He was almost at the end of his journey, Flavian realized as he rode into the village of Inglebrook and nodded to the butcher, who was sweeping the threshold of his shop, clad in a long apron he had obviously been wearing the last time he cut meat. The turn onto the driveway to Middlebury Park was just beyond the far end of the village street. He wondered whether he would be first to arrive at this gathering of the Survivors’ Club. For some strange reason, he usually was. It suggested a shocking overeagerness in him that was quite out of character. He was usually fashionably late—or even later—to social events.
On one memorable occasion last spring he had been turned away from the hallowed doors of Almack’s in London because he had arrived there for the weekly ball, correctly clad in old-fashioned knee breeches as the rules of the club demanded, at two minutes past eleven. Another of the club’s rules was that there would be absolutely no admission after eleven. He had been crushed and heartbroken at the realization that his pocket watch was slow—or so he had assured his aunt the next day. He had promised a dance to his cousin, her daughter. His aunt had looked upon him with reproach and had made an ungracious comment on his poor attempt at an apology. Ginny, though, was made of sterner stuff, and had merely stuck her nose in the air and informed him that her dance card had been so full at Almack’s that she would have had to disappoint him if he had deigned to put in an appearance.
Good old Ginny. He wished there were more females like her.
He touched his whip to the brim of his hat as he rode past the vicar’s wife—he had a lamentably poor memory for names, though he had been introduced to her—who was chatting with a large woman across the garden gate of the vicarage. He bade both ladies a good afternoon, and they chirruped cheerfully back at him and assured him that it was indeed good and long may it last.
Another lady was proceeding alone along the street toward him, a largish sketching easel tucked under one arm, a bag, presumably of supplies, in her free hand. She had a trim, youngish figure, he noticed appreciatively. She was dressed neatly, though without any nod to high fashion. She lifted her head, having no doubt heard the approach of his horse, and he recognized her.
Mrs. . . . Working? Looking? Darling? Weeding? Drat it, he could not recall her name. He had danced with her at Vince’s ball, at the request of the viscountess, whose particular friend she was. He had waltzed with her too—yes, by Jove, he had.
He tipped his hat to her as they drew level.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said.
“My lord.” She dipped into a slight curtsy and regarded him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Then she blushed. It was not just the March chill that rouged her cheeks. One moment they were not rosy, and the next moment they were. And her eyelids went down to hide her eyes.
Well. Interesting.
She was a good-looking woman without being in any way dazzling, though she did have fine eyes, now decently hidden beneath her eyelids, and a mouth that looked designed for humor—or for kissing. There was something about that humor—but, no, though an image pricked at the edges of his memory for a moment, it flitted away without revealing itself. Annoying, but memories tended to be like that for him—little, or perhaps huge, blanks in the past of which he remained unaware until they blinked into existence, sometimes long enough to be grabbed and brought into focus, sometimes winking out again before they could be nailed down. This was one of the not times. No matter.
She was past the first blush of youth, though she was probably younger than he was. Undoubtedly younger, in fact. Good Lord, he was thirty, practically a relic.
He did not draw his horse quite to a stop. What the devil was her name? He moved on, and so did she.
Sensible, he thought as he reached the end of the street, saw that the gates into Middlebury stood open, and turned his horse onto the winding, wooded driveway. That had been his impression of the woman after he had dutifully solicited her hand for the first set at the harvest ball. And he had asked her for the waltz after supper with the explanation that he hoped for some sensible conversation from her.
Not very flattering, that, he thought now, five months too late. It was hardly the sort of word to induce a woman’s heart into fluttering with romantic dreams over him. But that had not been the point, had it? There had been no conversation, sensible or otherwise, during that waltz. Only . . . enchantment.
Odd that he should remember that impression now, when the thought had vanished completely from his memory as soon as the ball ended. Odd and a little embarrassing too. What the devil had his mind meant by conjuring that particular word? And—was he remembering correctly? Had he spoken it aloud in her hearing?
Not sensible after all, then. Only enchanting.
What the devil had he meant?
She was not enchanting. Trim and neat, vaguely pretty, yes. Nothing more startling than that, though. Fine eyes and a humorous, even perhaps kissable, mouth were not sufficient in themselves to dazzle either the eyes or the mind—or to arouse one’s spring fancy. Anyway, it had been October at the time.
Enchantment, indeed. It was not a word that was particularly active in his vocabulary.
He hoped she had not heard. Or, if she had, he hoped she had not remembered.
She had blushed just now, though.
The driveway drew free of the woods, and he was afforded a magnificent view along a neatly clipped topiary garden and then formal flower parterres—colorful even this early in the year—to the wide, impressive front of the house. And it struck him, as it had each time he came here, that his friend had never been able to see any of it. Blindness, Flavian had always thought, must be one of the worst afflictions of all. Even now, knowing Vincent as he did and how cheerful he always was and how he had got on with his life and made something really quite happy and meaningful of it, even now he felt choked up with grief over Vince’s blindness.