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Her lips pursed and her already rigid self grew even more so. He had no idea how, she was already so stiff.
“Is there no end to the indignities suffered by women?” The words were under her breath, and not meant for any ear apart from hers, but he caught them anyways.
“Beg pardon.” The words ripped from him in surprise.
“Your Grace.” Her teeth clenched and her fan trembled in her white fist. “Do you think it kind that you not only inherit what would ordinarily be hers by virtue of birth, but also abandon her after her marriage, as if your only interactions are those required by duty and not filial tenderness? The courtesy of correspondence personally addressed to her would not be remiss.”
He squirmed inside. When she put it like that he agreed wholeheartedly but being called out on the matter was galling. “It just never occurred to me. That is just the way of things.” This weak reply had her sniffing with disdain. If it had not worked earlier, he found it to be doubly ineffective now
“It is also the way of things for the Crown to seize the holdings of lords without male heirs. We have come to the crux of what ails my father.” The trembling fan still gripped in her tight fist was her only show of anger. Her voice was light and almost conversational if one missed the slight edge in her words.
“My apologies.” He knew no other words to say and these were damningly inadequate.
She nodded stiffly. “It is apparently I who must beg pardon of all of England for not dying in place of my brother.” The words were bold but the pain was so evident in her sharp gaze. It nudged him painfully but he would not be able to offer her any comfort.
“My Lady! Surely, you don’t mean—you don’t wish...” He stumbled to a halt. She had withdrawn without moving an inch. She saw him now to be a member of the same Society that stifled her. She was so bold, mind and beauty.
Many would quail in her presence because of her bold, forthright manner and how she had little patience for coy action. It was the way of the world that rich, connected heiresses were allowed their eccentricities, but poor spinsters were given no mercy. The London which had allowed her such liberties today would also condemn her once her fortune fell.
That, more than anything, troubled him. When the Crown seized her father’s holding she would be left just enough to scrape by. He had heard tales. “A thousand apologies. Again, if I may be of comfort?” He held out a square of pressed linen, a small thing to deal with a large grief.
“I am afraid that I have been too emotional for a first meeting.” She accepted the handkerchief and hide her face briefly in its folds. It smelled slightly of warm male and pipe tobacco. “Thank you for your restraint in chastising me fully. I must relieve Lady Hammond on the harpsicord. It was a pleasure.” The dismissal stung, but that was the way of things. He had been lulled by their matched wits to think that she was willing to remain beside him, but he was as always bereft of luck. He had forgotten the monstrosity of his scars for a scant half-hour, although it seemed a lifetime.
“Indeed, thank you for your indulgence of remaining in my presence for so long.” He murmured politely as he bowed to her, lingering over her fingertips.
Lady Amelia nodded stiffly, without meeting his eyes, and walked off. Her head was held impossibly high.
Lord Windon watched her go wit
h an ache in his chest. He had not at all predicted her shining presence at this event. And he had been most grateful for the accident that prodded her to seek a place so close to him and start talking. She was different, yet she was neither slatternly nor unusual. And she possessed a fine intellect for a woman. At the thought he flushed. She had accused men of treating women with indignity, supposing an intellect was something given to humans of the male gender. He was ashamed of himself. He complained of Society, yet he followed its edicts, albeit within the looser rules that governed the behavior of dukes, and that was the gravest of hypocrisy. If only he could take away the pain and disappointment from her. The eyes that had smiled so winningly at him now filled with thinly veiled disgust.
Lord Rochester had completely missed the less than amicable parting of his daughter and her suitor. He had cornered a good friend of his and the two of them had proceeded to reminisce on their rowdy Eton days. Their laughter was unrestrained, tongues no doubt loosened by the host’s glass of fine brandy. Lord Rochester restricted himself to port, albeit of equally high quality, and kinder to his condition.
Lord Rochester used the opportunity to inquire again about Lord Windon. The Black Corinthian he was called. His skill in all manners of sport was exceeded only by his arrogance. He was allowed his arrogance but not, his friend informed him, the sardonic eye and the bold back he turned on Society. He was, after all, a duke and such a lofty title with such solvent accounts allowed for an eccentricity or two. The boy was ignoring his social responsibilities, but that did not stop the invitations from flooding into his lap.
His friend could not quite know if he kept a mistress or not. But, if he was, then he was damned discrete about his affairs, and that was always a commendable thing in a man. Lord Rochester did not comment on that but merely nodded affably. But for all his arrogance, Windon was a good lord and his investment schemes had paid out richly, so he was not hunting for an heiress.
Lord Rochester nodded at that nugget of information. When he asked if Lord Windon was angling for anyone, his friend laughed again and confided that Lord Windon paid slight, if any attention, to the chits. He barely honored any invitations and would only stay a bare three-quarters of an hour at each party. Come to think of it, this was the most Windon had stayed at any such events.
Lord Rochester nodded sagely and turned to quiet introspection. His friend spied another and walked off, leaving him to his devices. As he was quietly contemplating, a sudden passing shadow roused him. It was the Duke of Windon, in the flesh.
He seized the opportunity given him by Providence with both hands. “My good man, if I may press upon you for a moment." Lord Windon turned and relaxed his face but not before Lord Rochester caught sight of the scowl like thunder on his face.
“I am the Earl of Rochester.” At the raised brow, he continued. “I believe you have been introduced to my daughter, Lady Amelia. I could not help but notice that you were having a rapt conversation for an extended time.” He indicated with a languid wave in the general direction of the women.
For a minute, fear fluttered through Lord Windon. He wondered if one could be honor-bound to marry a woman whom he had only had a conversation with, albeit a long and scintillating one. There were times he had unintentionally tread on societal rules, lacking the gentle guidance of a mother.
“Your servant, My Lord.” He bowed slightly, a mere inclination of his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe the lady and I were rather absorbed with which topics one should debate strongly." Precisely, even if they had veered to other matters.
“I believe the topic has merit with her, but may I ask if that was all you found to discuss?” Lord Rochester was hoping, and ever so slightly entrapping. His smile was one of tolerance but one looking closely would see he was quite proud of his daughter and her educated mind.
Lord Windon almost sighed at the hopeful look. It was not only ambitious mothers that schemed. Fathers were known to do so also, but with more directness. “We diverted to matters of traditional inheritance on a whim.”
Lord Rochester pursed his lips. That dashed daughter of his did not know what was good for her. “A thousand pardons, Your Grace, if she was direct in speaking on such matters.”
Looking at Lord Rochester it was obvious he was wearied of his daughter’s eccentricities but bore them proudly too. Lord Windon confided in him. “We were rubbing along splendidly, until I confessed that I had inherited in spite of my elder sister. She rightly pointed out that while my duty ended with my sister’s marriage our filial relationship should have continued, a fault that is all mine. The crux of the matter blew to a head when I admitted we do not share correspondence at all, addressing all matters to her husband.”
“Might I ask for your indulgence on her behalf?” The look on Windon’s face suggested he was deeply hurt. Lord Rochester tried to heal the breech quickly.
