The Arrangement: Number 2 in series (Survivors' Club)

by Mary Balogh

  It was announced when she was at his side. He was smiling genially about him, though she guessed that it must have been a trying evening for him. Though perhaps not. He seemed to enjoy talking with everyone. Perhaps the fact that he was standing in his own state ballroom added to his enjoyment.

  But how sad it was that he could not see all the splendor or participate in the more energetic of the activities.

  “It is a waltz, Vincent,” she said.

  “Ah.” He smiled. “You must dance it, then, Sophie. With your uncle? You practiced with him.”

  “With you,” she said. “I mean, I must dance it with you.”

  She took his hand in both her own and backed a short way onto the dance floor.

  “With me?” He laughed. “I think not, Sophie. That would be a spectacle for everyone to behold.”

  “It would,” she agreed and backed up one more step.

  No one else had yet stepped onto the floor, and they had caught the attention of those people who were close to them, and awareness quickly spread. The volume of conversation decreased considerably.

  “No.” He laughed. “Sophie—”

  “I want to waltz,” she said. “With my husband.”

  Someone—Mr. Harrison?—began to clap his hands slowly. Viscount Ponsonby joined him. And soon it seemed that half the guests in the ballroom were clapping in time with one another.

  Oh, dear. Sophia had not intended this moment to be half as public. But it was too late now to do it differently.

  “Waltz with me,” she said as softly as she could.

  Not softly enough.

  “Waltz with her,” Mr. Harrison said—it was unmistakably he this time.

  And then it became a chant from their segment of the ballroom.

  “Waltz with her. Waltz with her.”

  “Sophie—” Vincent laughed.

  So did she.

  And he walked out onto the empty floor with her.

  “If I make a thorough spectacle of myself,” he said just loudly enough to be generally heard, “would everyone be kind enough to pretend they have not noticed?”

  He laughed again.

  And the orchestra played the opening chord and did not wait for anyone else to take the floor.

  It was very clumsy and awkward at first, and Sophia was terrified that she really was going to cause him great humiliation—not to mention herself. But she had practiced the steps very carefully. She had also, with her uncle’s full collaboration, practiced leading without appearing to do so.

  His feet found the steps, and his fingers spread against the back of her waist and his other hand nestled her own within it more comfortably. His head came up and he smiled very nearly into her eyes. He danced her into a spin and she laughed and had to make an effort to keep them both on their feet and within the confines of the dancing floor.

  It was probably not the most elegant demonstration of the waltz ever performed. But it was wonderful nevertheless. And they had the whole floor to themselves. Whether that was because everyone else was terrified of being collided with or whether it was because everyone was enjoying watching, she did not know. She was aware at one point that most people were clapping to the rhythm of the music.

  “Vincent,” she said after a few minutes, “will you ever forgive me?”

  “Maybe after a century or so,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, maybe after a decade.”

  And then he spun her again, but she was ready for it this time and steered them safely.

  “I have always, always wanted to do this,” she said.

  “Waltz?”

  “Waltz with you.”

  “Oh, Sophie,” he said, and his hand tightened slightly at her waist. “I am so sorry I cannot—”

  “But you can,” she told him. “You can see with every part of your being except your eyes. Tell me you are enjoying it.”

  “I am,” he said, and he drew her so close that she almost brushed against him. “Oh, I am.”

  Candlelight was wheeling overhead. Colored gowns were a kaleidoscope of pastels about the perimeter of the ballroom. Mirrors multiplied the candlelight and the twinkling of jewels to infinity.

  “Such sounds and smells,” he said. “I will never forget this moment. Sophie. I am actually waltzing.”

  She bit hard on her upper lip. It certainly would be humiliating to have all their guests see her weep. And then somehow her eyes focused upon his mother, who was standing with Ursula close to the doors. Tears were openly trickling down her cheeks.

  And then there was a break in the music, and before the next waltz tune began, other dancers joined them on the floor.

  When Sebastian Maycock came to ask Sophia for the final set of the evening, Vincent gave her as much freedom of choice as she had given him before the waltz.

  “My wife has already promised the set, I am afraid, Maycock,” he said. “To me.”

  He could almost feel her look of surprise.

  “Yes, I have,” she said with scarcely a moment’s pause. “But thank you for asking me, Sebastian. It looks as if the elder Miss Mills is without a partner. The lady in green.”

  “You are not contemplating dancing the Roger de Coverley, are you?” she asked when Maycock had apparently taken himself off to solicit the hand of Miss Mills.

  “I am contemplating a quiet stroll on the terrace with my wife,” he said. “It is probably too cold out there for you, though.”

  “I shall send someone for our cloaks,” she said and promptly deserted him.

  She was back a few moments later, and only a couple of minutes after that she murmured thanks to someone and handed him his evening cloak. He could hear the sets forming on the floor. The noise level had increased. It was to be the final set.

  It seemed they were the only ones out on the terrace. His ears told him so, and Sophia confirmed the fact when he asked. It was not surprising. Though it was not a really cold night, the breeze was nippy.

  “Happy?” he asked as she tucked an arm beneath his and guided him in what he guessed was the direction of the parterre gardens.

  He heard her exhale.

  “Happy,” she said. “Everything has gone well, has it not? More than well. Oh, Vincent, we must do this more often. Perhaps when your friends come next spring. They will come, will they not?”

  He did not answer her.

  “Sophie,” he said, “you will stay, will you not? I mean, for the baby’s sake? I could not bear to part with it as well as with you, and I do not believe you could bear to leave it with me. Could you?”

  “Oh, of course not,” she said. “Yes, of course I will stay. I am only sorry—”

  “I am very sorry about your cottage,” he said. “I know you would love it and your life there more than anything, but—”

  “Oh, Vincent,” she said, “I would not.”

  “But when you were showing your sketchbook to Ursula and Ellen out here in the garden—”

  “I sketched it for our stories,” she told him. “I did not intend for it to look like my dream cottage, but that is how it turned out. And then I could not resist putting Tab in the picture. Yes, it is a dream of a cottage, Vincent. When my life was so desperately empty and lonely, and when I thought myself ugly and unlovable, I thought nothing could be more desirable. But compared with the reality of my life now, it is … Well, it is pitiful.”

  “You mean,” he said, “you no longer wish for it? Even if you were not increasing?”

  “No,” she said quite emphatically. “How could I? But, Vincent, I wish I were not a woman.”

  “What?” He laughed. He was feeling a bit light-headed actually.

  “Just another woman interfering with your freedom,” she said.

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You said it to Mr. Croft,” she said. “The day he left Shep with you. You said I was just another woman looking after you and interfering with your independence.”

  “I am
sure I said no such thing,” he told her indignantly, trying to remember what exactly he might have said. “How could I unless I had been lying through my teeth?”

  “But you said it,” she said. “I heard you.”

  “Sophie,” he said, “my mother and my sisters loved me to distraction and did everything for me and quite inadvertently stifled me. You came along with your wonderful ideas and did just the opposite. You gave me my freedom back and a large measure of independence. You silly goose, whatever you overheard on that day, you must have misunderstood. I would never have said you took away my freedom. Never, Sophie. You brought light back into my life.”

  “You do not mind that I will have to remain here, then?” she asked him.

  They had stopped walking, he realized.

  He heaved a great sigh and wished he could remember the exact words he had spoken to Croft.

  “I love you, you know,” he said.

  She was still holding his arm. She tipped her head sideways to rest her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “You are always very good to me. And I love you too.”

  “Ah, the inadequacy of words.” He sighed again. “And the deceptive nature of words that have so many different meanings that they become virtually meaningless. Do you remember that song I sang at Covington House? I’d crowns resign to call thee mine. Remember that line?”

  “Yes.” She slipped her hand from his arm.

  “I would do it in a heartbeat,” he told her. “If I had a crown, Sophie, or multiple crowns, as in the song, I would give them all up. For you. That is what I mean when I say I love you.”

  He heard her swallow awkwardly.

  “But you do not have a crown.”

  “I would give up Middlebury Park, then,” he told her, “and my title. If I had to make a choice between them and you, there would not even be a contest. It is easy to say, I know, when there appears to be no danger that I will ever have to make that choice. But I would do it if I had to. There is no doubt in my mind. I love you.”

  “Vincent.” One of his hands was in both of hers.

  “It was not a part of our agreement, was it?” he said. “I am perfectly happy to make do with contentment, Sophie, if you do not want to be burdened with more. Really I am. And we are contented, are we not? It is just—Well, I am selfish, I suppose. I wanted the pleasure of saying it. Of telling you. It really does not matter if—”

  “Does not matter?” She half shrieked the words and threw herself against him with such force that she almost knocked him off his feet. Her arms came about his neck. “You have just told me you love me to all eternity and it does not matter? Of course it matters. It matters more than anything in the whole wide world and throw the sun and moon and stars in for good measure. I love you so very, very, very much.”

  “Do you, Sophie?” His arms came about her and he hugged her to himself. “Do you, my love?”

  “Add a few more verys,” she said.

  “You had better save a few for me.” He laughed against her hair, which felt as if it was breaking free of the bonds Rosina had imposed upon it.

  She lifted her face to him and he kissed her.

  Sounds of merry conversation and laughter and a vigorous country dance came from the ballroom somewhere behind them. In the distance an owl hooted and a dog barked. A light, chill wind caught at the edges of their cloaks.

  All of which Vincent ignored for the moment, for he held all the world clasped to himself. Ah, yes, and the sun and moon and stars too.

  And all eternity.

  Keep reading for an enchanting sneak peek at

  The Escape

  the next instalment in Mary Balogh’s Survivors’ Club series, coming soon from Piatkus…

  1

  The hour was approaching midnight, but no one was making any move to retire to bed.

  “You are going to find it mighty peaceful around here after we have all left, George,” Ralph Stockwood, Earl of Berwick, remarked.

  “It will be quiet, certainly.” The Duke of Stanbrook looked about the circle of the six guests gathered in the drawing room at Penderris Hall, his country home in Cornwall, and his eyes paused fondly on each of them in turn before moving on. “Yes, and peaceful too, Ralph. But I am going to miss you all damnably.”

  “You will be c-counting your blessings, George,” said Flavian Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, “as soon as you realize you will not have to listen to Vince scraping away on his v-violin for another whole year.”

  “Or the cats howling in ecstasy along with the music it creates,” Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh, added. “You might as well mention that too, Flave. There is no need to consider my sensibilities.”

  “You play with a great deal more competence than you did last year, Vincent,” Imogen Hayes, Lady Barclay, assured him. “By next year I do not doubt you will have improved even further. You are a marvel and an inspiration to us all.”

  “I may even dance to one of your tunes one of these days, provided it is not too sprightly, Vince.” Sir Benedict Harper looked ruefully at the two canes propped against the arm of his chair.

  “You are not by any chance harboring a hope that we will all decide to stay a year or two longer instead of leaving tomorrow, George?” Hugo Emes, Lord Trentham, asked, sounding almost wistful. “I have never known three weeks to pass by so quickly. We arrived here, we blinked, and now it is time to go our separate ways again.”

  “George is far too p-polite to say a bald no, Hugo,” Flavian told him. “But life calls us hence, alas.”

  They were feeling somewhat maudlin, the seven of them, the members of the self-styled Survivors’ Club. They had all spent several years here at Penderris, recuperating from various wounds they had sustained during the Napoleonic Wars. Although each had had to fight a lone battle toward recovery, they had also aided and supported one another and grown as close as any brothers—and sister. When the time had come for them to leave, to make new lives for themselves or to retrieve the old ones, they had gone with mingled eagerness and trepidation. Life was for living, they had all agreed, yet the cocoon in which they had been wrapped for so long had kept them safe and even happy. They had decided that they would return to Cornwall for a few weeks of each year to keep alive their friendship, to share their experiences of life beyond the familiar confines of Penderris, and to help with any difficulty that may have arisen for one or more of them.

  This had been the third such gathering. But now it was over for another year, or would be on the morrow.

  Hugo got to his feet and stretched, expanding his already impressive girth, none of which owed anything to fat. He was the tallest and broadest of them, and the most fierce-looking, with his close-cropped hair and frequent frown.

  “The devil of it is that I do not want to put an end to any of this,” he said, “but, if I am to make an early start in the morning, then I had better get to bed.”

  It was the signal for them all to rise. Most of them had lengthy journeys to make and hoped for an early departure.

  Sir Benedict was the slowest to get to his feet. He had to gather his canes to his sides, slip his arms through the straps he had contrived, and haul himself painstakingly upward. Any of the others would have been glad to offer a helping hand, of course, but they knew better than to do so. They were all fiercely independent despite their various disabilities. Vincent, for example, would leave the room and climb the stairs to his own chamber unassisted, despite the fact that he was blind. On the other hand, they would all wait for their slower friend and match their steps to his as they climbed the stairs.

  “P-pretty soon, Ben,” Flavian said, “you are going to be able to do that in under a minute.”

  “Better than two, as it was last year,” Ralph said. “That really was a bit of a yawn, Ben.”

  They would not resist the urge to jab at him and tease him—except, perhaps, Imogen.

  “Even two is remarkable for someone who was once told he must have both
legs amputated if his life was to be saved,” she said.

  “You are depressed, Ben.” Hugo paused mid-stretch to make the observation.

  Benedict shot him a glance. “Just tired. It is late, and we are at the wrong end of our three-week stay. I always hate goodbyes.”

  “No,” Imogen said, “it is more than that, Ben. Hugo is not the only one to have noticed. We all have, but it has never come up during any of our nightly sessions.”

  They had sat up late most nights during the past three weeks, as they did each year, sharing some of their deeper concerns and insecurities—and triumphs. They kept few secrets from one another. There were always some, of course. One’s soul could never be laid quite bare to another person, no matter how close a friend. Ben had held his own soul close this year. He had been depressed. He still was. He felt chagrined, though, that he had not hidden his mood better.

  “Perhaps we are intruding where no help or sympathy is wanted,” the duke said. “Are we, Benedict? Or shall we sit back down and discuss it?”

  “After I have just made the herculean effort to get up? And when everyone is about to totter off to bed in order to look fresh and beautiful in the morning?” Ben laughed, but no one else shared his amusement.

  “You are depressed, Ben,” Vincent said. “Even I have noticed.”

  The others all sat again, and Ben, with a sigh, resumed his own seat. He had so nearly got away with it.

  “No one likes to be a whiner,” he told them. “Whiners are dead bores.”

  “Agreed.” George smiled. “But you have never been a whiner, Benedict. None of us has. The rest of us would not have put up with it. Admitting problems, asking for help or even just for a friendly ear, is not whining. It is merely drawing upon the collective sympathies of people who know almost exactly what you are going through. Your legs are paining you, are they?”