And Then She Fell(65)
Henrietta allowed herself to be drawn into the discussion, although her opinion was not as informed as those of the others, all of whom were up with the latest news regarding ton events. She largely left them to it, while Patience’s and Alathea’s words, and even more Honoria’s, circled in her head.
Honoria was right; Henrietta knew beyond doubt that James loved her. He might not have used that precise word, but the reality was there, undeniable and unquenchable. That reality showed in his eyes, in his tone, in the way he’d made love—yes, love—to her. It was very clear in her mind that making love was what they’d done the previous night, just as it had been transparently clear at the time, even to her untutored senses, what emotion had driven them both.
She’d heard that a brush with death could strip aside the veils and reveal love as the powerful emotion it was, compelling and demanding. That was what had happened with them; it was love that had pushed them into intimacy last night, and then further, into their betrothal.
So yes, she knew James loved her, and therefore she did not need further words, yet . . .
By the time the gathering broke up and she was walking the short distance to Upper Brook Street, flanked by her mother and Mary, Henrietta had accepted that while she didn’t need to hear the words, she would nevertheless like to be on the receiving end of an avowal of undying love from James, one impossible to mistake or misconstrue.
Because even though she hadn’t uttered the words either, she was, definitely, absolutely, and irredeemably, in love with him.
Chapter Ten
The following morning, Henrietta, accompanied by Louise and Mary, attended a well-publicized at-home at Celia Cynster’s house in Dover Street.
The notice of James and Henrietta’s betrothal had duly appeared in the Gazette that morning. The Cynster ladies had chosen Celia’s long-scheduled event as Henrietta’s first foray into the wider ton as a formally affianced young lady. Several of those Cynster ladies—Honoria, Patience, and Alathea among them—were there in support, but the older ladies had deemed their presence unnecessary, and potentially too overwhelming; no one wished to deny Henrietta her moment.
As the steady stream of guests ascending Celia’s front steps attested, the announcement in the Gazette had been noted at many a ton breakfast table that morning. Matrons and their daughters flocked to Dover Street, correctly divining that there they would learn everything—all the relevant details—behind the unexpected engagement, and would thus be best placed to spread the news through the upcoming luncheons, promenades, and afternoon teas.
On gaining Celia’s drawing room, all the ladies made a beeline for Henrietta; standing with her back to the fireplace, facing the long room, she almost felt besieged. But as soon as they’d passed on their felicitations, the matrons fell back, circling to join Louise or one of the other Cynster ladies, hoping to extract further pertinent details from them. Meanwhile, the younger ladies, those not yet betrothed and those recently engaged or married, remained in a knot about Henrietta, excitedly asking about her engagement ball and speculating over when she and James would wed. The latter was something Henrietta and her mentors had decided to keep private for the moment, not that that deterred those speculating in the least.
The company was in constant flux; groups arrived, remained for twenty minutes, then departed, well primed with facts to share.
Once again to her surprise, Henrietta found herself swept up in the giddy whirl. She felt particularly gratified when several young ladies she’d helped through the years to make up their minds to accept or decline various offers arrived to press her hand and enthusiastically congratulate her on having found her own true love.
Phillipa Hemmings was typical of those who gathered to wish her well. Clasping Henrietta’s hands, Phillipa beamed. “You helped me when I needed it, and many others, too, and steered us away from unhappiness. Now that you yourself stand on the brink of the ultimate happiness, I couldn’t be more happy were it me in your shoes.”
A chorus of “Hear, hear” echoed around the group.
“Thank you!” Beaming back, Henrietta squeezed Phillipa’s hands and released them, then scanned the bright faces surrounding her. “I had no idea you would all feel so . . . delighted on my behalf.”
Constance Witherby, now the younger Lady Hume, laughed. “Henrietta, my dear, you’re twenty-nine—you’ve been helping young ladies like us for nearly a decade and you’ve never, to my knowledge, steered us wrongly. Of course there are many who wish you well. Heaven help you, you’ve earned it!”