The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

He folded the newspaper he’d been perusing, pushed a plate of bacon and eggs toward her, and said, “It’s quite good, thank you.”

“Is there tea?” Cecilia asked hopefully.

“Not this morning, I’m afraid. But”—he tilted his head toward a piece of paper near his plate—“we did receive an invitation.”

It took Cecilia a few moments to understand what should have been a simple statement. “An invitation?” she echoed. “To what?”

And more to the point, from whom? As far as she was aware, the only people who knew she and Edward were married were a few army officers, the doctor, and the man who swept the floor in the church-hospital.

Or rather, they were the only people who thought they knew.

She tried to feign a smile. Her web was growing more tangled by the moment.

“Are you unwell?” Edward asked.

“No,” she said, her voice emerging too suddenly from her throat. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You have a very odd expression on your face,” he explained.

She cleared her throat. “Just hungry, I expect.” Dear heavens, she was a terrible liar.

“It is from Governor Tryon,” Edward said, sliding the invitation across the table. “He is hosting a ball.”

“A ball. Now?” Cecilia shook her head in wonder. The lady at the bakery had said that there was still a bustling social scene in New York, but it seemed bizarre, what with battles being fought so close by.

“His daughter turns eighteen. I’m told he refused to allow the occasion to go unmarked.”

Cecilia picked up the vellum—good heavens, where did one get vellum in New York?—and finally took the time to read the words. Sure enough, Captain the Honorable and Mrs. Rokesby had been invited to a celebration in three days’ time.

She said the first thing that came into her mind: “I have nothing to wear.”

Edward shrugged. “We’ll find something.”

She rolled her eyes. He was such a man. “In three days?”

“There is no shortage of seamstresses in need of coin.”

“Which I don’t have.”

He looked up at her as if a small chunk of her brain had just flown out her ear. “But I do. And hence, so do you.”

There was no way Cecilia could argue with that, no matter how mercenary it made her feel inside, so instead she mumbled, “You’d think they might have given us more notice.”

Edward’s head tipped thoughtfully to the side. “I imagine the invitations went out some time ago. I’ve only recently come back from the missing.”

“Of course,” she said hastily. Oh dear heavens, what was she to do about this? She could not go to a ball hosted by the Royal Governor of New York. She had told herself that the only reason she could get away with this charade was because no one would ever know.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. No one but the governor, his wife, and every other leading Loyalist in the city.

Who might eventually return to England.

Where they might see Edward’s family.

And ask them about his bride.

Good God.

“What is it?” Edward asked.

She looked up.

“You’re frowning.”

“Am I?” She was frankly surprised she had not burst into hysterical laughter.

He gave no reply in the affirmative, but his overly patient expression said quite clearly: Yes, you are.

Cecilia traced the elegant script of the invitation with her finger. “You don’t find it surprising that I am included on the invitation?”

One of his hands flipped over in a what-on-earth-are-you-talking-about motion. “You are my wife.”

“Yes, but how would the governor know?”

Edward cut a small piece of his slab of bacon. “I expect he’s known for months.”

She stared at him blankly.

He stared right back. “Is there any reason I wouldn’t have told him we are married?”

“You know the governor?” she said, really wishing her voice had not squeaked on the third-to-last syllable.

He popped his bacon into his mouth and chewed before answering, “My mother is friends with his wife.”

“Your mother,” she repeated dumbly.

“I believe they made their bows in London together,” he said. He frowned for a moment. “She was an extraordinary heiress.”

“Your mother?”

“Mrs. Tryon.”

“Oh.”

“My mother as well, actually, but nothing so close to Aunt Margaret.”

Cecilia froze. “Aunt . . . Margaret?”

He made a little wave with his hand, as if that would reassure her. “She is my godmother.”

Cecilia realized that she had been holding a serving spoon full of eggs aloft for several seconds. Her wrist wobbled, and the yellow lump plopped onto her plate.

“The governor’s wife is your godmother?” she eked out.

He nodded. “My sister’s as well. She’s not really our aunt, but we’ve called her that for as long as I can remember.”

Cecilia’s head bobbed in something resembling a nod, and although she realized that her lips were somewhat ajar, she could not seem to close them.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, clueless man that he was.

She took a moment to piece a sentence together. “You did not think to tell me that your godmother is married to the Royal Governor of New York?”

“It did not really come up in conversation.”

“Good God.” Cecilia sank back into her chair. That tangled web of hers? It was growing more wretchedly complex by the second. And if there was one thing she was certain of, she could not go to that ball and meet Edward’s godmother. A godmother knew things. She would know, for example, that Edward had been “almost” engaged, and not to Cecilia.

She might even know the fiancée. And she would certainly want to know why Edward had forfeited an alliance with the Bridgerton family to marry a nobody like Cecilia.

“The governor,” Cecilia repeated, just barely resisting the urge to let her head fall in her hands.

“He’s just a man,” Edward said unhelpfully.

“Says the son of an earl.”

“What a snob you are,” he said with a good-natured chuckle.

She drew back in affront. She was not perfect, and these days she was not even honest, but she was not a snob. “What do you mean by that?”

“Holding his position against him,” he said with a continued grin.

“I’m not. Good heavens, no. It’s quite the opposite. I’m holding my position against me.”

He reached for more food. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m a nobody.”

“That,” Edward said firmly, “is categorically untrue.”

“Edward . . .”

“You’re my wife.”

That was categorically untrue. Cecilia had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Or crying.

Or both.

“Even if we were not married, you would be a cherished guest at the festivities.”

“As the governor would have no knowledge of my existence, I would not be invited to the festivities.”

“I expect he would know who you are. He’s fiendishly good with names, and I’m sure at some point Thomas mentioned that he had a sister.”

Cecilia nearly choked on her eggs. “Thomas knows the governor?”

“He dined with me there a few times,” Edward said offhandedly.

“Of course,” Cecilia said. Because . . . of course.

She had to put a stop to this. It was spiraling out of control. It was . . . It was . . .

“Actually,” Edward mused, “he might be of help.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” He looked up, his brow coming together over his blue, blue eyes. “We should apply to Governor Tryon for help in locating Thomas.”

“Do you think he will know anything?”

“Almost assuredly not, but he knows how to apply pressure on the correct people.”