Epilogue
Linden Hall, York
Late spring, 1819
Sibella descended the staircase to the marble hall where John waited, a hand on the banister smiling up at her, his dark evening clothes and crisp cravat a perfect foil for his fair hair. Their recent stolen moments still warmed her as she smiled back at him.
“You are beautiful, my love,” he said, tucking her arm through his. “Shall we await the arrival of our guests?”
“I am assured everything is ready, but you did distract me from making a final inspection,” she scolded.
“You weren’t complaining at the time,” he said with a wicked smile.
Sibella raised her eyebrows. “You are far too good at distraction, my lord.” A smile tugged her lips as she picked up her emerald green silk skirts and crossed the marble floor to Rhodes who stood in his black butler’s garb casting a stern eye over the footmen and the tittering maids.
The first to arrive were John’s sisters. Sibella kissed Georgina’s cheek. “How radiant you seem. You are well?” The exquisite cream lace gown perfectly concealed the early stages of her pregnancy.
“I am, thank you. You should always wear that shade of green to highlight your eyes.”
“A little too much artifice, perhaps?” She curtsied to Broadstairs. “Your Grace.”
“I quite agree with my wife, Lady Sibella. You’re stunning in green,” he said with his gentle smile.
Sibella greeted John’s older sister, Eleanor dressed in lavender. Sibella was pleased to find she’d cast aside her mourning clothes.
“How do you find Devon?”
“Suitably quiet,” Eleanor said. “I miss of the hubbub of London at times, however.”
Sibella was tempted to play matchmaker, for a woman as lovely and interesting as Eleanor should not languish as a widow forever.
The rattle of carriage wheels sounded on the driveway, and a moment later, bright chatter flooded into the hall as Hetty and her husband, Guy, Baron Fortescue, entered.
“How good to see you both,” Sibella said, as John shook Guy’s hand. “Congratulations on the birth of your daughter. What did you call her?”
“Genevieve, after Guy’s sister.” Hetty said. “Genny for short. I look forward to your company when you have a quiet moment, Sibella,” she said as more guests came through the door. “There’s Lady Eleanor. I simply must speak to her. I wish to convey my condolences for her loss. I missed Lord Gordon’s funeral.”
Sibella smiled to herself. The conversation would turn to poetry, for they shared an interest.
She walked forward to greet a new guest. “Althea, how exquisite is that gown. And how it suits you.”
Althea Brookwood smiled and hurried to kiss her. “Thank you. Marriage agrees with you. What a sly pair you two are marrying in secret.”
“We decided to marry and saw no reason for delay.” Sibella had been aware that the ton believed her to be pregnant at the time of their marriage, but as time passed, the gossip died away.
“How very romantic.”
The diminutive blonde widow was dressed fetchingly in midnight blue. Would she ever seek love in another man’s arms? Sibella certainly hoped so.
John was laughing with a tall handsome gentleman. He brought the elegant Irishman, Lord Montsimon to Sibella’s side, where he bent over her hand. “Charmed, my lady. Would you grant me a dance tonight?”
“Please don’t flirt with my wife, Montsimon,” John said with a grin. “There are many beauties here tonight.”
Montsimon glanced at Althea who had excused herself to speak to Hetty. “Indeed.”
An hour later in the ballroom, dancers formed graceful patterns as they weaved across the dance floor. The music of the orchestra lilting, Sibella was content to watch the dancers as she fanned herself in the warmth from the two huge fireplaces at either end of the room. She was very pleased with her efforts. She gazed around the elegant room, the columns, the chandeliers, the scents of early spring flowers on tables mingling with the ladies’ perfume. Beyond the tall windows the moon shone down, veiling the manicured gardens in a silver net.
Ladies chatted on sofas while men clustered together discussing politics and no doubt, planning a visit to the stables on the morrow with a ride across the moors. The guest suites were in readiness, the menus to her satisfaction. This would rival one of her mother’s parties, and she hoped her parent would approve. As she moved through the crush, she smiled at her mother where she held court among a group of dowagers. She seemed content with her life, but you could never be sure with her mother.
Maria waved as she danced past in Harry’s arms. They’d left their baby son, Adrian, at Lamplugh Abbey with the besotted grandparents.
Chaloner and Lavinia swirled past laughing at something. How content they now seemed.
John came to find her. “You did promise me the waltz. I hope no other gentleman has claimed it?”
“As if I would waltz with anyone else,” she scolded.
He shook his head with a grin. “I need to keep an eye on Montsimon.”
“No you don’t. And anyway, he has his eye on another lady.”
“Much good it will do him.”
She gazed up at him with a loving smile. “The ball goes well, doesn’t it.”
“It’s perfect.” His smoky blue gaze always made her tingle to her toes. “As you are, my love.”
The End