Under a Winter Sky - Jeffe Kennedy Page 0,17

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

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