Only Enchanting: A Survivors' Club Novel

by Mary Balogh

  “This morning? And where did you not go this m-morning?” he asked.

  What an elementary blunder to have made. She attacked her fish with a vengeance.

  “Why formidable?” she asked when she became aware that he was still looking at her, his knife and fork suspended above his plate. “Agnes is a perfectly decent name.”

  “If you were Laura,” he said, “or Sarah, or even M-Mary, I would scheme to kiss you again. They are soft, biddable names. But Agnes suggests firmness of character and a stinging palm across the ch-cheek of any man audacious enough to steal a k-kiss for the second time, when she can be presumed to be on her guard. Yes, I am almost glad I was unable to m-meet you. Were you r-really not there? Because I might be? But the daffodils will not bloom forever.”

  “It had nothing whatsoever to do with you,” she said. “I had other things to do.”

  “More important than your painting?” he asked. “More important than m-me?”

  Oh, good heavens, they were at the dinner table. Anyone might overhear snatches of their conversation at any moment, though it was doubtful. And how had she got embroiled in this? She was not his flirt and had no intention of alleviating his boredom for the next two and a half weeks by becoming one.

  “More important than me, then,” he said with an exaggerated sigh when she did not answer. “Or should that be I? More important than I. One feels very p-pedantic sometimes when one insists upon using correct g-grammar, would you not agree, Mrs. Keeping? Who is there? It is I. It sounds mildly absurd.”

  She did not look at him. But she did smile at her plate and then laugh.

  “Ah,” he said, “that is better. Now I know how to coax a l-laugh out of you. I merely have to speak correct grammar.”

  She picked up her glass of wine and turned toward him.

  “Are you feeling less savage this evening?” she asked him.

  His eyes went still, and she wished she had not reminded him that he had said that yesterday morning.

  “I expect to be soothed by music,” he said. “Is your s-sister as talented as Vincent claims?”

  “She is,” Agnes told him. “But you may judge for yourself later. Do you like music?”

  “When it is well performed,” he said. “V-Vincent performs well, though I like to tease him to the contrary. We do t-tease one another, you know. It is one of the endearing aspects of true friendship.”

  Sometimes she felt that he was not as shallow as his almost habitual expression seemed to indicate. She remembered having the same thought during the ball. He was not, she thought with an inward shiver, a man one would be comfortable to know.

  “He sometimes p-plays a wrong note,” he said, “and he often p-plays more slowly than he ought. But he plays with his eyes wide-open, Mrs. Keeping, and that is what m-matters. That is all that really matters, would you not agree?”

  And often he spoke in riddles. He would judge her, she sensed, according to how well she was able to interpret them.

  “With the eyes of his soul?” she said. “And you are not speaking just about Lord Darleigh or just about the playing of music, are you?”

  But his eyes were mocking again.

  “You have become too p-profound for me, Mrs. Keeping,” he said. “You are turning philosophical. It is an alarming trait in a l-lady.”

  And he had the effrontery to shudder slightly.

  Lord Trentham, she saw, had finished talking with Lady Barclay, at least for the moment. Agnes turned her shoulders and asked him whether he lived in London all year.

  * * *

  Agnes, Flavian thought as they made their way to the music room from the dining room and he watched her talking to Hugo, her arm through his. One could not imagine reciting a sonnet to the delicately arched eyebrow of sweet Agnes, could one? Or weeping over the immortal tragedy of Romeo and Agnes. Parents really ought to be more careful when naming their children.

  He remained on his feet after seating Lady Harper close to the pianoforte. He clasped his hands behind his back as Vincent played his violin—a lilting folk tune. Vince really had improved—there was more vibrato in his playing than there had been last year—though how he could have learned to play at all when he was blind, who knew? It was a triumph of the human spirit that he had done it. Flavian did not join in the applause that succeeded the piece. Instead he beamed fondly at his friend, forgetting for the moment that Vince could not see him. One did tend to forget at times.

  The cat purred rather loudly when the applause died down, and there was general laughter.

  “I absolutely refrain from commenting,” Flavian said.

  Lady Harper played the pianoforte for a few minutes, though she protested that she had only recently resumed playing after a lapse of many years. Then she played and sang a Welsh song—in Welsh. She had a fine mezzo-soprano voice, and somehow made one almost yearn for the hills and mists of Wales. Almost.

  Now, there was a woman, Flavian thought, about whom one might weave romantic and erotic fantasies if she did not happen to be the wife of a dearest friend—and if one felt anything more for her than a purely aesthetic appreciation.

  Imogen and Ralph surprised everyone by singing a duet to Lady Trentham’s accompaniment. Flavian did not need to tease them afterward—everyone else did it for him. Lady Trentham then played alone and with practiced skill, while Hugo beamed like an idiot and looked fit to burst with pride.

  Vincent played on the harp, and Flavian strolled closer to frown in amazement over the fact that he could distinguish so many strings from one another when he could not even see them.

  And then it was Miss Debbins’s turn to play, and Flavian had no further excuse to prowl, for she would surely play for longer than a few minutes. He really ought to have taken a seat earlier. The choice left to him now was to squeeze between George and Ralph on the sofa, which would have looked a trifle peculiar and might have annoyed the cat, currently curled up on the middle cushion—or to sit beside Mrs. Keeping on a love seat a little farther removed from the pianoforte.

  He chose not to annoy the cat.

  He wondered whether she had told the truth about not going to the meadow this morning, and then realized how conceited it was of him to imagine that perhaps she had gone there and been so disappointed not to find him that she had pretended she had not gone at all.

  He had very possibly given her an eternal disgust of him when he kissed her. She had probably not been kissed by any man other than her husband until then. Undoubtedly she had not, in fact. She had virtuous woman written all over her in invisible ink.

  “The serious entertainment is to begin, then?” he said as Miss Debbins seated herself at the harp.

  “The implication being that the other performances were trivial?” she said.

  He grasped the handle of his quizzing glass and half raised it.

  “You are in a combative mood, Mrs. Keeping,” he said. “But I would g-guess none of those who have already played or sung would care to f-follow Miss Debbins.”

  “You do have a point there,” she conceded.

  She was wearing the same gown she had worn to the harvest ball. Now, how the devil had he remembered that? It was hardly an outstanding item of fashion, though it was pretty enough. The light from one of the candles was sparkling off the silver embroidery at the hem, as he remembered its doing on that occasion.

  And then he lowered his glass and gaped. At least, that was how he felt inwardly, even if it did not show on his face. For suddenly music poured and rippled and surged about them and did a number of other startling things that words could not begin to describe. And it all came from one harp and the fingers of one woman. After a minute or two Flavian raised his quizzing glass again all the way to his eye and looked through it at the instrument, at the strings, and at the hands of the woman who played them. How was it possible . . .

  The applause at the end of the piece was more than polite, and Miss Debbins was begged to play again before moving to the pianoforte. When she did
go there, George jumped to his feet just like an underling to position the bench for her.

  “And do you p-play, Mrs. Keeping?” Flavian asked while her sister prepared herself at the keyboard.

  “Hardly at all.”

  “But you paint,” he said. “Are you talented? Lady Darleigh s-says you are.”

  “She is kind,” Mrs. Keeping told him. “She is talented. Have you seen her caricatures? And her story illustrations? I paint well enough for my own pleasure and poorly enough that I always dream of that one perfect painting.”

  “I s-suppose even Michelangelo and Rembrandt did that,” he said. “Perhaps Michelangelo sculpted the Pietà and then stood back and wondered if he would ever sculpt something that was really worth doing. I shall have to s-see your work to judge how w-well you measure up to the masters.”

  “Indeed?” There was a world of disdain in her voice.

  “Do you keep them under lock and key?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “but I choose who sees them.”

  “And I am not to be included in that n-number?”

  “I very much doubt it,” she said.

  An excellent setdown. He looked at her with appreciation.

  “Why?”

  Her eyes turned his way, and he smiled slowly.

  She was spared the need to answer him. Miss Debbins had begun to play something by Handel.

  She played for longer than half an hour, though she tried to rise from her place at the end of each piece. No one was willing to let her go. And she did indeed display a quite extraordinary talent. One would not really have expected it. She must be a good ten years older than her sister, perhaps more. She was smaller and plainer. She looked quite unremarkable—until she set her fingers to a musical instrument.

  “How easy it is to dismiss the outer packaging without an inkling that one is thereby missing the precious beauty within.” His thoughts had acquired sound, and Flavian realized with acute embarrassment that he had spoken aloud.

  “Yes.” And Mrs. Keeping had heard him.

  The recital was at an end, and a number of his friends were clustered about Miss Debbins at the pianoforte. Lady Darleigh excused herself after a minute or two in order to go up to the nursery—Flavian suspected that she was unfashionable enough not to have engaged a wet nurse. Lady Trentham asked if she might accompany her, and the two ladies went off together. Vincent announced that tea would be served in the drawing room if everyone would care to remove there. Ralph was running his fingers silently over the harp strings. George was offering his arm to Miss Debbins and informing her that she must be very ready for her tea. Ben, who had not brought his wheeled chair into the music room, was hoisting himself slowly to his feet between his canes, and Lady Harper was smiling over him and making some remark that was lost in the hubbub of voices.

  “Mrs. Keeping.” Flavian got to his feet and offered his arm. “Allow me.”

  He had the feeling she had been sitting very quietly where she was, in the hope that he would wander away and forget about her. Maybe that was part of the attraction, was it? That she had never put herself forward to attract his notice? Other women did—except the ones who knew him or knew of him, though even some of the latter still pursued him. For some women there was an irresistible fascination about a dangerous man, though his reputation exceeded reality these days. At least he hoped it did.

  “Thank you.”

  She got to her feet and took his arm, the mere tips of her fingers touching the inner side of his sleeve. She really was rather tall. Perhaps that was why he had enjoyed dancing with her. She smelled of soap. Not perfume. Nothing either strong or expensive. Just soap. It occurred to him almost as a surprise that he would very much like to bed her.

  He never thought of beds and ladies in the same context. And he had better banish the thought now. Which was a pity, for he would not even be able to indulge in a mild flirtation with her if there was any danger that it might lead to bed.

  They were very sensible thoughts he was having and in no way explained why, when they entered the great hall from the west wing, he did not turn with her toward the staircase up to the drawing room. Instead he took a candle and its holder from a table, lit the candle from one that was already burning in a wall sconce, nodded to a footman who was on duty there, and was admitted to the east wing of the house.

  Most surprising, perhaps, was the fact that Mrs. Keeping went with him without a murmur of protest.

  The east wing, equal in size and length to the west wing, consisted almost entirely of the state apartments. They had been ablaze with light and splendor for the harvest ball back in October. They were dark now and echoed hollowly with their footfalls. They were also rather chilly.

  And what the devil had brought him here?

  “One tends to s-sit for too long in the evenings,” he said.

  “And it is too early in the year to walk outside much after dinner,” she said.

  Ah, they were agreed, then, were they, that they were merely seeking a bit of exercise after sitting so long listening to music? How long had they sat? An hour? Less for him.

  “I must not stroll here for too long, however,” she added when he did not leap into the conversational gap. “Dora will believe I have abandoned her.”

  “I believe M-Miss Debbins is being showered with attention,” he told her. “And deservedly s-so. She will not miss a mere s-sister.”

  “But a mere sister may miss her,” she said.

  “You think I have b-brought you here for d-dalliance?” he asked.

  “Have you?” Her voice was soft.

  No one admitted to playing a game of dalliance. Well, almost no one.

  “I have, Mrs. Keeping,” he admitted. “In the ballroom where I first set eyes upon you. I have c-come to w-waltz with you again. To kiss you—again.”

  She did not haul on his arm and demand to be returned to her sister’s side immediately if not sooner.

  “I suppose we may see as much of the ballroom as will be visible in the light of a single candle,” she said. “We can hardly waltz—there is no music.”

  “Ah,” he said, “we will have to settle for the kiss, then.”

  “However,” she said, speaking deliberately over his last words, “I can hold a tune tolerably well, even if no one in his right mind would think of inviting me to sing a solo before an audience.”

  He slanted a smile in her direction, but she was gazing straight ahead.

  The ballroom was vast and empty, and indeed the light of the single candle did not penetrate very far into its darkness. It was cold. It was about as unromantic a setting as he could possibly have chosen for seduction, if that indeed was what his intention had been in coming here.

  He set down the candleholder on an ornate table just inside the tall double doors.

  “Ma’am,” he said, making her an elegant leg and a flourishing bow, “may I have the pleasure?”

  She curtsied with deep grace and placed her fingertips on his wrist.

  “The pleasure is all mine, my lord,” she told him.

  And he clasped her in waltz position, holding her the correct distance from his body, and looked inquiringly at her. She thought a moment, a frown of concentration creasing her brow, and then hummed and finally la-la-la’d the very waltz tune to which they had danced all those months ago. He twirled her out onto the empty floor, weaving in and out of the shadows cast by the candle. He was aware of its feeble light twinkling off the silver embroidery on the edges of her sleeves.

  She was breathless after a couple of minutes. The music faltered and then stopped. But he danced with her a full minute longer, the music and the rhythm inside his body and hers. He could hear their breath, the sound of their shoes on the floor, in rhythm with each other, and the swish of silk about her legs.

  In the four years since he had left Penderris, he had had a number of sexual partners, all of whom had given him great satisfaction. He had employed no long-term mistresses. He had occasionally f
lirted with ladies of the ton, always with those old enough to know the game. He had bedded none of them, even those who had indicated a willingness, even an eagerness, to be bedded. He rarely kissed.

  Mrs. Agnes Keeping did not fit into any known category, a thought that both rattled and excited him.

  When they stopped dancing, he could not think of a blessed thing to say, and it did not occur to him to let her go. He stood with one hand behind her waist, the other clasping one of hers. And he looked down at her until she lowered her head and brushed an invisible speck from the bosom of her gown with the hand that had been resting on his shoulder. She replaced her hand and looked up at him.

  He kissed her, holding her for the moment in waltz position, though his hand at her waist gradually tightened and drew her against him.

  Her hand squeezed his almost painfully tightly. Her lips were trembling.

  Easy, he told himself. Easy. She was a widow of undoubted gentility and virtue. She was Viscountess Darleigh’s closest friend. They were in Vincent’s house.

  But he released her hand in order to wrap both arms about her and deepen the kiss. She twined one arm about his shoulders and spread her other hand over the back of his head.

  And the idiot woman kissed him back.

  But the thing was that she kissed him with obvious pleasure, even desire, but with no real passion. Except that surely, oh, surely, he felt it throbbing below the surface of the enjoyment she allowed herself. There was control in her abandonment—if that was not a contradiction in terms.

  What if she lost that control?

  He could make it happen.

  The desire to do just that smoldered within him as he explored her mouth with his tongue, moved his hands along the curve of her spine, even for a moment cupped her buttocks in his hands and fitted her to his groin.

  He could unleash the passion no one had uncovered before in her life—not even her dullard of a husband. The passion she probably did not even know was lurking within.