“I love you dearly but you understand what I might be forced to do should you fail to secure a
match by the end of summer.”
“I understand.” The thought of her father having no choice but to marry her off to an older gentleman who was too old to be a desired flavor of husband, yet wealthy enough to secure a desperate lady’s future, speared Amelia through painfully. Her chest tightened as they moved deeper into the ballroom.
Finally, the eyes flicked her way, and the whispers picked up.
“I wonder what wall dear Miss Hawthorne shall plaster herself to this time,” one lady giggled, a young daughter of an earl. Amelia fought the urge to scowl at her.
“Perhaps she might find a way to climb the walls and escape into the ceiling for true concealment,” her friend muttered, both of them gasping as if they shocked each other for the audacity.
“Mayhap neither of you shall find husbands with such ugly speech in your mouths,” Baron Hawthorne countered, surprising Amelia. “If you can manage to stop gossiping, you may find extra time to secure a dance partner.”
Both ladies could not close their mouths enough. Amelia’s father pulled her away quickly.
“Father, you shall now become the subject of their gossip,” Amelia said, surprised.
“As long as they leave my daughter alone, I am content.”
His voice was firm.
Soon, they were among those waiting to be chosen for dancepartners or watching the fortunate girls who had already been picked for the current song. Amelia’s dance card hung on her wrist, a weight that dragged her down, as empty as it would remain for the night.
“Darling,” Bernadette murmured, coming up to Edward’s side. “How about you and I get a refreshment? We shall leave Amelia to be approached.”
Her eyes shone with hope as she glanced at Amelia, who only averted her gaze. Her father nodded, leading Bernadette away with one last glance at Amelia. She forced a smile, determined to be confident as she stood alone in a sea of pretty, confident ladies. This was a place she did not fit in yet she tried hard to mold her pieces to do so. Society had given her a space she was out of shape to fit into—she had tried to force herself into such a thing but she was still endeavoring.
However, as much as she knew she should be confident alone, she felt a wave of relief wash over her when she spied her best friend, Lady Eleanor Fairfax. The two had been inseparable since childhood, and she could not help herself from rushing over to her. Although friends, Eleanor loved dancing, and often found a way to fill up her dance card. However, whenever she attempted to get the suitors’ friends to dance with Amelia as well, they politely avoided her and excused themselves.
“Eleanor,” she greeted, sighing with relief. “It is good to see you.”
“Where there is a dance floor there shall be a lady named Eleanor.” A grin flashed on her face. “At least that is what my cousin wrote several years ago. It remains true, I suppose.”
“Indeed, it does. You belong on a floor to dance the night away on.”
“As do you.” Eleanor looked at her knowingly. “Have you seen the Countess of Eastward tonight? She has… well, one can only describe it as a monstrosity on her head. It is like a peacock and a swan, all in one. You cannot miss her.”
Amelia laughed, her gaze sweeping the floor. She ought to be the last lady giving in to gossip but Lady Eastward was a miserable old lady who often chided the younger ladies over absolutely nothing.
Soon, she found her, and stifled a giggle.
“She wishes to be noticed, of course,” Eleanor said, ever aware of the ton’s shifting perceptions. “For she wishes to host the next ball, so she must have everybody looking at her, wondering what her own home will be like when decorated.”
“I can only imagine,” Amelia muttered. Her nerves eased as she lightened up, laughing with her friend, despite the press of the crowd around her, and the announcer calling for the next dance. She lingered where she was, not daring to even look up in hope that she might benoticed.
“I have heard that many young lords are entering the marriage mart tonight. New faces, new names to learn. It is exciting. I can only hope I have the honour of one asking me to dance.”
“Manyask you to dance,” Amelia countered. “They learn of your proficiency and wish to know for themselves.”
“You honour me,” Eleanor laughed. “I will only dance if you are also invited by one of their friends.”
“You attempt such tactics every time, dear friend. You cannot keep trying to win a hopeless fight.”
“I shall never stop.” The promise warmed Amelia’s heart, knowing that at least one person was not on the verge of assuming disappointment from her, or giving up on her.
As Eleanor began to tell her the names of the usual lords in attendance, Amelia couldn’t help noticing two ladies that lingered several feet away, fans snapped out to cover their mouths. Lady Cassandra Kensington, and Lady Beatrice Ashworth, two of the most gossiping young ladies of the ton. To Amelia, they were the worst ladies when it came to her own gossip—the very ladies that caught the eye of a suitor first, sending Amelia further into the background.
“I have heard rumours that the Duke of Blackthorn shall be in attendance tonight,” Cassandra said, her voice low behind her fan. “It is not such a common occurrence for him to be here.”
