August appears around a corner. William might gripe about how long August spends getting dressed, but the result is exquisite as always. When August does decide to re-enter the world of courtship, scores of eligible young women will be summoning their dressmakers for a new wardrobe, in hopes of catching his eye. He might be the youngest son of an earl, with no title of his own, but he’s well-off in his own right, with a face that belongs on a Greek sculpture.
“Bronwyn,” he says with a half bow. “You look incredible. I see you brought your stable boy. How thoughtful.”
William rolls his eyes. I will point out that William’s suit is both fashionable and well-fitting, tailored to his large body. It is not, of course, as fashionable or as well-fitting as August’s. If the man has a streak of vanity, it’s best seen here, in his impeccable attire.
We embrace, and August waves us into a room. A small sitting room of some kind. In a house this big, there are probably a half-dozen of them. I take a seat, and Edmund launches himself onto me, his squeal drowning out his father’s gasp of horror.
“Careful, Edmund,” August says. “Aunt Bronwyn is with child, remember?”
I laugh and arrange the boy on my knee. “My lap isn’t quite as spacious as it once was, but we’ll manage. I want to hear everything I’ve missed since I’ve seen you. First, though . . .”
William passes me a wrapped cloth from his pocket.
“Cookies!” Edmund shrieks.
August mock winces. “Biscuits, Edmund. They are called biscuits here.”
“But these are cookies,” I say. “Because they come from America.” From my favorite bakery in Toronto, actually, though I can hardly tell Edmund that. “Chocolate-chip cookies.”
This is how I won the heart of August’s shy toddler. A very special cookie known only in the Americas. Now, let’s just hope he never actually travels to the Americas and discovers no one’s heard of a “chocolate-chip cookie” yet.
Aren’t you worried about that? my little inner voice whispers. Rosalind was a baker. Maybe Edmund will grow up to “invent” chocolate-chip cookies decades before their time, and the universe will implode.
That is, of course, ridiculous.
Less ridiculous than thinking terrible things will happen if you hire a sixteen-year-old girl who is in desperate need of a job?
I brush off the voice and turn my attention to helping Edmund unwrap the cookies as William and August get caught up in some shipping matter or another.
“So,” I say when we’ve freed the treats. “How is Surrey?”
Surrey is Enigma’s sister, and another of Pandora’s kittens. August gifted her to Edmund after William claimed he’d found homes for all four kittens. She’d been a surprise, and so that’s what Edmund named her, Surrey for short.
This is all the prompting Edmund needs. Mouth stuffed with cookie, he launches into a story about his beloved kitten, and I settle in to listen.
By the time the ball begins, I’ve almost forgotten what we’re actually here for. My mind is still buzzing from a private tour of Courtenay Hall, and it’s calmed only a little by helping put Edmund to bed and reading him a story.
When William suggests we may want to “freshen up,” I spent thirty seconds wondering why, before I hear music and chatter from the rooms below. Then I look out the window to see a queue of horse-drawn carriages inching down the lane.
William and I stand on a balcony to watch the guests arrive. I lean back against him, his warm arms around me, and we chatter like red-carpet reporters. I ooh and ahh over the fashions, as couples ascend the wide stairs. William does the same for the horses and carriages. He tells me the names and titles of everyone he recognizes, along with whatever gossip he can dredge up from memory. We spend a perfect half-hour hidden in the shadows, watching the procession.
Then, when the lane is log-jammed with carriages and sleighs, William decrees it time to make our appearance. This has been our plan all along. We’ll enter the ball at the busiest moment, to attract the least notice. William doesn’t care, of course, but I’d rather avoid as much unpleasantness as possible. My Victorian-ball fantasies only involve wearing a pretty gown and dancing the night away with someone special. Making a splash of any kind is not part of the plan. I am here to enjoy and observe.
Having been in the house for two hours already, we could enter through the rear of the ballroom and avoid being announced. That, however, wouldn’t mean we could sink into the shadows. William is too notorious for that, and I am too pregnant.
In a book, we would swan into the ballroom, the butler would announce us, and everyone would turn to stare. And only someone who had never actually attended such a gala would imagine such a thing. We walk in, and it’s like stepping into a wedding halfway through the night. There’s a quartet playing music somewhere, but I can barely hear them over the din of voices.
If one imagines a Victorian ball would be very sedate, one has—again—never met an actual Victorian. Voices rise as people compete to be heard over one another. Raucous laughter rings out. Someone shouts for a passing serving girl. It’s a cacophony of riotous, happy noise, and I am more than content to have our introduction drowned out by it.
“Lord William Thorne and his wife, Lady Bronwyn Thorne,” the butler announces.
Only a few people close enough to hear him turn. We begin our descent into the ballroom almost unnoticed. Then the ripples begin, our introduction being passed along on a tide washing out ahead of us.
Thorne? William Thorne? Isn’t that . . .
I won’t say every head swivels our way, but enough do that if I ever entertained even the vaguest fantasy of turning heads at a ball, I can check that off my bucket list.
While there’s something to be said for glances of admiration, am I a terrible person for admitting that this is kind of fun, too? Being the scandalous wife of a scandalous man?
I’d worried I might embarrass William by blushing or shrinking into myself under the weight of wicked whispers and gimlet-eyed glances. Instead, my spine straightens and my chin rises and the tiniest of smiles plays across my lips as the crowd parts for us. I am on the arm of a wonderful man, in a world I never thought I’d see, living a life richer than most people in this room could ever imagine. I am blessed, and if I’m a wee bit smug about it, I’m fine with that.
It’s only after a moment that I see where the crowd has parted. Where it’s leading us. A figure walks our way, a man who reminds me of August in a fun-mirror reflection. I’m sure he was handsome once, but there’s a dissolution about him that makes my skin crawl.
It doesn’t help that I’ve heard nothing good about Everett Courtenay, Earl of Tynesford. Yet even without that, I’d still feel that chill. His red nose and pouched eyes speak to a fondness for drink. He’s in good shape otherwise, if solidly built. The look in his eyes is what creeps up my spine. It’s a haughty sneer that says he doesn’t see his equal anywhere in this room, and certainly not in the couple approaching him.
“Thorne,” he says, his voice ringing in the now hushed room. “Finally decided to buy your way back into polite society with a bride, did you?”
I blink. Whatever I’ve heard about the man, I expected a veneer of civility. Or maybe that’s what comes with being a member of the upper nobility. You can say what you want, hurt who you like.