“Tynesford,” William says. “Good to see you. May I introduce my wife, Lady Bronwyn Thorne.”
“Bit long in the tooth, isn’t she?”
A titter ripples through the crowd.
“I didn’t marry her for her teeth,” William says smoothly. “Lady Thorne was a childhood friend, whom I had the good fortune to meet again this spring.”
The earl’s gaze shoots pointedly to my stomach. “Didn’t waste any time starting on an heir, I see? Remind me again when you two got married?”
Gasps mingle with the titters now. Everyone knows what the earl is insinuating. He’s actually correct. We married when I was nearly two months pregnant, in a small, private ceremony, with a clerk who was willing to backdate the marriage certificate for us.
“June second,” William says. “And yes, we were fortunate enough to begin a family while on our honeymoon. As for an heir . . .” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I’d be more than happy with a healthy baby girl. In fact, I’m quite certain that’s what I’m going to get. I’d even be willing to wager on it.”
For the first time, a pinprick of interest gleams in the earl’s eyes.
“Would you?” Tynesford says.
“I would. I’m so certain, I’d lay ten to one odds on it.”
A ripple of surprise through the crowd, almost drowned out by the earl’s guffaw. “Well, then, far be it from me to discourage a man willing to gamble at such outrageous odds. Shall we say ten pounds?”
The gasps take on an edge of excitement. Surely William won’t agree. If he loses at those odds, he’ll owe the earl a hundred pounds, the modern equivalent of over ten thousand dollars.
“Accepted,” William says.
The earl’s laugh grows louder. “You really are mad, aren’t you? All right then. Ten pounds at ten to one odds. Now, see that you don’t murder this bride before she can give you that child.”
William stiffens. His mouth opens.
“William!” a voice calls, as August pushes his way through the crowd. “Finally.”
He embraces us as if we didn’t just spend two hours together. Then he glances at his brother, as if only now noticing him there.
“Everett,” he says, his tenor voice ringing out. “Thank you for entertaining my friends. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“No, your friend just wagered me ten pounds at ten-to-one odds that his wife will have a daughter.”
“Did he?” August looks at me, his brows rising in question.
I dip my chin in a nod.
“Well, then,” August says, “allow me to join in the fun. I won’t give quite as good of odds, but shall we say ten pounds at five to one odds?”
Tynesford chuckles. “How much have you had to drink tonight, August? All right then. I accept your wager.”
“Excellent,” August says. “Now please allow me to steal my friends away . . .”
As he steers us from his brother, he whispers, “How certain are we about that?”
“Very,” I say.
He exhales. “Excellent. I will look forward to my spring windfall. Come along then. I have so many people for you to meet, Bronwyn. Have you ever heard of . . .” He whispers a name into my ear.
My eyes must round, because he laughs. “Very good. Then we’ll begin there.”
It is the ball of my dreams. Beyond my dreams. My youthful fantasy had been all about the gowns and the dancing. I have the first, and I get the second, with both William and August escorting me around the dance floor until my feet hurt. But it’s more than that. It’s the people for one thing. I meet some I know from history and some I’ve never heard of, but if August introduces us, it’s because he finds them interesting. I expected to be in a corner with William, and instead I have incredible conversations with bright, witty and fascinating people.
There is also the food. One can never discount the food. Raw oysters are all the rage, and they’re here in six varieties. There’s sweetbread pate, which I’m sure is delicious, but I’ve never been a fan of organ meats. Tiny quail with delicate truffles. Deliciously fried rice coquettes. And fruit, every variety of fruit available in this era, showing off the estate’s wealth. Imported oranges and pineapples. Greenhouse strawberries and grapes. Platters of exquisite little cakes and one entire tray devoted to Nesselrode pudding—chestnuts and fruits and liquor in a cream gelatin base. Knowing I can’t judge the alcohol content—and the Victorians poured with a liberal hand—I take only a nibble or two from William’s bowl of pudding. I also eschew all punches except the one August assures me is alcohol-free, a sad little pitcher at the end of a table groaning with bowls of jewel-toned beverages.
The pièce de résistance, though, is the ice cream. Which is . . . Am I being a complete twenty-first century snob to say I get a laugh at the ice cream? Row upon row of tiny silver dishes with a tiny half-melted scoop in each.
Had it been summer, it’d have been difficult to produce ice cream for this many guests, and the treat would be reserved for dinner parties. The Courtenays have an ice house—an insulated and sheltered well packed with ice in the winter. While freezing isn’t a problem at this time of year, the sheer effort of churning ice cream in these quantities is a feat, and I pity the staff.
William also makes good on his promise: the one about sneaking off to an unused room, hiking up my skirts and getting down on bended knee. Yep, that’s an entirely different sort of historical romance scene, but I’ve certainly read and enjoyed those too, and I enjoy this enactment even more.
Whatever fears I had about being here, whatever trepidation, it evaporates after we leave the earl and his snarky insults. I’m sure others make some, but I don’t hear them. I thoroughly enjoy my evening.
At one point, as the ball begins to break up, William is snared by a man I don’t recognize, who wants to talk business. I excuse myself, and I’m heading to fetch another glass of punch when a familiar calico tail swishes from under the table cloth.
Surrey.
I glance around. Thankfully, no one else has seen her. The earl is not a Surrey fan, and this will be just the excuse he needs to ban the kitten from Courtenay Hall. I hurry to another table to grab a scrap of fish and then, with my back to the guests, I coax Surry out, scoop her up and scamper out the nearest exit.
Once in the hall, I pause to get my bearings. Voices waft over from my left, a trio of women by the sounds of it. I clutch Surrey to my chest and turn a corner to avoid the small room where they’re chatting.
I make it three steps before their voices reach me with a word that catches me up short.
“—Thorne.”
I slow.
“I don’t know what anyone sees in the man. He’s brutish.”
“He might seem it,” another says, “but I’ve heard he’s an absolute gentleman between the sheets.”
As they titter, I smile. When I first fell in love with William at fifteen, I’d have been horrified to hear such a thing. Perhaps that’s the advantage of age and maturity. I’m glad William found pleasure elsewhere and that he pleased women doing it. He may have been a recluse, but he was not a monk.
The women giggle amongst themselves, and I’m about continue on when one says, “That wife of his, though. I’d heard she was of an age with him, but did you see her? The size of her?”