Someone to Cherish

by Mary Balogh

  “Not at all,” he said. “They are amazingly strong people. I am prouder of them than I deserve to be. They will each find their happiness when the time is right. You are not to start worrying about them on my behalf, Viola. Or on theirs.”

  “Do I do that all the time?” she asked him.

  “It is one thing I love about you,” he said. “You are everything but selfish. I, on the other hand, am unabashedly selfish. I want you all to myself.”

  “You do not,” she said. “You may think I am all that matters to you, but you value family as much as I do. Perhaps more, because you came near to losing your own.”

  “I love you very much,” he said.

  “I know.” She flashed him another smile. “You told me so last night.”

  “Ah,” he said, “last night . . .”

  But they were downstairs, and here were Harry and Lydia, both of them flushed and bright-eyed and dressed very smartly indeed, Lydia in vibrant pink, Harry in a combination of silver, gray, and white and looking both old-fashioned in his knee breeches and quite gorgeous enough to make every other man in the ballroom look at him in envy and wish that fashions could be turned back a decade or two. And to make every woman look at him with envy for his bride.

  Viola enfolded Lydia in her arms while Marcel shook Harry warmly by the hand and winked at him and Mr. Winterbourne reached the bottom of the stairs.

  He opened his arms to Lydia and gathered her to him even as he reached out one hand to shake Harry’s.

  “I believe my Lydie is in good hands after all, my boy,” he said. “Sons are a precious gift, but daughters are a treasure beyond price. Look after her.”

  Harry’s eyes twinkled. “I will, sir,” he promised. “Though I believe Lydia has plans to look after me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Lydia slipped her hand through Harry’s arm as they ascended the stairs to the ballroom. He held it to his side as he clasped her hand and laced their fingers.

  “I am afraid,” he said to her, “there is going to be no sneaking inside unnoticed.”

  “I do not mind,” she said. “This is our wedding day. I want to savor every moment of it.”

  She had savored their wedding, impressing every detail upon her memory. She had done the same with their wedding breakfast. And with the afternoon of lovemaking, which had been wonderful beyond any imagining—and would be repeated tonight, Harry had promised her when it had been imperative that they get up before his valet arrived, bringing unexpectedly with him the marchioness’s personal maid to help with her hair. She was going to savor the ball too, thankful that she had had the village assembly as a sort of rehearsal.

  The sweet, heady scent of myriad flowers and perfumes met them as they reached the top of the stairs, as well as the sounds of numerous voices raised in conversation and laughter. Lydia’s father and the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester slipped into the ballroom ahead of them, and Harry’s butler—now her own too, Lydia supposed, a bit startled—indicated with one raised hand that the two of them should wait a moment and stepped into the doorway in order to nod regally in the direction of some unseen person.

  A moment later there was a decisive chord from the orchestra, and the sound of conversation almost immediately faded away to silence. A single voice replaced it: the Earl of Riverdale’s.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to Hinsford and to the ball that is celebrating two events. Harry Westcott has arrived at his thirtieth birthday today. And he and Mrs. Lydia Tavernor were married this morning in the village church. Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Westcott now, if you please, and join me in wishing Harry a happy birthday.”

  The orchestra struck another chord while Lydia stepped with Harry into the doorway and through it into the ballroom, to be met with a chorus of birthday greetings and applause.

  Just a week ago, Lydia thought, she had come close to being made a pariah. There was no sign of it tonight. And perhaps the danger had always been far less than it had seemed at the time, and confined to just one element of the village. But she would not think of that again tonight—or ever again if she could help it.

  She smiled about her while Harry’s hand gripped hers and her hand gripped Harry’s, and saw her brothers across the room with Hannah and Tom Corning. She saw Denise Franks with her husband, and the Reverend and Mrs. Bailey, and all of Harry’s family, most of whom she could now name without having to stop too long to connect a name with a face. She saw her father standing with Harry’s aunt Louise, the Dowager Duchess of Netherby.

  She had never been happier in her life.

  The orchestra played another chord and silence fell again.

  “The ball will begin with a waltz,” the Earl of Riverdale announced, “to be danced by Mr. and Mrs. Westcott. Step forward onto the floor, please, Lydia and Harry. It is all yours.”

  “Oh dear,” Lydia said.

  Harry had turned his head and was grinning down at her. “I will try my very best,” he said, raising his voice so almost everyone would hear, “not to tread upon my wife’s toes.”

  Oh.

  “And I will very definitely,” Lydia said, matching Harry’s voice in volume, “keep them from being trodden upon.”

  “That is telling you, Harry,” a voice called out—Tom’s—amid general laughter.

  And then they were standing on what seemed a vast expanse of empty ballroom floor while the laughter faded and very little conversation took its place. Harry released her hand, and she withdrew her arm from his so they could stand face-to-face. His eyes, smiling, burning, looked steadily into hers as he set one hand behind her waist and took her right hand in the other. She set her left hand on his shoulder.

  And the music began.

  Oh, brave words that she would keep her feet from beneath his when both her legs felt as though they were made of wood, and if she had ever known how to waltz, all memory of the steps and the rhythm had fled without a trace, and at least a million eyes were riveted upon her.

  “My love,” Harry said softly, “it is our wedding day. Here and now. Our happily-ever-after is beginning. And you are my someone to cherish every moment for the rest of our lives. My darling.”

  He had sensed her sudden fright. Oh, how foolish to be afraid. This was her wedding day. She was Harry’s love, just as he was hers. And he had called her, for the first time ever, his darling. No one had ever called her that before now.

  Lydia smiled at him.

  And suddenly her legs were her own again, and of course she knew the steps of the waltz, and he was the partner of her dreams. Literally. Of her dreams.

  Harry twirled her about one corner of the ballroom floor, drawing her closer to him as he did so, and Lydia tilted back her head and laughed.

  The waltz was without any doubt the loveliest dance ever invented.

  She was Harry’s darling.

  Ah, and she was his cherished someone for all the rest of their days.

  As he was hers.

  Read on for an excerpt from the first book in Mary Balogh’s Westcott series,

  Someone to Love

  Available now from Jove

  Despite the fact that the late Earl of Riverdale had died without having made a will, Josiah Brumford, his solicitor, had found enough business to discuss with his son and successor to be granted a face-to-face meeting at Westcott House, the earl’s London residence on South Audley Street. Having arrived promptly and bowed his way through effusive and obsequious greetings, Brumford proceeded to find a great deal of nothing in particular to impart at tedious length and with pompous verbosity.

  Which would have been all very well, Avery Archer, Duke of Netherby, thought a trifle peevishly as he stood before the library window and took snuff in an effort to ward off the urge to yawn, if he had not been compelled to be here too to endure the tedium. If Harry had only been a year old
er—he had turned twenty just before his father’s death—then Avery need not be here at all and Brumford could prose on forever and a day as far as he was concerned. By some bizarre and thoroughly irritating twist of fate, however, His Grace had found himself joint guardian of the new earl with the countess, the boy’s mother.

  It was all remarkably ridiculous in light of Avery’s notoriety for indolence and the studied avoidance of anything that might be dubbed work or the performance of duty. He had a secretary and numerous other servants to deal with all the tedious business of life for him. And there was also the fact that he was a mere eleven years older than his ward. When one heard the word guardian, one conjured a mental image of a gravely dignified graybeard. However, it seemed he had inherited the guardianship to which his father had apparently agreed—in writing—at some time in the dim distant past when the late Riverdale had mistakenly thought himself to be at death’s door. By the time he did die a few weeks ago, the old Duke of Netherby had been sleeping peacefully in his own grave for more than two years and was thus unable to be guardian to anyone. Avery might, he supposed, have repudiated the obligation since he was not the Netherby mentioned in that letter of agreement, which had never been made into a legal document anyway. He had not done so, however. He did not dislike Harry, and really it had seemed like too much bother to take a stand and refuse such a slight and temporary inconvenience.

  It felt more than slight at the moment. Had he known Brumford was such a crashing bore, he might have made the effort.

  “There really was no need for Father to make a will,” Harry was saying in the sort of rallying tone one used when repeating oneself in order to wrap up a lengthy discussion that had been moving in unending circles. “I have no brothers. My father trusted that I would provide handsomely for my mother and sisters according to his known wishes, and of course I will not fail that trust. I will certainly see to it too that most of the servants and retainers on all my properties are kept on and that those who leave my employ for whatever reason—Father’s valet, for example—are properly compensated. And you may rest assured that my mother and Netherby will see that I do not stray from these obligations before I arrive at my majority.”

  He was standing by the fireplace beside his mother’s chair in a relaxed posture, one shoulder propped against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest, one booted foot on the hearth. He was a tall lad and a bit gangly, though a few more years would take care of that deficiency. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a good-humored countenance that very young ladies no doubt found impossibly handsome. He was also almost indecently rich. He was amiable and charming and had been running wild during the past several months, first while his father was too ill to take much notice and again during the couple of weeks since the funeral. He had probably never lacked for friends, but now they abounded and would have filled a sizable city, perhaps even a small county, to overflowing. Though perhaps friends was too kind a word to use for most of them. Sycophants and hangers-on would be better.

  Avery had not tried intervening, and he doubted he would. The boy seemed of sound enough character and would doubtless settle to a bland and blameless adulthood if left to his own devices. And if in the meanwhile he sowed a wide swath of wild oats and squandered a small fortune, well, there were probably oats to spare in the world and there would still be a vast fortune remaining for the bland adulthood. It would take just too much effort to intervene, anyway, and the Duke of Netherby rarely made the effort to do what was inessential or what was not conducive to his personal comfort.

  “I do not doubt it for a moment, my lord.” Brumford bowed from his chair in a manner that suggested he might at last be conceding that everything he had come to say had been said and perhaps it was time to take his leave. “I trust Brumford, Brumford & Sons may continue to represent your interests as we did your dear departed father’s and his father’s before him. I trust His Grace and Her Ladyship will so advise you.”

  Avery wondered idly what the other Brumford was like and just how many young Brumfords were included in the “& Sons.” The mind boggled.

  Harry pushed himself away from the mantel, looking hopeful. “I see no reason why I would not,” he said. “But I will not keep you any longer. You are a very busy man, I daresay.”

  “I will, however, beg for a few minutes more of your time, Mr. Brumford,” the countess said unexpectedly. “But it is a matter that does not concern you, Harry. You may go and join your sisters in the drawing room. They will be eager to hear details of this meeting. Perhaps you would be good enough to remain, Avery.”

  Harry directed a quick grin Avery’s way, and His Grace, opening his snuffbox again before changing his mind and snapping it shut, almost wished that he too were being sent off to report to the countess’s two daughters. He must be very bored indeed. Lady Camille Westcott, age twenty-two, was the managing sort, a forthright female who did not suffer fools gladly, though she was handsome enough, it was true. Lady Abigail, at eighteen, was a sweet, smiling, pretty young thing who might or might not possess a personality. To do her justice, Avery had not spent enough time in her company to find out. She was his half sister’s favorite cousin and dearest friend in the world, however—her words—and he occasionally heard them talking and giggling together behind closed doors that he was very careful never to open.

  Harry, all eager to be gone, bowed to his mother, nodded politely to Brumford, came very close to winking at Avery, and made his escape from the library. Lucky devil. Avery strolled closer to the fireplace, where the countess and Brumford were still seated. What the deuce could be important enough that she had voluntarily prolonged this excruciatingly dreary meeting?

  “And how may I be of service to you, my lady?” the solicitor asked.

  The countess, Avery noticed, was sitting very upright, her spine arched slightly inward. Were ladies taught to sit that way, as though the backs of chairs had been created merely to be decorative? She was, he estimated, about forty years old. She was also quite perfectly beautiful in a mature, dignified sort of way. She surely could not have been happy with Riverdale—who could?—yet to Avery’s knowledge she had never indulged herself with lovers. She was tall, shapely, and blond with no sign yet, as far as he could see, of any gray hairs. She was also one of those rare women who looked striking rather than dowdy in deep mourning.

  “There is a girl,” she said, “or, rather, a woman. In Bath, I believe. My late husband’s . . . daughter.”

  Avery guessed she had been about to say bastard, but had changed her mind for the sake of gentility. He raised both his eyebrows and his quizzing glass.

  Brumford for once had been silenced.

  “She was at an orphanage there,” the countess continued. “I do not know where she is now. She is hardly still there since she must be in her middle twenties. But Riverdale supported her from a very young age and continued to do so until his death. We never discussed the matter. It is altogether probable he did not know I was aware of her existence. I do not know any details, nor have I ever wanted to. I still do not. I assume it was not through you that the support payments were made?”

  Brumford’s already florid complexion took on a distinctly purplish hue. “It was not, my lady,” he assured her. “But might I suggest that since this . . . person is now an adult, you—”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off. “I am not in need of any suggestion. I have no wish whatsoever to know anything about this woman, even her name. I certainly have no wish for my son to know of her. However, it seems only just that if she has been supported all her life by her . . . father, she be informed of his death if that has not already happened, and be compensated with a final settlement. A handsome one, Mr. Brumford. It would need to be made perfectly clear to her at the same time that there is to be no more—ever, under any circumstances. May I leave the matter in your hands?”

  “My lady.” Brumford seemed almost to be squirming in
his chair. He licked his lips and darted a glance at Avery, of whom—if His Grace was reading him correctly—he stood in considerable awe.

  Avery raised his glass all the way to his eye. “Well?” he said. “May her ladyship leave the matter in your hands, Brumford? Are you or the other Brumford or one of the sons willing and able to hunt down the bastard daughter, name unknown, of the late earl in order to make her the happiest of orphans by settling a modest fortune upon her?”

  “Your Grace.” Brumford’s chest puffed out. “My lady. It will be a difficult task, but not an insurmountable one, especially for the skilled investigators whose services we engage in the interests of our most valued clients. If the . . . person indeed grew up in Bath, we will identify her. If she is still there, we will find her. If she is no longer there—”

  “I believe,” Avery said, sounding pained, “her ladyship and I get your meaning. You will report to me when the woman has been found. Is that agreeable to you, Aunt?”

  The Countess of Riverdale was not, strictly speaking, his aunt. His stepmother, the duchess, was the late Earl of Riverdale’s sister, and thus the countess and all the others were his honorary relatives.

  “That will be satisfactory,” she said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Anna Snow had been brought to the orphanage in Bath when she was not quite four years old. She had no real memory of her life before that beyond a few brief and disjointed flashes—of someone always coughing, for example, or of a lych-gate that was dark and a bit frightening inside whenever she was called upon to pass through it alone, and of kneeling on a window ledge and looking down upon a graveyard, and of crying inconsolably inside a carriage while someone with a gruff, impatient voice told her to hush and behave like a big girl.

  She had been at the orphanage ever since, though she was now twenty-five. Most of the other children—there were usually about forty of them—left when they were fourteen or fifteen, after suitable employment had been found for them. But Anna had lingered on, first to help out as housemother to a dormitory of girls and a sort of secretary to Miss Ford, the matron, and then as the schoolteacher when Miss Rutledge, the teacher who had taught her, married a clergyman and moved away to Devonshire. She was even paid a modest salary. However, the expenses of her continued stay at the orphanage, now in a small room of her own, were still provided by the unknown benefactor who had paid them from the start. She had been told that they would continue to be paid as long as she remained.