken of inviting a number of guests, he had actually meant a
large
number. She estimated that there were at least two hundred people, and His Grace presented her to all of them within the first half hour as they stood together in the receiving line. She recognized a few from Hyde Park and the theater and Vauxhall Gardens, but most were strangers. Would she ever be able to remember them all as well as their names?

She was wearing a gown of gold lace over blond satin that Gwen and Agnes had persuaded her into choosing.

“You are about to become a duchess
,
Dora,” Gwen had reminded her, a twinkle in her eye. “Nothing is too grand for such an exalted personage. Besides, the colors and design suit you to perfection.”

She had looked sincere while saying it. But of course she was sincere. They were friends, and she had come on the shopping trip specifically to offer her advice and opinion.

Agnes had insisted upon sending her own maid to Dora's room to style her hair in smooth coils high at the back of her head. They lent height and perhaps a little elegance to her appearance.

“I am the most fortunate of men, Miss Debbins,” the duke had said upon her arrival at Stanbrook House, taking her gloved hand in his and raising it to his lips. “You are looking quite beautiful.”

The compliment, though rather extravagant, had warmed Dora down to her toes. And he, incidentally, looked even more gorgeous than usual in his crisp black and white evening clothes, though she did not tell him so.

The rooms that were being used for the party were on the first floor and were really quite splendid, with a great deal of gilding on the friezes and hanging chandeliers and scenes from mythology painted on the coved ceilings and portraits and landscapes in ornate frames on the walls and Persian carpets underfoot. It was dizzying to realize that in a few days' time this would be her home—or one of her homes anyway.

All the rooms were filled with guests. There was conversation in the drawing room, music and conversation in the room adjoining it, cards in two smaller salons, refreshments in another. Dora did not spend a great deal of time with her betrothed after that first half hour. He was very properly mingling with all his guests and so was Dora, although she was not having to make any effort to do so. People came to her. They wanted to converse with her. Plain Miss Dora Debbins, music teacher in the small village of Inglebrook, had been
transformed, it seemed, by the fact that the Duke of Stanbrook wished to marry her. It might have been a mildly disturbing realization if she had tried to hide in his shadow. She did not, however. She was a lady, daughter of a baronet. She belonged with these people. She smiled and conversed, and if anyone tried to monopolize her attention for too long, she smiled her excuses and moved on.

It was almost supper time when the Duke of Stanbrook approached her as she was stepping into the music room, having just moved away from a pleasant conversation with two elderly couples.

“I hired the services of Mr. Pierce for the evening,” he explained, nodding in the direction of the pianist. “He makes a living from such events, I understand.”

“He plays well,” Dora said. She had noticed all evening the soft, soothing music, chosen with care to provide background melody without being in any way intrusive or making it difficult for people to converse. She felt just a little sorry for Mr. Pierce, however, for no one appeared to be taking any notice of him. She wondered if he had an artistic soul or if he was content just to make a living thus. Perhaps it was preferable to many other occupations. At least he probably did not have a Miranda Corley to teach. “I shall go and have a word with him.”

“I will come with you.” He smiled at her. “But before we do—” He looked consideringly at her. “I did think at first to ask you to favor my guests with a recital for a small portion of the evening. But I did not believe you
would want the extra pressure on an evening that would surely already be making heavy demands upon you.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. She might have played for all these people?

“I ought to have consulted you,” he said. “It should have been your decision.”

“Oh . . . no, that is quite all right,” she said. But she might have played, as she did at Middlebury Park last year, but on a far grander scale?

He moved his head a little closer to hers. “No, it is not all right,” he said. “Forgive me, please. I have much to learn. I have been accustomed to command for so long that I do not even realize I am doing it. I made a decision for you on this occasion and hired someone with only a fraction of your talent.”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Mr. Pierce is doing a job tonight and doing it well. How can he display talent in such circumstances? He is not here to draw attention to himself or even to the music.”

“You are quite right,” he said. “I am constantly reminded of why I like you so much. Will you play for our guests? Directly after supper, perhaps? I shall give Pierce a break and send him for supper belowstairs. Will you? Please?”

“I would be consumed by terror,” she said. But oh, the yearning to say yes.

“Is that a no?” he asked. “But your eyes say yes. My motives are entirely selfish. I wish to share the talents of my affianced bride with those members of the
ton
gathered here and bask in your reflected glory. However, I will not press you. Tonight is probably a bit
intimidating for you even as it is, though you show no outer sign of it.”

“Just for a very short while?” she asked, and then wished she could recall the words.

“For as long or as short a time as you wish,” he said.

She drew breath, let it out, and bit her lower lip.

“I do apologize—” he said.

“Very well,” she said simultaneously.

He frowned in concern. Dora smiled. And he smiled too.

“You are sure?” he asked her.

“Absolutely not,” she told him. “But I will do it.”

“Thank you,” he said. He offered his arm. “Shall we go and have a word with Pierce?”

Although it was not a ball and there would not normally have been a formal supper, there was to be one on this occasion, the duke had explained a day or two ago, because it was their betrothal party. Dora was seated beside him in the ballroom, which had been set up with enough tables to accommodate everyone. Candlelight from the chandeliers overhead glittered off fine china and crystal and jewels. There was a sumptuous feast. Dora could enjoy none of it. What had she agreed to? But she had no one to blame but herself.

The duke got to his feet after the guests had eaten their fill and waited for silence to fall. He welcomed those guests who had come to town specifically for his wedding to Miss Debbins, most notably his betrothed's father, Sir Walter Debbins, with Lady Debbins and her brother, the Reverend Oliver Debbins, with Mrs. Debbins. He proposed a toast to his betrothed, soon to be his wife.

Dora smiled at her father, at her brother and sister-in-law, at Agnes, at Chloe and Ralph, directly in her line of vision. Butterflies danced in her stomach.

“I have a special treat in store for you after supper,” the duke said. “My betrothed is not only an accomplished musician, but an extraordinarily talented one too. I met her a little over a year ago when she dined at Middlebury Park and then played the harp and the pianoforte at the request of Lord and Lady Darleigh. Unfortunately, there is no harp here, but Miss Debbins has agreed to play the pianoforte for us directly after we have all returned to the drawing room. After you have heard her, you will understand why I did not forget her but went back a month ago to beg her to do me the honor of marrying me. Though I hasten to add that it was not
only
her musical talent that drew me.”

He turned his head to smile down at Dora while laughter and applause rippled about the ballroom.

It was too late now to withdraw, she thought. But did she want to? She saw nothing but kindness and goodwill around her as she glanced about the room. She caught Flavian's eye and he winked.

The duke left the ballroom early. Dora followed with her brother and sister-in-law and Ben—Sir Benedict Harper—who was walking determinedly with the aid of two specially made canes.

“You are very brave, Dora,” Louisa said, taking her arm. “But you are indeed talented. I am so very delighted for you. No one deserves happiness more.”

“I was privileged enough to be present for that recital
last year,” Ben said. “I was too dim-witted, however, to realize that a romance was brewing.”

The drawing room had been transformed while they were having supper. Half the wall between it and the music room had been folded back, and chairs had been set up in both rooms, facing the opening, into which the pianoforte had been moved. The crowd looked much larger to Dora now than it had looked earlier. Almost everyone had taken a seat and looked expectantly toward the doorway, where the Duke of Stanbrook was awaiting her. He smiled and raised a hand for hers. He led her toward the instrument, and she seated herself and tried to compose her mind, her eyes upon the keyboard. Her hands felt clammy and a bit beset with pins and needles. The hush from both rooms seemed loud.

Then she set her hands on the keys and began to play a Beethoven sonata. For a few seconds her fingers did not seem willing to play the notes she knew so well, and her mind teemed with thoughts of everything except the music. And then she heard the melody and slipped inside it and created it anew through her fingers and hands. She did not lose touch with her surroundings. She knew she was at Stanbrook House, surrounded by a large number of people, some of whom were near and dear to her, most of whom had been strangers to her until tonight. She knew she was playing at the request of the Duke of Stanbrook. She knew she was doing something she had never done on such a scale before. But the person who was aware of those things seemed rather remote, someone she did not
have to worry about until later. For at the moment the music claimed her.

She was startled at the volume of the applause after she had finished, at the sound of voices, at the scraping of chairs as her audience got collectively to its feet. She looked up, bit her lip, saw the duke standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his face beaming with pride, his hands clasped behind his back, and smiled.

“More,” someone called, and it became a chant, mingled with some laughter and one piercing whistle.

She played a Mozart sonata and, as a final encore when the guests were not willing to let her go, the Welsh folk song “Llwyn On,” which she usually played on the harp.

This was, she thought as the applause died away and she found herself surrounded by appreciative guests, surely one of the happiest days of her life. And it was only the beginning.

The day after tomorrow was her wedding day.

*   *   *

George did not often entertain on a grand scale, though he had, of course, just hosted the wedding reception for Imogen and Percy. This party, however, had been arranged on his own account. He had wanted to introduce his betrothed to the
ton
before their wedding so that that particular day would be less overwhelming for her. For by her choice the betrothal party would be in the nature of a social debut for her, more than twenty years after it ought to have occurred.

He was more than pleased with the way the evening had progressed. She was elegantly and fashionably dressed, her hair becomingly styled. Yet she looked very
much herself too. She had made no attempt to look either younger or grander than she was. She wore no jewelry except for small gold earbobs. It was easy to see the disciplined, almost prim teacher in both her appearance and her demeanor. Yet she was poised and apparently at ease with all the attention that was being paid her. He had sensed as the evening went on that she was generally liked and approved of. He was certainly charmed by her.

Her musical recital, however, had lifted her above her role as his betrothed. It had established her as an interesting, accomplished person in her own right. The people who crowded around her after she had finished playing did so not because she had netted herself a duke for a husband, but because she was someone who had aroused their admiration.

He was more than pleased.

The next couple of days could not go fast enough for him. Not just so that he could have her in his bed—though there was that too—but so that he could have her permanently in his life. He half resented the fact that tonight she would return across the square to Arnott House with all her family, while he must remain here alone.

He smiled as he caught her eye across the room. And it occurred to him with something like surprise that he was happy. He often felt happiness, surely. He had felt it for all the officers who had left the hospital at Penderris healed, or at least on the road to healing. He had felt it for his nephew when he married Philippa and when Belinda was born. He had felt it in abundance for each of his fellow Survivors when they had married and had
children. He felt happy for Dora Debbins tonight. But . . . when had he ever felt happiness for himself? Try as he would, he could not think of any occasion since he joined his regiment at the age of seventeen, when he had been happy for all too brief a time. Only recently had he begun to feel anything approaching it—when he went to Gloucestershire and made his offer and was accepted, a few times during the past month, and now this evening. Now at this moment.

He was a happy man, he thought, and this was only the beginning. Soon she would no longer be returning to Arnott House and leaving him alone here. Soon she would be his wife. They would remain together. He was almost shaken by the sheer pleasure of the thought.

And a moment later he was shaken again by the sudden lurching of fear low in his stomach lest something happen to destroy that happiness. Deuce take it, but he must learn to trust the present and the future, to put the past behind him once and for all.