Never Too Late (30 page)

“You can’t deprive us of your company. We wouldn’t dream of it.”

One whelp lounging against a wall a few feet away said, just loud enough to carry the distance, “When you’ve tired of Lord Devin, please do consider me as his successor.” Yet his tone clearly indicated
when he is tired of you
.

“You . . . gentlemen . . . should take more care when speaking with the woman I intend to make my wife.”

Five jaws, including hers, dropped. Her sense of relief at hearing his voice was palpable—she could give the sensation a color and shape and scent. She felt it wrap around her like a thick, wool blanket. Just hearing that commanding tone of his, she knew she was safe. So very relieved was she that it took a few moments for his actual words to sink in. Even then, she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard. It was one thing for him to talk idly about marriage in private, both of them knowing it could never happen. It was quite another for him to state his marital intentions publicly, which was fundamentally as binding as saying “I do” in front of the minister. For him to state his intent to marry an old and crotchety nobody, well, the news was destined to spread throughout the room like wildfire within the next three minutes. And the reactions would be awful.

“And, you,” he said, pointing to the one who’d, moments ago, offensively put his hands on her waist, “would do well to keep your hands to yourself. While you still have them.”

There he stood, proud and dashing in black and white, holding a simple white mask, no doubt as a nod to his mother’s theme. And yet his eyes held a fury she hadn’t seen before.

Most of the young bucks around her started to stammer and rushed through whispered apologies before scattering—bolting, really—to the far edges of the room.

The last of them, the one who’d been holding up the wall, calmly shook Lord Devin’s hand and said, “You were right, Devin. You were absolutely right. I envy you.” He then made a graceful bow to Honoria and ambled away.

“Thank you, Hartley,” Lord Devin replied.

Once they were out of earshot, he looked directly at Honoria and said, “Avoid that one. Stay away from them all, but particularly that one.”

“But, of the bunch, he seemed the . . . nicest, the most sincere, which I’ll grant wouldn’t be much of an accomplishment in that particular sampling of British manhood.”

“That is precisely why you need to avoid him.”

“I must admit, I normally find machismo ridiculous, but I’m rather enjoying this little display of possessiveness. It’s . . .”

“It’s what?”

“Adorable.”

“Nora . . .” A warning.

“Endearing?”

“That is slightly better.”

“Irresistible.” She touched his cheek and looked at him, suddenly serious and breathless. “You’re irresistible.”

His eyes darkened but he said nothing.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked. “Did you recognize your sister’s dress?”

“No, it was not the dress. It was your hair. I recognized those precious silver strands immediately.” He winked as she batted him with her fan. Then his eyes swept downward, assessing. “I have never seen that dress before. In fact, this couldn’t possibly have been my sister’s. The cut would never have fit her, and you can tell how exact it is from the way the pattern lines up.”

“Oh, but then . . .” Now that he’d pointed them out, the seams were flawlessly aligned to maintain the continuity of the pattern. This couldn’t have been altered at the last minute; the designs and construction required painstaking attention. She fell silent as she realized how very much Lady Devin had given—and continued—to give her. Her face burned.

“What could you possibly be thinking, making a pronouncement like that?” she finally caught her breath enough to ask.

“I simply spoke the truth,” he said. She wouldn’t have thought his gaze could get more intense, but it did. “I intend to make you my wife—or to convince you to take me for your husband—or however you wish to phrase it. I intend to spend the rest of our days loving and being loved by you.” He must have seen the fear in her eyes as she glanced around the room. “It may seem like disdain, but in fact they are terrified of you—not of you as a person but of what you represent—the ebb and flow of your family’s status, the fact that your father willingly relinquished his social standing to become a merchant, and now your subsequent reentry into society as my wife. If you can fall and rise so easily, their rise can just as abruptly fall away. In a blink, they can lose all the pomp and privilege they so blithely enjoy. When you stand before them, they cannot deny the threat that looms over them. But their anxiety is none of your concern.”

He took her hand and led her to the orchestra. She felt a tremor run through his body into hers and saw a combination of resolve and surrender in his eyes.

“None of that matters,” he continued. “What matters is you—you and I. And anyone who disapproves can go hang,” he whispered in her ear. “I intend to show everyone, without a doubt, that I am utterly undone by you.”

She didn’t notice his cello until he left her side to climb the steps and sit in the midst of the musicians. He nodded to the conductor. The entire audience, whose interest was already piqued by the couple, became mesmerized by the opening strands of Haydn. A low whisper ran through the crowd, spreading word of Lord Devin’s performance, remarkable not only for its magnificence but more importantly for its existence at all. Peers didn’t perform before an audience; that was something ladies did in a drawing room. Men might join in for entertainment; virtuosos might play sold-out performances in a proper hall to demonstrate their expertise; but this was something entirely different. He laid bare his soul. She felt his passion as the notes vibrated through her. His arms, his body, all of his energy so clearly went into the notes he played. And when his eyes weren’t closed, anyone could see they were locked on her, on this Butterfly Lady. As the music swelled, the sharp tilts of his head with the rhythm made his hair brush along his face, leaving it in disarray. She could even distinguish his cello from the other instruments, coursing through her, raising her to the same emotional crescendo she saw in him. As the final movement came to a close, there was an audible collective sigh, including her own, before the audience erupted with applause and shouts of “Bravo!” The sight of him expressing himself so fully and so honestly through his music—and in public, no less—left her speechless. He did this for her.

As if that performance were only a prelude, Lord Devin made his way down from the dais. Contrary to his natural air of authority and aplomb, he looked unsure, unsteady, and, in fact, he missed the last step down from the stage. His momentum pitched him forward toward her. Their resulting embrace, abrupt and forceful, sent a gasp through the crowd. Her hands braced his chest, as his arms wrapped around her to anchor himself. With a bark of laughter, he righted himself, shook his head as if to clear it, and then solemnly, regally took both of her hands in his. In full view of the party, he then got down on both knees, her supplicant.

“Marry me,” he said simply and then took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

His response came out in a rush of air. “It does not matter what anyone else thinks or says. We can leave it all behind. We can be—wait. What?”

“I said yes.” She couldn’t help but smile at his incredulity. He seemed so often to know what she needed before she did that she was relieved to be able to surprise him. “Yes, I shall marry you,” she said, louder, slower, and clearer, to make sure he truly heard it.

Ultimately, she experienced no earth-shaking epiphany. No thunderbolt of realization. No stinging arrow from Cupid’s bow. Slowly, inexorably, all the messages people had been giving her simply melted into her, in particular the refrain he’d been singing over and over, that he loved her. And she loved him. How simple. She faced her fears and replaced them with a deep, unequivocal conviction. Yes, she would share the rest of her life with him, whatever that entailed. She smiled at his sudden loss of speech, at the brightness of his eyes as tears welled.

He wasn’t the only one stunned into silence. The entire room was too quiet. This was what they could look forward to from London society.

He stood, nodded to the conductor, who led the orchestra into a waltz, and calmly escorted her to the balcony.

“Why?” His question startled her. It seemed so incongruous with his hand stroking her cheek.

“Why what?”

“Why did you change your mind?” His eyes searched her face.

“Well, because you love me.”

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?”

“Come now,” he said, looking surprisingly shy. “You already know I love you. That did not seem to be enough before. So what else?”

“And . . . because you and I somehow fit.” At his raised brow, she added, “Not only in the way you’re thinking, you scoundrel, but in a larger sense.” His mouth twisted even more suggestively, and she swatted his chest. “You know what I mean. I’d long ago decided that there was no such thing as a soul mate. It wasn’t simply that I’d given up on marriage. I could happily live as a redundant woman, eking out an independent life. Yet you make me see how my life could be shared, how I can be stronger and accomplish more with a true partner.”

“And?” he asked in a whisper. He kissed her gloved knuckles, his eyes fixed on hers, almost pleading.

“Oh, dear. You poor man. I suppose I haven’t said it yet, have I?”

“No,” he said, his voice low and tense. If the line of his shoulders and the working of his jaw were any indication, he might break apart any second from the anxiety. “No, you have not. Ever.”

She said she’d marry him. Could he doubt her feelings? Could he think she would agree to marry him for anything less than complete devotion? She laid her palm against his cheek, such a simple touch.

“You seem to have so little need for words, so little regard for sentimentality. Could one little declaration mean so much to you?”

He nodded, his eyes fierce, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His warmth spread through her glove and continued through her body. She smiled up at him, opening herself to him.

“And,” she said, low but firm, “I love you. I’ve wanted you from the day you first walked into my shop. I think I’ve loved you since your mother’s dinner party,” she admitted. “I do have reservations, but I love you, and now, just this once, I will be selfish—”

That was all she could manage to say before his lips took hers. Chaste and gentle, this kiss still managed to set her heart soaring and her mind whirling. Only their hands and lips touched, and yet she felt they were already one.

“Well,” he said, long moments later, as he composed himself, “I had a whole speech prepared to sway you.”

“You could have fooled me. In any case, you can present it to me later.” She laughed and then said quietly, “I shall grow old, you know.”

“So shall I. God willing, we shall do so together.”

“But I will grow old much sooner than you. I could become an invalid. I could become demented. I will most certainly lose whatever physical charms attract you to me.”

“Nora, I love you. I love everything you are . . . but, most of all, I simply love you. Whatever happens, I will always love you. I will be by your side and revel in every moment.”

When they reentered the ballroom, Lady Devin was already waiting and swiftly embraced Honoria enthusiastically.

Society would accept his decision. And so, without warning, he reset the stage, determined to elicit the joyous response his new fi-ancée deserved. He led her up to the dais and addressed the guests.

“My dear friends, I believe it is reasonable for me to say that my mother’s balls, while infrequent, are occasions of grand celebration.” Cheers of “Here, here!” rang out in salute of his mother. “Tonight is an especially auspicious occasion. Mrs. Honoria Duchamp, you are everything I could ever want in a woman. I love you with everything I am. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Yes, the proposal had already been made, but he’d apparently determined that this was the way it should be made, with outrageously dignified pomp.

She stood her ground, eyes only for him.

“Yes, my Lord Devin, nothing would make me happier. A thousand times yes.”

He squeezed her hand as his mother and friends applauded. Slowly, the sound grew as the entire assemblage followed suit. Or most of it. A few dour souls made their way to the exit, but their censure would not darken the moment. Several of Lady Devin’s friends came up to give their felicitations, and it turned out to be the ball of Nora’s dreams.

In his arms, she felt whole. She felt cherished. She felt seen. And she felt as if, just for once, she could be the heroine of a grand, epic story indeed.

Epilogue

I
t was Lord Devin’s favorite time of day. As the gray sky deepened into twilight, he strolled into the bookshop, placed the CLOSED sign in the window, and locked the front door. He could hear his lovely wife humming in the back office, no doubt closing the day’s accounts. He’d suggested she hire an accounting clerk, but she insisted on handling the ledger herself. She simply didn’t trust anyone else to do it well enough, and finding someone as meticulous as she would indeed be difficult. They’d had his personal accountant run an audit covering the past five years. When it was complete, the man immediately offered Honoria a job with his firm, so impressed he was with her acumen. But, of course, nothing could woo her from the bookshop.

Speaking of wooing her from the bookshop, he was surprised at what an inordinately long time it was taking for Honoria to settle this day’s ledger. There she sat at the desk, head down in concentration, pencil moving continuously, pausing every few moments as she calculated. Surely there hadn’t been so large a spike in sales on a random Thursday. When he said as much, she simply raised a finger to her lips. He couldn’t even begin to explain why, but he found even the most infinitesimal of her movements charming. The pursing of her lips, the touch of her finger, the lilt of her eyebrow. Utterly fascinating.