“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.
Someone laid a hand upon his arm, and he turned to find his nephew standing beside him.
“You are being badly outshone by your own betrothed, Uncle George,” Julian said with a grin. “My sympathies.”
“Jackanapes,” George said fondly. “I am standing here basking in her reflected glory.”
“I would be obliged for a private word with you,” Julian said, “if this is not too inconvenient a time.”
“Not at all,” George assured him. “I do not believe my presence will be missed for a little while. Come out onto the landing.”
His nephew did not speak again until they were leaning against the oak banister above the staircase and the hall below.
“Philippa and I have talked a great deal about your impending nuptials,” he said, “and it has occurred to us that you may be feeling a bit concerned about us.”
George raised his eyebrows and his nephew flushed.
“You made it very clear to me after . . . after Brendan’s passing,” he explained, “that you considered me your heir. You said at the time that you would never have another son of your own. No, don’t say anything.” He held up a hand as George drew breath to speak. “Let me finish. We are perfectly aware that Miss Debbins is not a . . . well, that she is not a very young lady and that you may well not be marrying her in order to set up your nursery again, but—”
“You are absolutely right,” George said, firmly interrupting him. “I am marrying Miss Debbins because I have an affection for her. We have no wish whatsoever to populate the nursery at Penderris. Your status as my heir is not in peril.”
Julian’s flush had deepened. “I believe you, and I am sincerely happy for you,” he said. “It has been abundantly clear this evening that you and Miss Debbins hold each other in deep regard. But the point is, Uncle George, that unexpected things do sometimes happen. I do not know if it is a possibility and, heaven help me, I do not want to know. But Philippa seems to think it is, and she may be right, she being a woman and all that. Anyway, we are in absolute agreement that we are perfectly happy with what we have and with who we are. I have rescued my own home and estate from the near ruin my father ran it into, and I have done a great deal more than that. It is thriving. I have much to leave my eldest son—if we have sons, that is—and adequate means with which to provide for Belinda and any other children with whom we may be blessed. We will not feel that we have been deprived of my birthright if you should have another son. After all, Papa was a younger son and never expected to succeed you, and I never expected it. There was always Brendan . . .” His voice trailed away and he frowned in apparent distress.