Page 69 of Second Chances
The music began and he led her into the dance, beneath the candelabra with their hundreds of candles, amongst the flowers whose combined perfumes made her almost dizzy with their sweetness. And he was Prince Charming with his ice-blue satin evening coat and knee breeches, with his silver embroidered waistcoat and gleaming white linen. She had felt almost sick with admiration and love for him while Beatrice danced and she sat unnoticed in a corner. And now she was dancing with him herself.
“And where may I find the rector, your father?” he asked. “How far away?”
“Thirty miles,” she said.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I must see my guests on their way. I will ride to the rectory the day after.”
She dared not understand his meaning.
“But it is a mere courtesy,” he said. “You are of age, are you not, Laura? Am I being offensive to assume that you have passed your twenty-first birthday?”
“I am six-and-twenty,” she said.
“We do not need his consent, then,” he said. “We can make the announcement tonight if we wish. I would like to make it tonight. After this waltz. Shall I?”
“What announcement?” She could not be understanding correctly, though his meaning seemed as plain as the nose on her face.
“For some reason,” he said, “it seems that people are expecting me to announce my betrothal tonight. I want to do so. But I need a bride. Will you oblige me, Laura?”
“How absurd,” she said.
“Somehow,” he said, “I expected you to say something like that. Shall I go down on my knees to you in front of all these people? I will if you want.”
She was suddenly aware of all those people politely dancing and conversing, covertly and curiously watching them.
“No,” she said hastily. “Don’t be silly.”
He laughed, and she lost her knees and stumbled. His hand tightened at her waist, steadying her.
“I love you,” he said softly. “I don’t believe I can live with any degree of happiness if you will not agree to share my life with me. Will you? Please?”
“You are an earl,” she said. “I am a rector’s daughter. A governess.”
“Ah,” he said, “but you speak Latin and Greek and that makes all the difference. And you read about other people’s romances too. It is time you had one of your own. Will you have one with me? Just for a lifetime and perhaps an eternity too? After that you may go free if you wish.”
“I think, my lord,” she said, hope painfully soaring, a dream becoming reality before her very eyes, “you are mad.”
“Bram,” he said, smiling. “‘I think, Bram, you are mad.’”
“Yes, him too,” she said.
“Name him, then.” His smile had turned to a grin.
“Bram,” she said. “Bram, you are mad.”
“Do you love me?” he asked.
She bit her lip then, and felt the tears come back. He must be playing with her. Surely he must. “Yes, Bram,” she said.
“And will you marry me?” His head was shockingly close to hers.
“If you are sure,” she said, her fingers curling about the dream, beginning to grasp it. “If you are quite, quite sure.”
She was being twirled then—recklessly, exhilaratingly. Twirled about and about so that flowers and candles and fellow dancers blurred into a kaleidoscope of light and color.
“After this waltz is finished,” he said. “Up on the platform. Both of us. You by my side. And yes, I am indeed going to take you to bed, my love. As soon as the banns have been read and our marriage solemnized. An eternity, damn it.”
“Bram,” she said, “at the rectory ...”
“Yes, I know, my love,” he said. “My humblest apologies. I said it deliberately, you know, to see if you were paying attention.”
She looked up into his laughing eyes and bit hard on her lower lip to convince herself that she was not indeed dreaming.
“Are you going to keep my life from boredom by quoting Horace every breakfast time and Homer every dinnertime, my redheaded bluestocking?” he asked.
“And I shall tell you a little of Damon and Angeline’s story every bedtime to whet your appetite,” she said outrageously, and blushed rosily as he threw back his head and laughed.
Guests and neighbors stared in amazement and growing wonder even before the music came to an end and the Earl of Dearborne led his niece’s governess up onto the orchestra platform.
This was, after all, then, a betrothal ball.
