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Amelia sighed and whipped off her jacket in one quick move. There, she was better attired without the frills and trimmings.
“Milady, would you be wanting another dress?” Mary asked as she picked the pelisse off the ground with a long-suffering sigh and a reproachful glance at her lady. There was nothing rude about the familiarity, Lady Amelia was close friends with her maid and they often spoke frankly to each other.
“This will do, Mary. I think perhaps it is time I went down for breakfast. No delays will keep the devil away today.” Amelia turned away from the mirror in clear discontent and started for the door.
“I reckon it cannot all be that bad, milady.” Mary countered in cheerful naiveté and started to clear away the collection of baubles, jewelry, and ribbons that had ended up unused. “The Marquis of Clarence is besotted with you.”
“The lot of them are bores and I have done nothing to encourage Lord Clarence.” Amelia sniffed peevishly, but her maid was used to such talk.
“But he is sure to offer for you any moment, milady. He took you riding in Hyde Park and I hear that is a precursor to a proposal if any.” Mary persisted in blind faith that her lady did not share.
Amelia remembered the dratted ride during which Lord Clarence had proceeded to bore her with discussions on his horses—particularly the team harnessed to his phaeton—all dashing and spirited. Truth be told, he handled them quite expertly but the man had horses on the brain. Perhaps the only reason Lord Clarence had deigned to explore their acquai
ntance was her own knowledge of the subject. “His conversation was abysmal. He talked of nothing but cattle.”
“Perhaps. But he has a fine stable and forty thousand a year. And he is not the only gentleman caller you have.”
Amelia did not dare allow the statements to console her. The majority of her suitors were heiress hunters. She looked at the girl who served as her maid and wondered how she could retain so naive so late in life. With a firm lecture to herself on the danger of self pity, Amelia headed to the breakfast room where her father, the Earl of Rochester, was dining this very minute. Directly outside the door she paused, drew herself up to her considerable height, pasted a beatific smile on her face, and walked in with a gay mien.
Amelia descended to breakfast and headed over to her father. She placed a kiss on his cheek and sat gingerly at the other end of the table in a chair that a footman had drawn out. As soon as she settled herself, a footman brought a plate to her and a cup of tea. Amelia applied herself to the eggs and sausages with toast. The silence was foreboding but Amelia continued with her meal with a carefully blank expression until Lord Rochester cleared his throat and pushed away from the table slightly.
Her shoulders hunched involuntarily and she smothered the rising panic. “How goes the Season?” The innocent inquiry immediately introduced chaotic emotions, frustration chief among them, into her thoughts.
“Well enough.” So far, she had been successful in discouraging unsatisfactory suitors before they plucked up the courage to approach her father. She resented the imposition, but in a few more days Parliament would disband, and she would be able to return to the country. To ride, run her hedge school and read the last three rows of books in the library. And best of all, she wouldn’t have to spend four hours dressing.
“So strange you have not had a single offer. Perhaps if you gave it such mind as you do your educational pursuits?” The suggestion was without rancor, stemming out of true concern and pity. Of all the emotions evident in her father’s eye, the latter had her hackles rising.
“Father,” she paused to swallow the morsel in her mouth. “I have tried. I have tried for 2 years to play this role, but it doesn’t work. I tower above several of the gentlemen, so I rarely have dance partners. I cannot abide insipid conversation, and have horrified several prospects by daring to have opinions on the welfare of our workers. My reputation as a bluestocking proceeds me. Men only seek me out only to secure my fortune, or to ask which horse is more likely to win the Royal Ascot!” The bitter declaration was flung like a curse and a challenge to the world of men available in London. When Amelia’s ire was raised she was both beautiful and ferocious, like an avenging Fury, with her flashing eyes and passionate expression. The role of a debutante hurt like a shoe three sizes too small.
Her father was worried, but wore a tolerant smile that edged toward wan amusement. He laughed lightly, a hoarse sound that had her wincing softly. It reminded her when she would rather forget. Her father was dying, and without an heir to inherit his earldom, the estates, properties and title would revert back to the Crown. She had always known her brother would inherit, but when the smallpox pandemic had snuffled out his life the inheritance was up in the air. Regardless, the burden of her own future sat heavy upon the shoulders of the young Amelia, made denser with sadness and guilt. She fiddled with the patch on her cheek.
Her mouth thinned at the reminder and she applied herself viciously to cutting the sausages on her plate. The solicitors were currently searching in the wilds of America for the next closest relation, any male relation, to move into her home the day after her father was buried. After all these years of fruitless searching, it seemed likely that the estate would revert to the Crown.
Lord Rochester’s wracking cough subsided and he wiped at his mouth, a smile still bravely lingering. “How reprehensible,” his amusement very apparent, “but I must remind you that eligible men of our class are hardly known for scholarly pursuits.” His smile widened. “I believe you cannot find a man to match wits with you outside of the university town m’dear.” He picked at his own plate. He ate little some days.
Amelia speared one sausage with her sharp fork. “Then I suppose I must marry a professor or solicitor, Papa.”
“You are teasing me. You would not enjoy the limitations of a working man’s wife. I fear I have no ken for these matters. If your mother was alive, I am sure this whole tangle would but be a trifle for her. You, poppet, are so like her.” Amelia did not bear a lot of resemblance to the portrait of the countess above the fireplace, apart from the emerald-green eyes, but it was common knowledge that the late countess had been inclined towards educational pursuits. The aging earl had loved his deceased wife very much. Enough to never have remarried, even though that awful summer was three years behind them.
“Forgive me Papa, I did not mean to rouse such painful memories.” Her cheeks warmed with guilt. The old man was growing more fragile with each passing day.
“I wish for you to be settled before my death, poppet. This mysterious heir will be your guardian until you are five and twenty. Not all men are fair to the women they are responsible for.” He took a sip of his coffee and fixed her with a stare that had her ducking as her cheeks again stained a glorious red. Her father seemed the only person capable of bringing such damning color to her cheeks, or leaving her without a sharp-tongued retort. “Things will only go worse for you if no heir is found. The Crown will take back all it gave your 6 times great grandfather, and Regent will choose your groom. I do not wish to see you wed to a Russian princeling to curry favor.”
Amelia paled at the possibility of such a bleak future. She had known vaguely that the estate would revert to the Crown, but she had not considered the fate of a political union. “Papa, I shall apply myself to the task,” she promised. Amelia swore under her breath about archaic laws that drove poor, unsuspecting women to ruin and old men to meddle.
But the promise secured a smile on her father’s face, and he signaled for a footman to help him to his feet. The Earl of Rochester was in frail condition, but even now his natural height was evident—yet another quality admired in a man, but considered unattractive in a woman. The neatly washed, jet black hair that framed his face was also shared by his daughter, who quickly stood to kiss him on the cheek before he retired from the dining room.
Amelia dutifully cleared her plate at the gentle prodding of the servants, and declined another plate before leaving. The morning had paled for her.
Chapter Two
Lady Gainsborough's dinner party was painfully contrived. London’s current fashion was for all things Oriental. Therefore her halls and walls were swatted strategically in yards of silk with the odd jade figurine or porcelain vase littering the view.
The crush of bodies raised the temperature of the room until Amelia feared a fainting spell. The air was pungent with the smell of unwashed bodies and the occasional whiff of perfume, heavy and cloying. The ton did not believe in having baths when they could make do with scents.
The Duke of Windon regarded the crush with a bland expression. The onlookers would describe it as full of ennui and not a little rakish delight. Far from it, he was amused at the massing of bodies. His title and the scars on his face ensured that no matter the crowd he always had an invisible circle of space. A glass of lemonade made a trip to his lips. The liquid glistened there lightly before he handed the cup to a hovering footman.
The glasses were small as their host was known to be notoriously stingy, but that mattered little. In but a moment, the gong would sound for supper and the crush of bodies would be herded into the dining room for at least 5 courses. No matter how stingy the host was she wouldn’t dare to give London the ammunition to judge her shabby.
