“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.