Mary Balogh: One Night for Love

Only two miles.

***

The ballroom at Newbury Abbey, magnificent even when empty, was laden with yellow, orange, and white flowers from the gardens and hothouses and decked with white satin ribbons and bows. It was ablaze with the lights of hundreds of candles set into the crystal chandeliers over-head and by their myriad reflections in the long mirrors that covered two facing walls. It was crowded with the cream of the ton as well as with members of the local gentry, all dressed in their finest for the wedding eve ball. Satins and silks shimmered and lace and white linen glowed. Costly gems glittered. The most expensive of perfumes vied with the scents of a thousand flowers. Voices were raised in an effort to be heard above others and above the strains of the music, provided by an entire orchestra.

Beyond the ballroom, guests strolled on the wide landing and ascended or descended the twin curved staircases to the domed and pillared great hall below. They strolled outdoors—on the balcony beyond the ballroom, on the terrace before the house, about the stone fountain below the terrace, along the graveled walks of the rock and flower garden to the east of the house. Colored lanterns had been strung about the fountain and hung from trees though the moonlight would have offered illumination even without them.

It was a perfect May evening. One could only hope, as several of the guests did aloud to Lauren and Neville as they passed along the receiving line, that tomorrow would be half as lovely a day.

"Tomorrow will be twice as lovely," Neville replied each time, smiling warmly at his betrothed, "even if the wind howls and the rain pours and the thunder rolls."

Lauren's smile was unmistakably radiant. It seemed strange to Neville as he led her eventually into the first set of country dances that he had ever hesitated about making her his bride, that he had kept her waiting for six years while he worked off the restless rebellion of youth as an officer with the Ninety-fifth Rifles. He had advised her not to wait, of course—he had been far too fond of her to keep her dangling when he had been quite uncertain of his intentions toward her. But she had waited. He was glad of it now, humbled by her patience and fidelity. There was a rightness about their impending marriage. And his affection for her had not dimmed. It had grown along with his admiration for her character and his appreciation of her beauty.

"And so it begins," he murmured to her as the orchestra began to play. "Our nuptials, Lauren. Are you happy?"

"Yes."

But even the single word was unnecessary. She glowed with happiness. She looked like the quintessential bride. She was his bride. It felt right.

Neville danced first with Lauren, then with his sister. Then he danced with a series of young ladies who looked as if they expected to be wallflowers while Lauren danced with a succession of different partners.

After taking a turn upon the balcony with one of his partners, Neville entered the ballroom through the French doors and joined a group of young gentlemen who, as always at balls, seemed to need one another's collective company in order to summon the courage to ask a young lady to dance. He had the misfortune to remark on the fact that none of them appeared to be dancing.

"Well, you have done the pretty every set, Nev," his cousin Ralph Milne, Viscount Sterne, said, "though only once with your betrothed. Hard luck, old chap, but I suppose you are not allowed to dance with her more than once, are you?"

"Alas, no," Neville agreed, gazing across the ballroom to where Lauren was standing with his mother, his paternal aunt, Lady Elizabeth Wyatt, and his maternal uncle and aunt, the Duke and Duchess of Anburey.

Sir Paul Longford, a childhood neighbor and friend, could not resist such a perfect opportunity for bawdiness. "Well, you know, Sterne," he said with his best drawl, "it is only for tonight, old chap. Nev is to dance alone with his bride all night tomorrow, though not necessarily on a dance floor. I have it on the best authority."

The whole group exploded with raucous male laughter, drawing considerable attention their way.

"A hit, Nev, you must confess," said his cousin and tomorrow's best man, the Marquess of Attingsborough.

Neville grinned after pursing his lips and handling the ribbon of his quizzing glass. "Let those words fall on any female ears, Paul," he said, "and I might feel obliged to call you out. Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen, but do not neglect the ladies, if you please."

He strolled off in the direction of his betrothed. She was wearing a high-waisted gown of blond net over daffodil-yellow sarcenet and looked as fresh and lovely as the springtime. It really was too bad that he was not to dance with her again for the rest of the evening. But then it would be strange indeed if he could not maneuver matters more to his liking.

It was not i mmediately possible. There was the necessity of conversing politely with Mr. Calvin Dorsey, a middle-aged, mild-mannered acquaintance of Lauren's grandfather, who had come to solicit Lauren's hand for the dance after supper and who stayed for a few minutes to make himself agreeable. And then the Duke of Portfrey arrived on Dorsey's heels to lead Elizabeth away for the next set. He was her longtime friend and beau. But finally Neville saw his chance.

"It is more like summer than spring outside," he remarked to no one in particular. "The rock garden must look quite enchanting in the lantern light." He smiled with deliberate wistfulness at Lauren.

"Mmm," she said. "And the fountain too."

"I suppose," he said, "you have reserved the next set with Lauren, Uncle Webster?"

"Indeed I have," the Duke of Anburey replied, but he winked at his nephew over Lauren's head. He had not missed his cue. "But all this talk of lanterns and summer evenings has given me a hankering to see the gardens with Sadie on my arm." He looked at his wife and waggled his eyebrows. "Now if someone could just be persuaded to take young Lauren off my hands…"

"If you were to twist my arm hard enough," Neville said, while his mother smiled in enjoyment of the conspiracy, "I might be persuaded to take on the task myself."

And so one minute later he was on his way downstairs, his betrothed on his arm. It was true that they were stopped at least half a dozen times by guests desiring to compliment them on the ball and wish them well during the coming day and the years ahead, but finally they were outside and descending the wide marble steps to feast their eyes on the rainbows created by lantern light on the spraying water of the fountain. They strolled onward toward the rock garden.

"You are a quite shameless maneuverer, Neville," Lauren told him.

"Are you glad of it?" He moved his head closer to hers.

She thought for a moment, her head tipped to one side, the telltale dimple denting her left cheek. "Yes," she said quite decisively. "Very."

"We are going to remember this night," he said, "as one of the happiest of our lives." He breathed in the freshness of the air with its faint tang of saltiness from the sea. He squinted his eyes so that the lights of individual lanterns in the rock garden ahead all blurred into one kaleidoscope of color.

"Oh, Neville," she said, her hand tightening on his arm. "Does anyone have a right to so much happiness?"

"Yes," he told her, his voice low against her ear. "You do."

"Just look at the garden," she said. "The lanterns make it seem like a fairyland."

He set himself to enjoying the unexpected half hour with her.

Chapter 2