Only Enchanting (SC 4) by Balogh Mary

Author:Balogh, Mary [Balogh, Mary]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780451469663
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2014-10-28T07:00:00+00:00

* * *

They managed to keep a conversation going for the hour that remained before their supper was brought and during the meal itself—and one that was far lighter in tone. The two footmen who came with their food set up a table in the middle of the sitting room with a crisp white cloth and the finest china and silverware and crystal and wine Lord Darleigh had to offer. They lit two tapers set in silver holders. It was a gloriously romantic setting.

He told her more about his mother and his sister and the latter’s husband and children. He recounted a few anecdotes involving his brother and himself in their younger years, and it was clearer than ever that he had adored his smaller, less robust older sibling. He told her about his years in school at Eton—his brother had been educated at home—and a little about his years with his cavalry regiment, though nothing touching upon the battles in which he had fought. She told him about her brother and his wife and their children. She told him about her father’s wife, whom she had always liked and still did, though she would find it a severe trial to have to live with her in the same house. She recounted some incidents from her childhood that included Dora.

It was only toward the end of the meal, when Flavian was sitting back at his ease, wineglass in hand, that something shocking struck Agnes.

“Oh, goodness me,” she said, “I did not change for dinner.”

“Neither did I,” he said, his eyes roaming lazily over the part of her dress he could see above the table.

“Oh, but you are dressed splendidly,” she pointed out, “while I am wearing just a day dress.”

“This was not dinner, Agnes,” he said. “It was s-supper.”

“But I ought to have changed, nevertheless,” she said. “I do beg your pardon.”

Into the blue or the lavender or the green. No, not the green. It was a little too festive, though this was her wedding evening. Oh, he would grow mortally sick of seeing the green—and the blue and the lavender.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a few moments before setting down his glass and getting to his feet. He came around the table and held out a hand for hers. And she was conscious of the fact that it was after ten o’clock and that she was nervous, just as if she were still a virgin.

She might as well be. It had been so long. . . .

She set her napkin on the table, put her hand in his, and rose to her feet. He brought her hand to his lips.

“Go and change now, then,” he said, “into your nightgown. I will ring for the dishes to be removed and for my valet to come. You do not have a maid?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “It is quite unnecessary.”

“You nevertheless will h-have one,” he told her, “as soon as we reach London. As well as new clothes.”

“Oh, that will be quite un—” she began.

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