Chapter 24
If Claire Hightower found anything amiss in Vix’s request, she did not express it. Perhaps their brief acquaintance had been unusual enough thus far that any further queerness was simply stoking an already raging fire.
In any event, Vix found herself in the ballroom, some time after parting from Mrs. Baxter, searching out the corners for Roland and Matthew with a borrowed thimble clutched in her fist and her heart much steadier in her chest.
Ambrose was still dancing, she saw, this time with Hannah Lazarus, and he appeared very happy in the endeavor.
She stopped for a moment to watch him, admiring the pink flush to his face and the shine to the apples of his cheeks as he and Hannah performed delicate hops to the sides of one another before clasping hands again for a spin, and she felt her heart ache, just a little, at how beautiful he looked in his joy.
In contrast, her childhood chums were skulking in a far corner, watching the dancers from shadow and silence, a single glass of punch between them.
She shook her head and crossed the room toward them, spinning the thimble over the tips of her fingers as she went, and sighed the instant she reached the edge of their shared table. “Aren’t you going to dance?” she demanded, by way of greeting.
They blinked at her with equal expressions of affronted innocence.
“We might,” said Matthew. “If you stand close enough to Roland, the women come to you, you know.”
“It’s true,” Roland put in, leaning an elbow on the table. “And some of the men.”
“I suppose that is true,” Vix said with a roll of her eyes. “But not the ones either of you want, hm? Don’t think I’ve missed your vantage.”
She turned over her shoulder and gestured across the room to Rosalind and Mae, still attending the refreshment table, glowing like gems set against the ivory of the white tablecloth.
“You’re both pitiful,” she concluded, turning back to them. “What’s stopping you?”
Matthew grimaced and Roland shook his head, looking away.
“To whomever asks first,” Vix said, raising her eyebrows and extending her arm over the table, “the spoils.”
Both men turned back, watching her place the thimble neatly between them, the gleam of the ballroom candlelight catching on its metallic dome.
Roland immediately scoffed, staring at it like it was going to insult him.
“Vix,” Matthew said with a patronizing little simper. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said, lifting her nose. “Unless you are too cowardly.”
“This is absurd,” Roland muttered.
“Yes, utterly,” Matthew agreed. “Vix, we are adults now. Far too old for silly games like the thim—”
He snatched up the thimble and spun away from the table, holding it aloft in front of him, so quickly that the other two barely had time to react, though Roland did make a noise of offense that he did it.
Vix slapped a hand up over her mouth, delighted, as she watched him wave it back and forth.
“You weasel,” Roland grumbled, crossing his arms. “That was cheating.”
“It was a misdirect,” Matthew corrected. “And you always fall for it.”
“You forget how easily I could have you bleeding from your mouth,” Roland replied with a sweet, gentle little smile. “And anywhere else I like.”
“Steady, children,” Vix said with a bored flick of her hand.
“He is the only child here,” Roland muttered.
“I am.” Matthew grinned in reply.
“The thimble only counts if you follow through,” Vix reminded him. “Go on. Ticktock.”
“Ah, the things we do for power,” Matthew gloated, tucking the thimble into his waistcoat. “Off I go.”
“Yes, go,” Roland snapped, waving the back of his fingers at him. “On with you.”
Matthew spun on his heel and trotted off, doubtless giggling to himself as he went.
Vix walked around the table to stand next to Roland and watch as he crossed the ballroom floor to Rosalind, drew her attention, and after what appeared to be the general niceties of introduction, asked her to dance.
She smiled.
She agreed.
Mae stood back and watched them go, giving a fond shake of her head and glancing across the room to Vix with a raise of her brows, only to falter as she saw Roland there beside her. She bit her lip and turned back to the refreshments, busying her hands as she poured herself another glass of punch.
“See how easy that was?” Vix said, turning to regard Roland.
Roland cut her a look from the corner of his eye. “It is different for Matthew,” he said. “You know that.”
“I know you believe it’s different for Matthew,” she retorted. “I don’t think it actually is. If Teddy can marry the likes of Hannah Lazarus, I see no reason why you cannot court Mae Casper.”
Roland made a noise, rolling his shoulders. “You know he’s going to do something obnoxious with that thimble now,” he told her. “You remember what he used to come up with when he got his hands on it.”
“Oh, I remember,” she told him. “I remember very well.”
They both were quiet for a moment, lost in memories of childhood. Their eyes met and they shared a chuckle, dry and perhaps a little horrified, at what they somehow managed to survive, unsupervised and wild in their youth.
“Have you just been carrying that around with you, waiting for an opportunity?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Were you the last one to have it?”
“I borrowed it from the countess,” she said with a shrug. “I saw you both looming over here, and inspiration struck. Who knows what happened to the old one. Probably rusting in Covent Garden’s rain gutters.”
“Or under one of Matthew’s chairs,” Roland suggested, spurring another round of stifled laughter.
She sighed, watching Ambrose move through the crowd and approach Mae, evidently asking for Vix’s own whereabouts.
“We’re not done talking about this,” she told Roland as Ambrose turned and saw her, raising a hand and moving to approach. “But it will sit for now.”
“Ugh,” said Roland, pushing back from the table in search of a nearby exit. “I fancy some fresh air, anyhow.”
He vanished into the crowd as Ambrose approached, grinning and glinting with exertion.
“There you are,” he boomed, closing the distance between them with two fresh glasses of sparkling champagne. “My beautiful wife. Where did you run off to?”
“A few places,” she answered, accepting the cool glass from his hand and smiling up at him. “You look positively flushed.”
“I haven’t danced in a long time,” he admitted, leaning against the table to sip at his own glass. “Quite a long time, and certainly not that many in a row. I forgot how enjoyable it could be.”
“You are very elegant,” she acknowledged. “Perhaps you told me true when you said you were good at everything.”
He scoffed. “Of course I did.”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “You always tell the truth. I wanted to ask you to take a walk with me outside, but I’m afraid Roland has beat us to the chase.”
“We still could,” said Ambrose. “He can’t inhabit the whole of the outdoors.”
Vix tittered. “Can’t he?”
Ambrose considered it. “I suppose if my mother can inhabit the whole of the indoors, it is possible. You know we haven’t actually gotten rid of her as easily as one skirmish of a conversation?
She will likely linger around London, planning a new flanking attack or three before she retreats back to Kent. ”
“Let her,” said Vix with a shrug. “We have faced worse.”
“Well, now, don’t tell her that,” he replied with a chuckle. “She will demand to know who could possibly be more formidable. Oh! Speaking of which, shall we go slay your headmistress? I think I saw some javelins over a fireplace in the foyer.”
“Already done,” Vix told him, grinning. “Well, already attempted, anyway. It did not go as planned.”
“Oh?” Ambrose said, looking a little wounded. “How dare you slay monsters without your accomplice. Tell me everything.”
“It was absolutely not a slaying. I will confess to that,” she said, tipping more champagne into her mouth. “Perhaps a taming? No, not that either; she is still a feral old beast. It wasn’t quite a befriending either.”
“A truce?” Ambrose suggested, his pale brows high on his forehead. “An accord?”
“Yes, maybe that,” Vix said, tapping her nail against the rim of the glass. “An accord. How very odd and unsatisfying, hm?”
“Odd and unsatisfying,” he echoed, giving her half a smile. “The curse of being.”
It made her smile back. “Indeed. Speaking of which, I would like to reattempt my confession from earlier. I demand you forget the first attempt.”
“Oh, she demands it?” Ambrose said, setting his empty glass to the side and crossing his arms. “What if I refuse?”
“I shall pluck it from your memory while you sleep,” she said sternly, “and feed it to Bear.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said with a little gasp. “That is a violation of the highest order.”
“I would,” she told him. “I would do it now if you’d hold still.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not. I shall forever cherish being told I am loved in the same tone of voice in which someone is told to get out of the road before they are trampled by oxen. It is precious to me. You cannot have it back.”
“Ambrose!” she cried, drawing her brows together. “I can do better. I insist upon it. In fact, we should return to the original confession from you, so that I may respond appropriately in good time.”
“We are not in the right venue to recreate that scene,” he reminded her, drawing a little closer to pluck at the amethyst-colored lace over her skirt. “And you aren’t wearing the right accoutrement.”
“Or lack thereof, I suppose,” she replied skeptically. “Suddenly you are very devoted to replacing the origin of a memory.”
“Ah, well, you’ve provided incentive,” he said with a cheeky shrug. “Intentionally or not.”
“Incentive is not always reward,” she reminded him. “A governess knows pain is just as motivating.”
He laughed, bunching more of the lace up in his fingers as he tugged her closer. “Do not threaten me with something I will enjoy, Vix.”
“Oh, you are impossible,” she huffed. “And absurd.”
“Yes,” he agreed, giving one more tug, until she was forced to halt herself against him with her hands to his chest. “And yours.”
She narrowed her eyes, tilting her face up to look into his. “I suppose you think you are very romantic,” she said primly.
“Yes,” he agreed, grinning. “I am romantic and this is our romance. I am glad you finally noticed.”
“This is not a romance,” she replied. “It is a marriage. Much more enduring, I believe.”
“It can be both,” he told her. “Can’t it?”
She frowned, considering it. “Perhaps. I have always thought a girl had to choose which she wanted in life. Stability and passion do not often coexist. If I had to choose whether to keep you as my lover or as my husband, Ambrose, I would choose the latter. I would rather have you forever in partnership than for a breath in madness.”
He watched her, his grin fading into something softer, but still joyous, on his face. “And you do not think that is romantic?” he asked very softly. “Because I think it may be the very epitome of the concept.”
“Well, then I suppose that only goes to prove how little I know of such things,” Vix said with a sigh, curling her fingers under his lapels and giving a resigned little tug of them.
“Will you not indulge me in my request, all the same? Just once more, correctly, even if it does not undo the first time.”
He shook his head, glancing up at the heavens as though he could not quite comprehend how he had ended up with such a creature as his wife. “Vix,” he said, his tone very serious as he returned his gaze to hers. “I am in love with you.”
“Oh, good,” she said, her shoulders softening and her brow smoothing. “Because I am in love with you too, Ambrose.”
“See?” he said, tilting her chin up and dropping a quick little kiss on her lips, here in full view of the ballroom. “This was a romance after all.”