She would thank Charlotte later.
Another thing to be thankful for was that only a few gooseberry tarts remained from the wedding breakfast, and Anne insisted Lord Stratford have them all, especially since Honoria had her cook make a chocolate cake.
Discussion turned to the recent reform in Parliament, especially regarding the election of MPs.
“I’m running for MP in our borough, Father,” Colin said.
The gooseberry tart Lord Stratford held dropped to the plate before him. “I thought you’d given up on that ridiculous idea. Why are you still pursuing it?”
Colin’s jaw pulsed, and his hand fisted his knife like a weapon. Hadn’t there been enough dueling for one house party? And he certainly wouldn’t challenge his father, would he?
“I want to make a name for myself. Is that so wrong?”
Lord Stratford brushed it aside. “You will when you assume my place in Lords.”
Anne placed her hand on Colin’s clenched fist and squeezed. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go into politics?”
Under hers, his hand relaxed. He shrugged and cast a glance at his father. “Between bickering with you, being caught in a compromise, and our marriage, there never seemed to be a good opportunity.”
“Your father doesn’t approve?”
He shook his head. “Not of Commons. I’d hoped he would come around since he seems to have been swayed a little by Burwood and Ashton, but apparently he hasn’t. He says Commons goes a little too far with their ideas.”
“Such as?”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You have an interest in politics?”
“If it interests you, it interests me. We’re married after all.”
He gave her hand a reciprocal squeeze. “We’ll discuss it later. Right now, let’s concentrate on enjoying the evening.”
Once supper ended, Colin escorted her into the ballroom. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, and every man here will ask you to dance, but promise you’ll save the waltz for me.”
Anne had never been the center of attention at a ball, and although she’d always dreamed of men vying for a dance, she had to admit, she only wanted to dance with Colin.
Odd, that. Especially when such a short time ago she’d disliked him with a passion.
Burwood was the first to approach and request a dance, and all the discomfort of what she’d put him through four years earlier vanished likefog on a sunny day.
“I wish you all the happiness, Anne. And welcome to the family. It’s all Honoria can talk about.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Drake, Anne. And please try to get your husband to call me by my Christian name as well. I’ve been insisting for three long years.”
She danced with Mr. Beckham, the Duke of Ashton, Lord Montgomery, Mr. Pratt, and Mr. Grey. Even her father-in-law, Lord Stratford, requested a dance.
Her dancing slippers had never had so much use in one evening.
“I trust you will do your utmost to avoid any whiff of...scandal and be a...dutiful wife to my son.” The man’s words came between breathy pants as they performed a pass in the lively country dance.
When they finished, his cheeks were red from exertion, and he held a hand to his abdomen.
Anne grabbed his arm. “Lord Stratford, are you unwell?”
He waved her off, his words still coming in choppy pants. “I’m fine. But I shall . . . leave you to . . . more exuberant . . . and younger partners.”
As they left the dance floor, it seemed she was supporting his arm more than he was hers.
