Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
But she was also nervous to begin making appearances as Lady Augustine at various balls and parties, because there would surely be lingering whispers about what had transpired in Wales.
Fortenbury, at least, would not dare show his face, lest her powerful father retaliate. The marquess was the villain in the tale of her disrupted wedding, but she was the pathetic victim. Being a duke’s daughter, some of her jealous former competitors might see her as a deserving target to be brought down.
But she must not be brought down, for that would dishonor her husband, and she didn’t wish August to suffer any loss of reputation on her account after he’d so selflessly rescued her. She must rise above gossip, and above all, she must not be strange and overly perceptive in any way that would encourage more “sorceress” tales.
It was a lot of pressure for her return to London, but she was determined to persevere and be a proper, admirable wife.
Her mother and father at first contrived to throw the opening ball of the Season, to give her and August a proper coming out, but then the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge, Rosalind’s parents, pointed out that might put too much focus on the new couple. They mounted the opening ball instead, one where she and August might feel among friends without enduring undue scrutiny.
That suited Elizabeth well, and she arrived at the Lockridges’ striking London townhome on August’s arm without suffering too many nerves. Her husband was in formal black, knee breeches and everything. Goodness, he was handsome when he dressed for the ton. She wore a stylish gown of vibrant pink, embellished with embroidered dianthus and roses. How happy she was to leave behind the plain, modest frocks of her unmarried Seasons.
“Elizabeth!” Rosalind greeted her as she always did, with sisterly enthusiasm. “Look at your dress, darling. I adore the floral embroidery.”
“Yours is dreamy too,” she said, hugging her close. Her friend wore flowing kelly green silk, which suited her coloring to a tee.
“It’s already such a crush in the ballroom,” Rosalind said. “But there’s still room for dancing. You’ve arrived at the perfect time.”
“Don’t we look like a couple of penguins?” Marlow joked with August as they compared their black formalwear. He nodded toward the sound of merriment and music. “Towns and Wescott are already dancing with their wives.”
“Then they’ll make off for the card room, just as you two will,” said Rosalind, tossing her wavy chestnut hair.
“We must give other gentlemen the chance to dance with the diamonds of the ball,” said August. “Although I shall do so only jealously.”
Elizabeth smiled at his earnest flirtation, offering her hand. “The women shall be jealous as well. I’m sure dozens of them wished to win the Earl of Augustine’s hand, only to find him wed to me over the winter.”
“I don’t know about dozens,” said Marlow, making a face. “One or two, perhaps.”
Rosalind stepped between the men’s mocking scuffle to lead all of them forward. “Come along. Let’s join the dancing. Oh, Lisbet, you won’t believe the decorations this year. Mama’s gone all out!”
Elizabeth, who’d attended far too many balls in her singlehood, was indeed surprised by the magnificent floral swags and rich velvet decor blanketing the walls. There were thousands of candles to set off the decorations—and the ladies’ gowns. Some were in the sparkling chandeliers above, some on high tables arranged about the room’s perimeter. A full orchestra played a waltz as multitudes of colorful couples danced in twirling bliss.
Jane and Townsend swept by with a wave, followed by Ophelia and Wescott. Elizabeth and August skirted the edge of the dance floor, parting ways with Rosalind and Marlow so they could greet his parents who stood nearby. Her parents appeared too, embracing her and welcoming them both to a new Season.
“Does it feel different now that you’re off the marriage mart?” her mother asked her, straightening a bit of hair that had escaped Elizabeth’s fancy coiffure.
“It does. It feels better, I think. I mean, yes, it definitely feels better. I’m only nervous…”
“Do not be nervous,” her mama said, leaning close. “Or if you are, don’t let them see. Don’t they make a lovely couple?” she said in a louder voice to her papa.
“Like they were made for each other,” he replied, patting August on the back.
Her parents—and August’s too—had visited St. Pierre three or four times after the customary honeymoon period had passed, and when they saw how content she was with August, he’d risen even higher in their already great esteem.
If they knew how August had forged such a quick, strong bond between them …
Well, his expert sexual prowess did not make a proper topic of conversation, nor their frequent adventures in the disciplinary sphere. And over the ensuing weeks, their marriage had deepened beyond physical excitement to a more encompassing connection that strengthened with each passing day. It was not an act of subterfuge to regard her husband with affection as the ton’s busiest gossips studied them. It was how she really felt.