Dora did not believe she had ever smiled so much in her life. And the strange thing was that much of the time it was with genuine happiness. And why not? She might have been dead, but was alive and unharmed-except, she suspected, emotionally. She had been saved by the combined efforts of her husband, her husband's nephew, and her mother's husband, whom she had despised for years and had only very recently grown to respect and even like.

What was not to be happy about?

And the evening she had dreamed about for weeks was happening all about her. She had missed the formal dinner, it was true, but the hours of the ball stretched ahead, and she could scarcely contain the excitement she felt at the sight of the flower-decked staircase and ballroom, of the chandeliers raised back to their place below the ceiling and blazing with candles and crystals, of the floor gleaming with polish, and-oh, and everything. The orchestra had arrived. Their instruments were propped on the dais at one end of the long ballroom. A violinist was tuning his strings at the pianoforte. Long tables in the adjoining salon were spread with crisp white tablecloths and adorned with vases of flowers and china and crystal gla.s.ses and silverware. The food and beverages would be carried out as soon as the guests began to arrive. The few who were already present, strolling about the perimeter of the room or seated on velvet-backed chairs, were gorgeously clad and coiffed for the occasion.

And this was all her doing-though she smiled with genuine amus.e.m.e.nt when she thought of how little she had had to exert herself to bring it all about. She and George must have the world's best servants.

Oh, what was there not to be happy about?

Well, for one thing there was her knowledge of the terrible unhappiness of much of George's life, most of it still locked up inside himself. And then there was the knowledge that the Earl of Eastham had wanted to kill her this afternoon and had very nearly succeeded. He had a.s.sured her that it was nothing personal, but it had felt very personal. It was a dreadful thing to have encountered a murderous hatred like that. And there was the fact that he had died. It lay heavy upon her spirits to know that someone with whom she had walked and talked a mere few hours ago was now dead. She knew she would remember the sight of him tumbling past her and the sound of his scream for a long, long time. She wondered what had happened to him, or, rather, to his body.

The first thing Dora did after stopping in the doorway to admire the ballroom was slip her arm free of George's in order to make her way about the room, greeting the guests who were staying for the night and apologizing to them for not having been present to show them to their rooms earlier or to entertain them at dinner. It felt very good, she thought, to be able to do this alone without expiring from terror. Terror? There was nothing so very terrible about shaking hands with people who seemed kindly disposed toward her, about acknowledging curtsies and bows and hearing herself called "Your Grace" and making conversation. After this afternoon surely nothing could ever make her afraid again.

She had come a long way in a few short months.

Everyone, of course, a.s.sured her that there was nothing for which to apologize, and expressed their concern for her well-being, as well as commiserated with her on her dreadful ordeal. She must expect more of the same when the outside guests arrived, she realized. At least no one this evening would lack for a topic of conversation.

But there were two other specific things she wished to do before the guests did arrive-and the earliest of them would surely be here any minute. She spotted Julian and Philippa over by the orchestra dais, just turning away from talking with the violinist.

Dora held her hands out to Philippa and kissed her on both cheeks.

"I have it on the best authority," she said, "that you are a real gem, Philippa, and acquitted your duties as hostess during dinner with your usual quiet charm. But I did not need to be told. Thank you, my dear."

"I cannot believe," Philippa said, "that I allowed that man to buy lemonade for me this afternoon and that I would have told you of his request to speak with you myself if Lady Havell had not a.s.sured me that she would tell you so that I could run on up to the nursery. I am so very sorry, Aunt Dora."

"Don't be," Dora said. "As George observed earlier, we must all stop blaming ourselves. There was only one man to blame." She turned to Julian, set both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him too on both cheeks. "It was you who distracted him sufficiently to allow me to break free. Thank you, Julian."

He grinned at her and patted her hands on his shoulders. "I had to do something to protect the future heir," he said, "since Philippa and I have decided that it would be far better that he be Uncle George's son rather than his nephew."

"Well," Dora said, "the heir may still be the nephew, you know, if this child should turn out to be a daughter. George and I will be equally happy either way."

They all chuckled, and the laughter felt good. But Dora had spotted her mother just coming through the French windows with Sir Everard. They must have stepped outside onto the balcony for some air.

"Oh, do excuse me, if you will," she said, and hurried toward them.

Her mother's face lit up with pleasure. "How beautiful you look, Dora," she said. "Pink always was a good color for you, though you used to protest that it was better for blondes. But are you sure you should be down here? You will not overexert yourself?"

"I promise I will not," Dora a.s.sured her. "I have already had the lecture from George."

Her mother too looked rather magnificent in a silver-blue gown that was of cla.s.sic rather than fashionable design and that Dora suspected she had made herself. Her mother had always been a skilled needlewoman. Her silver hair was elegantly styled. The extra weight she had gained since her youth actually suited her, Dora thought, as did the soft smile that brought back so many memories of the mama she had adored.

"I approve of His Grace," her mother said.

"Oh, so do I." Dora laughed and turned to Sir Everard. She held out her hands to him, but when he took them, she drew them free impulsively, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed his cheek. She blinked back tears. "I owe you my life, Sir Everard. And really, I do not believe there is anyone to whom I would rather owe it. You have been good to Mama. You stood by her when you might easily have abandoned her. I am sorry I snubbed you when we called on you in Kensington. I did not understand then how good you had been or how good you are. And I thank you for my life."

"My dear Dora." He possessed himself of her hands again and looked rather embarra.s.sed, though Dora's mother was gazing at him with a beaming smile. "I was there this afternoon and had to do something vaguely heroic. I am only glad that somehow you survived intact. And as for your mother-well, I suppose I loved her even before she was unjustly shamed and forced to flee her home. I would never have admitted it, even to myself, if circ.u.mstances had not presented me with the greatest gift of my life. I love her, my dear. Remaining at her side has never been any sacrifice. Quite the contrary."

Oh, she liked him, Dora thought. For of course he had sacrificed a great deal when he had stood by an older woman with whom he had been enjoying what had probably been no more than a light flirtation. She had been ostracized by society when she had left Papa and he had divorced her. And though the man in such situations usually fared rather better, nevertheless his own social life must have been severely curtailed and his chances of making a more advantageous marriage totally lost. It was clear that although he was not impoverished, neither was he a wealthy man.

But he was a loyal and affectionate man. And a dignified man. He was, she thought disloyally, more worthy of her regard than her own father was.

"I believe the guests are arriving," she said. "I must join George."

The Penderris ball would not have qualified for that prized appellation of "sad squeeze" if it had been taking place in London, Dora thought over the next half hour or so. Even before some of the guests, mostly the older ones, drifted off to the card room and a number of others wandered into the salon to look over the refreshments, there was room to breathe in the ballroom. Nevertheless, to her eyes it seemed a dazzlingly crowded event, for everyone who had been invited had come.

Even the Clarks came, both of them looking stiff and rather drawn. They came, Dora guessed, partly out of curiosity, and partly so that their absence would not suggest they had somehow conspired with the Earl of Eastham in a murder plot. George smiled and bowed politely to them. Dora smiled too and a.s.sured Mr. Clark when he asked that she was feeling quite well after resting for a couple of hours on the physician's advice.

Mrs. Parkinson came a little later with Mr. and Mrs. Yarby, smiling and gracious and eager to inform Dora that she had received a letter that very morning from her dearest Gwen and could only feel sorry that dear Lady Trentham was less loyal to an old friendship than she was and wrote only one short letter for every three long ones Mrs. Parkinson herself wrote.

"Though I do make allowances, Your Grace," she added, "for the fact that she has a young child and I am not at all sure Lord Trentham has hired a superior nurse to a.s.sume the full care of it-or that he understands a lady's obligation to spend her mornings dealing with her correspondence. His father was in business, you know. My poor, dearest Gwen."

She must remember to share that little tidbit, Dora thought, the next time she wrote to Gwen.

Ann and James c.o.x-Hampton arrived with their two eldest daughters, who would not have been deemed old enough for a London ball but were very welcome at this one. James wrung George's hand wordlessly while Ann hugged Dora for several seconds.

"You look beautiful," she said, "and very poised after your dreadful ordeal. If it were only genteel for a lady to make a wager, I would have just won a fortune from James. He bet you would not make an appearance tonight."

"But then, my love," James said, "I would have had to live off my wife's fortune for the rest of my days, and you would have lost all respect for me. I am glad you are keeping a stiff upper lip, Dora."

Barbara Newman also hugged Dora tightly when she arrived with the vicar.

"I very rarely pay much credence to gossip," she said. "It is almost always either grossly exaggerated or entirely untrue. But the Earl of Eastham is dead, so I suppose your life really was in grave danger."

"But I have survived," Dora said. "Do enjoy the ball, Barbara. I shall find some time later to tell you all about it, when you are not dancing."

And finally it seemed that everyone had arrived. Since country entertainments tended to end earlier than London ones, there were never many latecomers. The phrase fashionably late was scarcely known in the country.

And now George was drawing her arm through his and looking closely at her. "You are glowing," he said, "and I am dazzled. But are the smiles and the sparkling eyes hiding fatigue, Dora?"

"They are not," she a.s.sured him. "But I will keep my promise not to dance even though Dr. Dodd mentioned only the more strenuous ones. It will be enough to watch and enjoy the fruits of everyone's labors except my own."

He laughed. "But the ball was your idea," he said, "and that is what counts. Allow me to take you to Ann. She has been busy seeing to it that her girls have respectable partners for the opening set and seems to have no intention of dancing herself."

He did not need to take her anywhere. She was the d.u.c.h.ess of Stanbrook. Goodness, she was even wearing her tiara. And she was hostess of the ball. But she allowed him to lead her to her friend's side before going to open the dancing with Philippa. During that set of vigorous country dances she told Ann everything that had happened-omitting only some of the details the earl had revealed to her. It was, she discovered, a relief to unburden herself to someone who had not been involved. She would probably do the same with Barbara later, but not with anyone else. Let other people tell the story.

More than anything else tonight, Dora wanted to enjoy herself. There was so much to celebrate-her marriage, her pregnancy, her reconciliation with her mother, friendship.

Life itself.

She spent the evening circulating among her guests, as she had always intended to do. She had never meant to do much dancing. She spoke with everyone, occasionally answering questions about the afternoon but talking on a number of other topics too. She found partners for all the younger people who clearly did want to dance but were too shy to make themselves noticed-and that applied to young gentlemen as well as to young ladies. Indeed it applied more so to them, for the girls had mothers to help them find partners while the boys were expected to fend for themselves. She fetched plates of food for a few elderly people who could not move easily among crowds, although there were servants constantly circulating with trays. She deliberately stood with Mr. and Mrs. Clark between two sets and made them laugh with stories from her music-teaching days. She went up to the high gallery that ran along one end of the ballroom when she spotted the two young children of a couple of her houseguests up there with their nurse. And she delighted them by fetching them a plate of sweetmeats from the refreshment room after obtaining the nurse's permission.

Oh, yes, she did indeed enjoy herself. How could she not? For the ball was clearly a success. She had been a little afraid that the fact of a man's having died on Penderris land earlier today might put a damper upon the festivities, but it had not done so. George spent much of the evening dancing and the rest moving among the guests, as Dora was doing. He looked happy and at ease.

But oh, she thought treacherously a couple of times during the course of the evening, how she wished she could dance at least once. Not all the dances were strenuous ones. But she had promised . . .

The second of the two waltzes planned for the evening was after supper. George had danced the first with her mother, who was as light on her feet as she had been when Dora was a girl. Dora had watched rather wistfully until she had spotted those children up in the gallery and distracted herself by going up to them.

Now the guests were instructed to take their partners for the second waltz. Dora, standing with Barbara, whose attention had been taken for a moment by someone on her other side, cooled her face with her fan until it was taken from her hand.

"You are overwarm?" George asked, continuing to ply the fan. "You have been exerting yourself too much?"

"I have not exerted myself at all," she a.s.sured him. "But is it not the loveliest ball you have ever attended, George? And do feel free to lie."

"Ah, but I can speak only the truth," he said. "It is by far the loveliest ball I have ever attended, perhaps because the loveliest lady I have ever known is here."

"I will not ask who she is," she said. "I might be mortified by your answer."

"But I can speak only the truth, remember," he said. "She is you."

She laughed and his smile deepened. It had surprised and delighted her since their wedding to discover that they could occasionally exchange silly banter and share laughter.

"I am speaking the truth," he a.s.sured her. "I remember your telling me soon after you agreed to marry me at St. George's that you had always dreamed of waltzing at a London ball. We will do it one day, but will our own ball here at Penderris serve the purpose for now? Will you waltz with me?"

Oh. She felt a great surge of yearning. "But I promised a certain tyrant that I would not dance at all."

"The certain tyrant recalls, though, that only strenuous dancing was prohibited," he said. "He also had a word with the orchestra leader after supper and specifically asked for a slower, more sedate version of the waltz than the one that was played earlier." He looked deeply into her eyes. "Will you waltz with me, Dora?"

She took her fan from his hand and closed it. "It would make the evening perfect," she said.

He offered his arm, and she placed her hand on his cuff.

She had waltzed once, at a local a.s.sembly in Inglebrook, with a gentleman farmer who must have practiced the steps while prancing away from a frisky bull. It had not been a particularly enjoyable experience, though she had always felt that it could be. It was surely the most romantic dance ever invented-when danced with the right partner.

She was sure she had the right partner tonight.

He set a hand at the back of her waist and took her hand in a warm clasp. She rested her other hand on his shoulder-so warm and firm and dependable. She had time only to notice a few of the other couples who had taken the floor about them-her mother with Sir Everard, Ann and James, Philippa and Julian. And then the music began.

Any fear she might have had that she would not know the steps well enough was soon dispelled. They moved about the ballroom as though one, and it felt, Dora thought, like being right inside the music and creating it with one's whole body instead of just with one's fingers upon a keyboard. It felt like a creation of all the senses instead of just sound. There were the crystal chandeliers and the candlelight to see overhead and the flowers and greenery below. There were the perfumes of the plants and of various colognes-and even of coffee. There were the sounds of music and feet moving rhythmically on the floor and voices and laughter. There was the aftertaste of wine and cake. And there was the feel of an evening coat beneath her one hand, of a larger hand in her other, of body heat. There were people enjoying themselves. And nothing was static, as nothing ever was with music-or life. Everything swirled about her with light and color, and she swirled in its midst.

All was life and joy.

But there was the one constant at the center of it all-the man who held her and waltzed with her. St.u.r.dy and elegant, stoic and kind, aristocratic and very human, complex and vulnerable-her companion and friend, her husband, her lover. Creating the music of life with her.

It was strange how such an uplift of euphoria could follow so closely upon life-threatening terror. The two extremes of life. Or perhaps not so strange.

She remembered his saying that he had carried her up to the house from partway down that rock face. The reality of that fact had not impressed itself fully upon her consciousness until now. He had carried her.

But thought drifted away as they waltzed and only sensation remained.

She felt a trifle bereft when the music finally drew to a close. But George held her a little longer while the other dancers moved off the floor.

"I would like you to go up to bed now," he said. "Will you? I will make your excuses, and everyone will understand. There is to be one more set, I believe. And then there will be all the bustle of everyone's leaving."

She was suddenly weary and nodded.

"Come," he said. "I will escort you up."

He left her outside her dressing room, having given instructions downstairs that Maisie was to be sent up without delay. He took both her hands in his and kissed the backs of them.

"Good night, Dora," he said, and for a brief moment she thought she saw something unguarded in his eyes-some unhappiness, some deep-seated suffering. But the light was dim and she might have been mistaken. He had not brought a branch of candles up with them. There were only the candles flickering in the wall sconces.

He turned away and strode back along the corridor.

We will talk, he had said earlier. But she wondered if they ever would.

George was glad he had persuaded Dora to go to bed. He had never hosted a grand ball, though of course this was a country affair and therefore not quite the squeeze he might have expected in London. Nevertheless, he knew something about all the chaos of the ending of a ball, when people suddenly wished to talk with one another as though they had not had a chance to do so all evening, and when carriages jostled for position at the door and then, when successful, had to wait for their owners to take a protracted leave of their hosts and every friend and acquaintance they had ever had. Even when the final carriage had disappeared along the driveway, there were still the houseguests, who wished to talk about how wonderful the evening had been before going off to bed.

Well over an hour had pa.s.sed since the ending of the ball before George let himself quietly into his dressing room so as not to wake Dora in the adjoining bedchamber. But, just as had happened earlier, like dej vu, he could hear soft music coming from the sitting room.

Why had he expected that she would be asleep, exhausted as she must be?

He undressed without the a.s.sistance of his valet, whom he had instructed to go to bed, and donned a nightshirt and dressing gown before letting himself into the sitting room.

She stopped playing and looked up at him with a smile. She too was dressed for bed. Her hair was loose and had been brushed to a shine. She looked very weary.

"I take it," she said, "no one left early."

"No one even left late," he said. "Everyone left very late. A sign of the great success of your ball. It will be talked about for a decade."

"We must entertain more often," she said, "even if not always on such a large scale."

"We must," he agreed, walking closer to her. "But not tomorrow, if you do not mind, Dora, or the day after. You could not sleep?"

She shook her head. "I was afraid to try."

"Afraid of nightmares?"

She turned on the stool so that her knees touched his own. She nodded, and he rested one hand against the top of her head and smoothed it over her hair.

"There were only maybe two more steps between me and a vast emptiness," she said. "And I knew that nothing was going to change his mind. Nothing I said, nothing you said."

They were both silent for a while until she leaned forward to wrap her arms about his waist and bury her face against his chest. And she wept with great heaving sobs.

He held her, his eyes shut tight, and wondered what the insanity would have felt like afterward if . . .

She wept until the front of his dressing gown and the nightshirt beneath it were soggy, and then she raised her face to his so that he could dry it with his handkerchief. She took it from his hand and blew her nose.

"I want to go there tomorrow," she told him, setting the handkerchief down on the bench behind her. "I want to walk along the headland path, and I want to go down onto the beach. This is my home, and if I do not do it tomorrow, I never will. Come with me?"

He was horrified.

"Of course." And it struck him, even as his knees felt weak beneath him, that she was quite right-and incredibly brave. "But it is very late and we must sleep. I will hold you against the nightmares, Dora. I will not let anyone or anything harm you." Foolish words in light of his utter helplessness this afternoon. One could not always protect what was one's own. "We will talk, I a.s.sure you, but not tonight." He hesitated a moment. "Allow me to show you something tonight, though."

She got to her feet and set her hand in his. He took her into their bedchamber and opened the top drawer of the rarely used bureau there. He took out an object wrapped in a soft cloth and unwrapped it. He picked up the nearest candle and held it aloft while he handed her the framed painting.