At thirty-nine, I don’t quite fit that “young heroine” mold. I’m a middle-aged, very pregnant widow on her second marriage. And yet my story is at least as magical as any in those books I loved. I have married the man of my dreams twice. When Michael died at thirty, I thought that was it for me, even if “remarrying” was on the list of things he wanted for me . . . right after “have countless torrid affairs.” The affairs never happened. The remarriage did, though, to the man who first captured my heart.
Mine might not be a standard romance story, but it is an incredible one that I am incredibly lucky to be living. Married to the man I thought I lost, starting a family after I assumed that opportunity had passed from my life. I have a home, a family, a community, and a career I love.
That’s what I see in the mirror. Me, happy. Insanely happy, adorned in jewels and wearing the most amazing dress. Because while family and home and career are all vastly more important, one can never discount the value of a gorgeous ballgown.
This one is sapphire blue, in a shade to match the jewels. It’s empire-waisted, which isn’t the fashion, but it means that the waist sits above my belly, allowing the skirt to flow from there. Long-sleeves finish in delicate black lace. There’s a black front panel on the full skirt and black trim on the hem. A low neckline to show off the jewels. Victorians may have a reputation—unearned mostly—for prudery, but I’ve never had more of my bosom on display then when I wear a period-appropriate ballgown.
My hair tumbles past shoulder length. It’s threaded with silver, and my refusal to dye it is more proof of vanity than a lack of it. I consider my hair my best feature—even if William would point to other assets. Dyeing out the silver would mean changing the color and possibly the texture, and so I will be vain and leave it long and natural. Mary has curled and pinned it into a gorgeous partial updo that I can only pray will survive the three-hour sleigh ride to the ball.
Mary’s gone now, and I’m in front of the mirror, tweaking and turning, making sure everything is right because I know enough about Victorian society to realize it must all be right. It’s scandalous enough that I’m appearing in public in “my condition.”
As I’m adjusting my décolletage, William walks in, murmuring, “I’ll do that for you.”
“Yes, and that will be a lovely way to launch my society debut, arriving hours late and in disarray because somehow, fixing my neckline resulted in my dress spending the next hour in a heap on the floor.”
His smile sharpens to a wolfish grin. “No need for that. I will hitch it around your hips with utmost care. It’ll scarcely even wrinkle.” He touches my waist as he moves in closer. “Or perhaps I’ll hoist you onto the table here, where there’s a nice carpet for my knees as I go down—”
“Stop,” I say, my voice coming out strangled. “Please.”
He arches one brow. “Are you certain?”
“I am not at all certain,” I say. “Which is the problem. We need to be on time, William, and I need to be as presentable as possible. Once I’ve been properly introduced and everyone has had time to form an opinion of me, then you may ravish me in a deserted back hall.”
He chuckles, the sound half growl. “If you think I won’t take you up on that . . .”
“Oh, I will be very disappointed if you do not, Lord Thorne.”
He puts his fingers under my chin and lifts my lips to his in a long, delectable kiss. “It is a deal, then, Lady Thorne, on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That I do not ravish you in a back hallway, but that I do exactly what I just offered, in some suitably empty room. If there is to be any ravishing, it will take place on the ride home.”
“In the sleigh?”
“Is that a problem, Lady Thorne?”
I brush my lips across his. “Not at all. Now lead on, m’lord. We have a ball to attend.”
Under normal circumstances, there would be no problem arriving late. Fashionably late is a thing in Victorian times as much as the twenty-first century. One never wants to appear too eager. Or one doesn’t if one cares about such things, which we do not. In fact, we’re going to the ball early, though mostly so that I may have a proper tour of Courtenay Hall and spend time with Edmund before he’s sent off to bed.
August Courtenay has been William’s best friend since childhood. He’s also his business partner. August is the one person on this side who knows the truth about me. Not because William confessed, but the opposite—William had refused to explain anything about me at all. When I’d returned to Thorne Manor at fifteen, William suddenly became less available to his friend, secretive and very, very busy. Presuming the issue was a girl, August set out to solve the mystery and discovered that William had been spotted with a mysterious girl no one had ever seen, one who dressed quite oddly. His first guess was that William had found himself a girl of the fae. I suppose that made more sense than the truth, which August worked out last summer when I returned.
August lives in London, but his family has an estate in North Yorkshire. And when I say “estate,” I mean the kind of place that gets used today as the backdrop in grand period dramas. In fact, I’m quite certain modern Courtenay Hall has appeared in at least one production. In the twenty-first century, it’s periodically open to the public, and when I visited it as a girl, my mind had been blown by the sheer scope of the place.
I’ve never been to nineteenth-century Courtenay Hall. This past summer, August always came to us, sometimes bringing Edmund. August’s wife, Rosalind, died when Edmund wasn’t even a year old. I say “died.” William says died. Most of the world says died. Rosalind was apparently known for her moonlit rides on horseback, and one morning, she wasn’t in bed when August awoke. Her horse was later found drowned, having apparently panicked and charged off a seaside cliff.
Clearly, Rosalind is dead. What other explanation could there be for the disappearance of a young mother who, by all accounts, adored her husband and son? Well, according to August, she left. Abandoned them. Ignore the fact that she never threatened any such thing, that they hadn’t been fighting the day before she disappeared, that she’d never given anyone the slightest indication that she wanted out of the marriage. No, forget all that. Rosalind abandoned him, and he will hear no reasonable argument to the contrary.
William has long since stopped beating his head against this particular wall, and I cannot do it either, however frustrated I might be. I never met Rosalind, but I am offended on her behalf. For a good man, August is making a very stupid mistake—obviously preferring anger to grief—and our only consolation is that he does not share this theory with their son. He tells Edmund only that his mother loved him very much and died tragically.
We leave mid-afternoon because it’ll take three hours to get to Courtenay Hall. I am not looking forward to repeating the journey late tonight. All right, given what William promised, I’m looking forward to at least part of the return trip. The rest will not be quite so comfortable in the middle of a winter’s night.
August offered us overnight accommodations at Courtenay Hall, but his brother vetoed it. Apparently, the earl is a bit of an ass. That’s my description of Everett Courtenay. William’s is much more colorful. According to the Earl of Tynesford, we do not rate an overnight stay, and if my condition makes the long journey difficult, perhaps we shouldn’t attend.