Gilded Age by Claire McMillan

and get in bed. Cinco just didn’t seem to care what Cleveland thought anymore.
    He and his wife greeted Ellie quickly on their way out.
    Ellie wore what looked like an ancient flapper’s dress of ombré moiré silk—no spangles and no bugle beads, just a long close-cut column of silk starting at pale blush near her face and ending in deepest mauve, like a bruise, at the hem. A long sash tied loosely around her hips almost trailed on the floor. She waved and came over, kissing me on the cheek.
    “You look amazing,” she said to me.
    “Amazingly large,” I said.
    “Hardly,” she said. “I can’t even tell. Are you scared?”
    Now this is a question an expectant mother is almost never asked. Are you excited? Are you feeling well? Are you tired? Yes. Are you scared? No.
    “Yes,” I said. “I guess I am.”
    “If it was me, I’d be terrified,” she said.
    We watched as the couple cut the tremendous marzipan wedding cake and then fed it to each other, sealing each bite with a kiss. Thisparticular wedding tradition had always embarrassed me—the mess of it, the innuendo.
    “Look at that,” Ellie said, watching her cousin with detachment.
    “They’re very sweet together,” Jim said, arriving at my side and putting an arm around my waist.
    “I guess everyone should have that sort of lovey-dovey, puppy-dog love once in their lives. Look at her,” Ellie said.
    They say love is the most effective makeup on a woman, though I’d never really understood it until looking at plain Vivian Mingott radiant with triumph and adoration in her grandmother’s Brussels-lace wedding gown. I could just barely remember feeling that way at my own wedding.
    I turned toward Ellie. “Haven’t you ever felt like that?”
    Ellie shook her head. “Not like that.”
    “Not yet,” Jim said.
    “You’re hopeful for me?” she said, swatting his elbow. “How sweet. Don’t you know I’m too old?” She turned toward him. “What about you two?”
    Jim smiled and kissed my cheek, but I noticed that Ellie kept his eye.

• 9 •
    The Engagement
    E llie watched William Selden dodge through the wedding guests, who were busily eating cake and chatting. Though he stopped to say hello to a few people, he was intent on his destination. Her. She looked around, seeking a way to avoid him, when he caught her eye and smiled.
    A waiter offered her a slice of cake. She declined. Selden had been a participant in her debacle at the Trenors’, and he had a knowing smirk on his face as he closed in on her. He swiped a glass of champagne off a passing tray and offered it to her.
    “Not drinking,” she said when he arrived. “That’s what got me in trouble last time.”
    A look of annoyance crossed his face but was replaced almost instantly with his usual jovial smile. “I’m trouble?” He took a short swig from the rejected glass.
    “You left without saying good-bye.”
    “I figured I’d see you. I didn’t figure you’d not return my phone calls.”
    He leaned against a doorjamb, languidly looking at her body. It’d taken an almost superhuman amount of self-control only to kiss himthat night in Ellicottville. Selden was an expert kisser. One who’d gained his skills from much diverse practice. It hinted that he was an accomplished lover. Thinking about it now, seeing the new confident look on his face, she blushed.
    “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I know I’m not your type.” He seemed changed since their night together in Ellicottville—older, cocky even. It wasn’t appealing.
    “How do you know I have a type?”
    “Gryce is your type,” he said, moving closer. “Or maybe Randy Leforte, yeah?”
    “I don’t know Randy Leforte, but I can’t think of two more different people,” she said primly. “Clearly I have no type. What are you implying?”
    “Not implying anything.” He leaned toward her. “I’m a realist, and I see who you are.”
    “Really? Who’s that?”