Only Beloved by Mary Balogh Page B

and galloping along simultaneously. It seemed like far longer ago than one month since she had been at her cottage in Inglebrook, contented enough with her life and the set routine of her days, asking nothing more of the future than a continuation of the same. Indeed, it seemed almost like something that must have happened to someone else during a different lifetime. And yet . . . Well, she awoke on the morning of her wedding unable to believe that the month had already gone by. It seemed but yesterday that she had arrived in London with all the time in the world to adjust to the new reality of her existence.
    She awoke with the panicked feeling that she had been rushed, that she was not nearly ready, that she was not even perfectly sure this was the right thing to be doing. There was a strange yearning to have the comfort and security of her old life back. This new one was far too vivid, too brilliantly . . .
happy
to last. The futureyawned ahead, unknown and unknowable. Could she trust it? She was surprised she had slept, even resented the fact that she had. She had needed the night in which to ponder and consider.
    But what was there to consider?
    Was she afraid of happiness? Because it had let her down way back in her youth and she was wary of giving in to it again? She was about to marry a kind and wonderful man. She was even—she might as well be honest in the privacy of her own mind—a little in love with him. Perhaps a lot in love, though she would never admit to such foolishness outside the privacy of her own mind. In any case, she was going to marry him
today
. Before the morning was out, in fact. Nothing could or would stop that, for he was a man of honor. Besides, he wanted to marry her. He had come all the way to Inglebrook to propose to her, and there had been nothing in his manner since to suggest that he regretted having done so.
    No, there really was nothing to ponder and nothing to fear. She threw back the bedcovers, got out of bed, and crossed the room to draw back the curtains from the window. It had rained on and off for the last four days, and the sky had been heavy with clouds the whole time. It had also been windy and chilly for June. But look! This morning the sky was blue with not a cloud in sight. The trees in the park at the center of the square below were still, not even a slight breeze rustling the leaves. Sunlight slanted through them from the east.
    Oh, it was shaping up to be a perfect day. But of course it was. It would have been perfect even if it were bucketing down with rain and a gale was blowing.
    It was still very early. Dora took her shawl from the chair beside her bed, wrapped it about her shoulders against the slight chill, and sat on the window seat. She drew her legs up before her and hugged her knees with both arms. She looked across the square toward Stanbrook House, but it was more than half hidden behind the trees. Was he awake yet? Was he looking across here? By tonight Stanbrook House would be her home. This time tomorrow she would be there with him. She could both feel and hear her heartbeat quicken and smiled ruefully. It was a bit embarrassing to be thirty-nine years old and a virgin while he, presumably, had years of experience behind him. Well, of course he did. He had been married for almost twenty years.
    But she did not want to think of that. Certainly not today.
    And suddenly, out of nowhere, came a great stabbing of longing for her mother. It took her breath away and made her stomach churn. She dipped her head until her forehead rested on her knees and swallowed against a lump in her throat.
    Her mother had been vibrantly beautiful and full of smiles and laughter and love. She had doted upon her children and had never engaged a nurse to look after them. She had wept inconsolably when Oliver went away to school at the age of twelve, when Dora was ten. Dora had had her undivided attention for the next two years until Agnes was born. Mama had