“I hope so too,” she told him unhappily.

  She had indeed danced on several occasions with Julian. She had sat beside him at a private concert, driven twice in the park with him, conversed with him at various parties and soirees, and met him once by chance on Bond Street when she was with her mother. He had invited them on that occasion to partake of tea and cakes with him at a nearby pastry cook’s. She and her mother called upon Lady Charles Crabbe one afternoon when she was entertaining, and Julian put in an appearance there and conversed with them for a few minutes before moving on to speak with other ladies.

  Lady Charles paid particular attention to Philippa during the visit, even taking her hand in her own at one point and keeping it there longer than was necessary while they conversed with someone else.

  It seemed an endless six weeks to Philippa. But she honored Julian’s determination to do things correctly at last, for of course their two-year correspondence had been anything but correct. He wanted to win the trust and approval of her parents.

  And it seemed to be working.

  “He is a pleasant young man,” Philippa’s mother commented after the visit to Lady Charles. “A dutiful son and attentive to all her guests, which I know men find difficult when all those guests are ladies. I believe he favors you, Philippa.”

  “I was unsure whether to be pleased or disturbed when he called here on his arrival in London,” her father said at dinner one evening when Julian’s name had been mentioned. “He was a wild jackanapes when he came to Bath, and I came very close to boxing his ears when he had the effrontery to take Philippa’s hand in his for all the world to see at Sydney Gardens when she was just a schoolgirl. But I have heard nothing but good of him since then, I must say, and his behavior seems to bear that out. And he appears to like you all over again, Philippa.”

  “I like him too, Papa,” she said. “But I like a number of the gentlemen who have been obliging enough to seek out my acquaintance.”

  “Oh, I think you like him a little more than you like the others,” her mother said with a twinkling smile.

  Philippa could feel her cheeks grow warm. “I do,” she admitted. “But I hope I am not making my preference obvious to other people. I always try—”

  “And you succeed.” Her mother’s hand stretched across the table to cover hers. “Your papa and I are very pleased with you, Philippa. You are a good, dutiful girl.”

  She felt guilty then, for she had not always been good. She had frightened off Viscount Darleigh quite deliberately. And she had written secretly to Julian for two years.

  “Your mama is quite right,” her father agreed, beaming genially at her. “And if young Crabbe should come offering for you and can convince me that he is as eligible as he appears to be, then I will allow him to speak to you.”

  “I am sorry about Mr. Mendelhall,” she said. “I know you and Mama approved of him and were hoping I would accept him.”

  Two days later, her father arrived home late in the morning with the announcement that Julian had found him at White’s Club and asked if he might call upon him during the afternoon.

  Philippa sat in the drawing room, stitching at her embroidery. Embroidering was one of her favorite activities, but she had scarcely touched it since coming to London. She had been too busy. And it was hard now to think her way back into the design, which she was creating for herself rather than working from a pattern book. Her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

  Her mother sat across from her, similarly employed.

  He had arrived. Julian, that was. Her mama had been looking through the window—she herself had studiously avoided doing so—and had seen him come. He had been downstairs with her father for what seemed an endless age.

  What if he could not convince Papa that he would make her a good husband? What if he had been sent away already and Papa had neglected to come to tell them so?

  The door opened even as the horrid thought came to her.

  “Well, Philippa,” her father said after coming inside the room and closing the door behind him. “Crabbe is in the book room waiting to speak to you. I have given my leave for him to pay you his addresses, though I assured him that the final decision is yours and yours alone to make. You know that bringing you here for the Season has been an expensive business and one I could not repeat next year—not with two other girls to bring out within the next few years. Nevertheless, your happiness is of the first importance to me, and to your mama. If this young man does not suit you, then you must tell him so without the fear—”

  “Oh, good gracious, Geoffrey,” Philippa’s mother said impatiently. “Can you not tell that Philippa is head over ears in love with the man?”

  He raised his eyebrows, set his hands behind him, and rocked on his heels.

  “Well, I can tell,” he said. “But I—”

  “Thank you, Papa.” Philippa had threaded her needle through her cloth and set it aside and got to her feet. She crossed the room to him and hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I do love him, you know, and always have. But I love you too, and I was sorry to disappoint you and Mama two years ago. I hope I will never do so again.”

  And she left the room and ran lightly down the stairs, forgetting about the dignity that should have taken her down far more slowly—as if she did not care that all her future happiness was waiting on the other side of the book room door.

  The butler opened it and she stepped inside.

  Julian was standing over by the window, formally and elegantly dressed in tight pantaloons and shining Hessian boots and with a form-fitting coat of green superfine over crisp white linen and neckcloth. He looked more handsome than ever and … nervous?

  She smiled at him and stopped herself from rushing across the room toward him. She sank her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Philippa,” he said.

  She blinked away tears.

  “My love,” he said, “will you marry me?”

  If she had pictured bended knee and a poetic speech and a few dozen red roses, the picture vanished beyond a trace.

  “Yes,” she said.

  And if she had imagined the pretty speech she would deliver after he had asked, it was gone from her mind never to be recalled.

  He took one step toward her and then another, and she released her lower lip and moved toward him.

  They met with a rush in the middle of the room, both of them laughing, and he wrapped his arms about her, lifted her off her feet, and spun her around in two complete circles before setting her down.

  But he did not release his hold on her waist. She set her hands on his shoulders and gazed into his eyes.

  She had never been this close to him before, even when they had waltzed. His arms had never been about her like this, holding her to him as if he would never let go. She had never felt the hardness, the maleness of his body against her own. She had never felt his breath warm on her face.

  He had never kissed her. His mouth hovered now a tantalizing inch from her own.

  “I love you,” he murmured.

  Her lips parted, and she gazed back into his eyes—oh, so close to her own.

  “I love you too.”

  How lame words could be. Especially such words. But it did not matter. It was not words they were saying to each other. It was all that the words meant.

  He loved her, and she loved him.

  He closed the inch of space, and his lips touched hers.

  Oh, no, words were quite, quite unnecessary. Except that they echoed in the mind, the words everyone dreamed of hearing from that special someone and dreamed of saying in return.

  I love you.

  Her arms twined about his neck, his wrapped more tightly about her waist, and they kissed with all the passion of young love.

  Words no longer existed.

  BY MARY BALOGH

  The Survivors’ Club Series

  The Proposal

  The Arrangement

  The Mistress Series

  More than a Mistress

  No Man’s Mistress

  The Secret Mistress

  The Huxtable Series

  First Comes Marriage

  Then Comes Seduction

  At Last Comes Love

  Seducing an Angel

  A Secret Affair

  The Simply Quartet

  Simply Unforgettable

  Simply Love

  Simply Magic

  Simply Perfect

  The Slightly Series

  Slightly Married

  Slightly Wicked

  Slightly Scandalous

  Slightly Tempted

  Slightly Sinful

  Slightly Dangerous

  Beloved Classic Novels

  A Summer to Remember

  One Night for Love

  The Ideal Wife

  The Secret Pearl

  A Precious Jewel

  The Gilded Web

  Web of Love

  The Devil’s Web

  A Christmas Promise

  Dark Angel/Lord Carew’s Bride

  The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

  The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring

  A Christmas Bride/Christmas Beau

  A Counterfeit Betrothal/The Notorious Rake

  About the Author

  MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous books, including the acclaimed Survivors’ Club series, Slightly and Simply novels, the Mistress trilogy, and the five titles in her Huxtable series: First Comes Marriage, Then Comes Seduction, At Last Comes Love, Seducing an Angel, and A Secret Affair. A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.

  www.marybalogh.com

  Wondering what became of Vincent Hunt, Viscount Darleigh?

  His story continues with …

  THE ARRANGEMENT

  Coming soon from Dell

  Read on for a sneak peek!

  2

  Vincent’s arrival had not gone unobserved.

  Covington House was the last building at one end of the main street through the village. To the far side of it was a low hill covered with trees. There was a young woman on that hill and among those trees. She wandered at all times of day about the countryside surrounding Barton Hall, where she lived with her aunt and uncle, Sir Clarence and Lady March, though she was not often out quite this early. But this morning she had woken when it was still dark and had been unable to get back to sleep. Her window was open, and a bird with a particularly strident call had obviously not noticed that dawn had not yet arrived. So, rather than shut her window and climb back into bed, she had dressed and come outside, chilly as the early morning air was, because there was something rare and lovely about watching the darkness lift away from another dawning day. And she had come here in particular because the trees housed dozens, perhaps hundreds, of birds, many of them with sweeter voices than the one that had awoken her, and they always sang most earnestly when they were heralding a new day.

  She stood very still so as not to disturb them, her back against the sturdy trunk of a beech tree, her arms stretched out about it behind her to enjoy its rough texture through her thin gloves—so thin, in fact, that the left thumb and right forefinger had already worn through. She drank in the beauty and peace of her surroundings and ignored the cold, which penetrated her almost threadbare cloak as if it were not even there, and set her fingers to tingling.

  She looked down upon Covington House, her favorite building in Barton Coombs. It was neither a mansion nor a cottage. It was not even a manor. But it was large and square and solid. It was also deserted and had been since before she came here to live two years ago. It was still owned by the Hunt family, about whom she had heard many stories, perhaps because Vincent Hunt, the only son, had unexpectedly inherited a title and fortune a few years ago. It was the stuff of fairy tales, except that it had a sad component too, as many fairy tales did.

  She liked to look at the house and imagine it as it might have been when the Hunts lived there—the absentminded but much-loved schoolmaster, his busy wife and three pretty daughters, and his exuberant, athletic, mischievous son, who was always the best at whatever sport was being played and always at the forefront of any waggery that was brewing and always adored by old and young alike—except by the Marches, against whom his pranks were most often directed. She liked to think that if she had lived here then, she would have been friends with the girls and perhaps even with their brother, although they were all older than she. She liked to picture herself running in and out of Covington House without even knocking at the door, almost as if she belonged there. She liked to imagine that she would have attended the village school with all the other children, except Henrietta March, her cousin, who had been educated at home by a French governess.

  She was Sophia Fry, though her name was rarely used. She was known by her relatives, when she was known as anything at all, and perhaps by their servants too, as the mouse. She lived at Barton Hall on sufferance because there was nowhere else for her to go. Her father was dead; her mother had left them long ago and since died; her uncle, Sir Terrence Fry, had never had anything to do with either her father or her; and the elder of her paternal aunts, to whom she had been sent first after her father’s passing, had died two years ago.

  She felt sometimes that she inhabited a no-man’s-land between the family at Barton Hall and the servants, that she belonged with neither group and was noticed and cared about by neither. She consoled herself with the fact that her invisibility gave her some freedom at least. Henrietta was always hedged about with maids and chaperons and a vigilant mother and father, whose sole ambition for her was that she marry a titled gentleman, preferably a wealthy one, though that was not an essential qualification, as Sir Clarence was himself a rich man. Henrietta shared her parents’ ambitions, with one notable exception.

  Sophia’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses approaching from beyond the village, and it was soon obvious that they were drawing some sort of carriage. It was very early in the day for travel. It was a stagecoach, perhaps? She stepped around the trunk of the tree and half hid behind it, though it was unlikely she would be seen from below. Her cloak was gray, her cotton bonnet nondescript in both style and color, and it was still not full daylight.

  She saw it was a private carriage—a very smart one. But before she could weave some story about it as it passed along the village street and out of sight, it slowed and turned onto the short driveway to Covington House. It stopped before the front doors.

  Her eyes widened. Could it be …?

  The coachman jumped down from his perch and opened the carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked around and said something to the coachman—Sophia could hear the rumble of his voice but not what he said. And then they both turned to watch another man.

  He descended without assistance. He moved surefooted and without hesitation. But it was instantly obvious to Sophia that his cane was not a mere fashion accessory but something he used to help him find his way.

  She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly, that it was inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her. He had come, then, as everyone had said he would.

  The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt, had come home.

  Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and when he came, Henrietta would marry him.

  Henrietta, on the other hand, would not be gratified. For once in her life she was opposed to her parents’ dearest wish. She had declared more than once in Sophia’s hearing that she would rather die a spinster at the age of eighty than marry a blind man with a ruined face even if he was a viscount and even if he was far more wealthy than her papa.

  Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the new arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was not particularly tall and he had a slight, graceful build. He carried himself well. He did not hunch over his cane or paw the air with his free hand. He was neatly, elegantly clad. Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She wondered how much of the old Vincent Hunt was still present in the blind Viscount Darleigh. He had descended from his carriage without assistance. That fact pleased her.

  She could not see his face; his tall hat hid it from her view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.

  He and the burly man stood on the driveway for a few minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of the house and returned with what must be the key, for he bent to the lock of the front door, and within moments it swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended the steps before the door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside with the larger man behind him.

  Sophia stood watching for another few minutes, but there was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse and carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away and made her way back in the direction of Barton Hall. Standing still had thoroughly chilled her.

  She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she decided. No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer any information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know soon enough.

  Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a quiet stay at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who observed his arrival.

  A farm laborer, on his way to milk cows, had the distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his colleagues for days to come—of witnessing the arrival of Viscount Darleigh’s carriage at Covington House. He had stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch Vincent-Hunt-that-was descend after Martin Fisk, the blacksmith’s son. By seven o’clock in the morning he had told his wife, having dashed back home for that sole purpose; his baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in the momentous news; his fellow laborers; the blacksmith and the blacksmith’s wife; and Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had cast a shoe late the evening before.