Not his, but hers. It was always hers. He was just the man who got to hear it.
John appeared at his elbow. “You look terrible.”
“I got married. It’s been a long morning.”
“What happened?” He pulled up a chair. “And do not tell me it’s nothing, because you arrived at my sister’s wedding with blood on your hands and a look on your face that I’ve only seen on men who’ve been in a fight they didn’t want to win.”
Edward looked at him. John was humorous and light, but beneath the humor was the same steel that ran through Valeria. The same iron spine. The same refusal to be put off by silence or evasion.
“Someone threatened her,” Edward revealed. “I took care of it.”
“Who?”
“A man I used to trust.”
“Is he still breathing?”
“Aye. The constables have him. The Queen will decide his fate.”
“Good.” John leaned back and looked at him for a long moment. “You did the right thing, handing him in instead of handling it yourself. I know that must have been difficult for a man of your particular talents.”
“Ye have no idea.”
“I do have an idea. I’ve seen what you can do with your fists.” John paused. “Now, you should probably go dance with your wife before she thinks you’ve forgotten her.”
Edward stood, crossed the room, and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“You don’t dance.”
“I do tonight. I’m told husbands are expected to.”
She took his hand.
They danced a slow waltz. His hand on her waist. Her hand on his shoulder. She could still smell hay beneath the soap, and the question of where he had been this morning sat between them like a third partner.
“You will tell me,” she said softly. “Whatever happened. You will tell me.”
“Aye, I will. But not tonight.”
“When?”
“When I can say it without anger.”
She looked at him. His jaw was set. His eyes were somewhere else. She could feel the tension in his body through his coat, the rigid control of a man who was holding himself together with effort and the stubborn refusal to fall apart in public.
“Then tonight we dance,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Tonight we dance.”
They danced until the candles burned low. He held her close, and she let herself be held. The guests watched, while Caroline wept. The crack in the icing caught the candlelight and looked, from a certain angle, like a smile. But his hand on her waist was trembling, and when the music stopped, he let go as though she had burned him.
Bridget found her by the window between dances. She had left her son with his nursemaid and crossed the room with the quiet purpose of a woman who had something to say and intended to say it without fanfare.
“You look beautiful,” she complimented.
“Thank you.”
“And terrified.”
