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.
“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,