“That went rather well,” Abigail said, passing the empty bowls to a footman. “Really rather well.”
“You put me on to the essential design element,” Stephen said, setting Nicky’s cap on the boy’s head. “Do you recall asking why I could ride a horse with my bad knee when I can’t reliably walk without canes?”
“You said the horse’s side prevented the joint from dislocating. That the horse provided the support your knee needed.”
“Stabilizing the joint laterally while allowing it to bend in only the required direction became the objective.”
Nicky readjusted his cap. “You use big words, my lord.”
“Come to the parasol factory,” Abigail said, kneeling to button the boy’s coat. “You will hear big words and see tiny, tiny parts. The ladies assemble our products using quizzing glasses because the mechanisms are so small.”
“Parasols are silly,” Nicky said, with the complete assurance of a small boy.
“Parasols that hide swords are not silly,” Abigail said. “We’re working on one that conceals a tiny gun. Ladies must be able to defend themselves from brigands.”
“Bad men,” Stephen said. “Highwaymen and the like.”
“When can I see the parasol shop? Will Elizabeth come too?”
Stephen took Nicky by one hand, Abigail got him by the other. The boy could out-chatter a flock of starlings, and his every word fascinated Stephen.
“We will arrange the outing with your parents,” Stephen said. “Abigail and I must be getting home. We need our rest, for we’ve a ball to attend tonight.”
Nicky shook free and scampered up the walkway. “Balls are where you dance and drink punch and play cards. I am very graceful.” He minced around and bowed to imaginary ladies. “Papa is teaching me some steps. We will surprise Mama.”
“She will be very proud of you,” Stephen said. Abigail sent him a smile as Nicky came back to his side. Her gaze held understanding and humor, which was balm to a man’s soul when he was neither graceful nor a papa of record.
They saw the boy home, and Stephen stole a hug before turning Nicky loose at Harmonia’s front door.
“She looks happy,” Abigail said, when Stephen was again situated in the coach at her side.
“De Beauharnais looks ecstatic. He’s taking commissions for children’s portraits now and gaining quite a reputation. Are we happy, Abigail?”
She peeled off her glove and took Stephen’s hand, a habit of theirs when they were private. “Tonight looms as something of an ordeal.”
“For me too. We shall contrive, my love.” The tailors had been called upon to sew Stephen’s trousers more loosely than was customary. He would eschew the required knee breeches in favor of attire that hid his brace, and he had asked that the dance floor not be chalked.
The rest was in God’s and Abigail’s capable hands. She had agreed to this post-nuptial ball, and if they put it off any longer, her condition would be apparent. Jane had lobbied vigorously for tonight’s date, and taken a firm hand in the planning.
And after a goodly nap—and some time spent in bed not napping—Stephen was taken in hand by Quinn and Duncan, and Abigail was whisked away by Jane and Matilda. For this occasion, Stephen’s sisters, Althea and Constance, had come down from Yorkshire, their respective husbands in tow.
The hour arrived, the receiving line wound down through the foyer, and the Walden ballroom was finally opened.
“Are you nervous?” Abigail asked as the orchestra tuned up.
She had remained at Stephen’s side through the interminable ordeal of the receiving line, her arm frequently linked through his. He could and did lean on her, and not entirely to spare his leg.
“I ought to be nervous,” he said as they lingered at the side of the dance floor, “but I am married to the most stalwart female in creation, and she will not let me fall.”
“Yes, I will, if your hands wander inappropriately. I will also step on your toes, so see that you behave.”
“Or you will spank me. Have I told you lately how profoundly I adore you?”
“Yes.”
“I have?”
She smiled a very, very mischievous smile. “Not with words.”
Quinn caught Stephen’s eye. Stephen nodded, and the first violinist held up his bow before the rest of the ensemble.
“My lady,” Stephen said, taking Abigail’s hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Abigail was the epitome of serene feminine composure, but for a hint of worry in her eyes. “You won’t let me fall on my bum?”
“Not unless I get to land atop you.”
She turned toward the dance floor, her hand over Stephen’s. “Well, then. The pleasure is mine, my lord. Shall we dance?”
Stephen led her out, passing his cane to a footman at the last opportunity. The instant the music concluded, his cane would be returned to him. The entire occasion was to celebrate Stephen’s marriage to Abigail, months after the fact. The bride and groom thus had the dance floor to themselves. The Wentworth siblings and their spouses would join in eventually, but shortly thereafter the music would conclude.
Stephen and Abigail would thus never have to navigate amid a crowd of dancers, and Stephen would be without his cane only for those moments when he and Abigail were in each other’s arms.
The introduction began, a slow triple meter. Abigail curtsied, Stephen effected a minimal bow, and they assumed waltz position. The German waltz was stately compared to its more vigorous English cousin, but it was a waltz, and the melody a lilting benevolence over the hushed crowd of guests.
“We are waltzing,” Abigail said, softly. “Stephen, we are waltzing.”
He managed the steps, though on the turns he had to rely on Abigail for balance. His brace did its job, the maestro resisted any temptation to increase the tempo, and soon, Stephen was waltzing—actually waltzing—too.
“We are indeed waltzing,” he said, when they’d managed another turn. “Nothing in all the world could prepare me for the joy of being
