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It was both a relief and agony when he didn’t show up to lunch. Relief that any potential further rejection could be delayed – but agony that the anxiety that was already gnawing at my stomach was to remain. After picking at the luncheon table, I spent the afternoon attempting to embroider some cushions, but made little progress. The townhouse was empty, Will apparently gone, and any sound from the street outside roused me immediately. I would leap up to the window, hoping (and simultaneously fearful) that he might appear on the sidewalk below.
He never did. As the time passed, my nervous system began to relax a bit – perhaps out of sheer overexcitement and exhaustion. By the time dinner finally rolled around, I was a bit more like my usual self…
Though the idea of it being Will and I, alone at the table, still sent a shiver up my spine.
Would we address the morning’s activities?
Surely, we couldn’t ignore them…
We wouldhaveto address what had happened, right?
But if so… what would we say?
Indeed,myday-longanxietieswere immediately rendered useless when Will burst into the house an hour later. I was in the drawing room, attempting to be industrious with a needle, but really doing much of nothing, when I heard a commotion downstairs, a pounding of feet on the carpeted hallway, and the sudden bursting of his lordship through the door.
The moment I saw him, I knew that something was wrong. He didn’t appear drunk, which in retrospect was quite a surprise. But he was clearly bothered by something. It was as if his entire body was taut with agitation.
His eyes were fixed on mine, and though they appeared expressionless at first glance, they weren’t cold, either.
“There is going to be a party here.”
He said the words quickly, and it sounded as if he was almost breathless.
I felt my mouth fall open slightly, as if I was dumb, and I struggled to recollect myself.
“A-a party?” I asked, feeling confused.
What? He looked completely mad. Why was he throwing a party? And why burst in and tell me in such a bizarre manner?
He glanced away from me, towards the windows.
“Yes, I ran into Cavendish and… my friends, you know, and they’re already on their way. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Thought you, uh, might like to know.”
His words trailed off towards the end, as if he was ashamed of how ridiculous they were. Not because throwing a party was ridiculous – I mean, we were in his own home. He could have anyone he liked over at any time. Why did he feel the need to alert me?
It was almost as if he was asking for my permission. Seeking it. As if he was worried about what I would think, or how I would react.
That was the ridiculous part. He and I both knew it. It was very unlike William Marsden, the most notorious rake of London, to behave this way.
All I could do was nod.
He stood at the doorway for a few moments, still looking out the window, before a loud, booming voice from the hallway pierced the silence.
“Cavendish.” He said, nodding curtly – to whom I wasn’t quite sure – and then abruptly disappeared again.
I was left, still clutching my embroidery, baffled at the turn of events.
It appeared we werenotgoing to address the morning’s events. No, instead, I was soon going to be in the presence of not only Will, but also Lord Cavendish and who knows who else. The ton of London who still dared to socialize with Will, the richest and most scandalous Lords and Ladies, were going to assemble in this house.
And then me, poor little Amelia. A nobody. A poor orphan, living with a rake, without even virtue to her name.
I had almost fooled myself into thinking things would be different now, hadn’t I?
But there was no time to ponder the situation. Suddenly, Will had reentered the room, followed by two men.
I recognized the first as the Duke of Cavendish. He’d been with Will the first night I saw him in London at Lord Turley’s ball. I already knew that Cavendish was tall and athletic, but I had never been so close to him before. In the drawing room, the sheer impressiveness of his figure was apparent. He must have been a handful of inches taller than Will, who was already well over six feet. Anyone who saw the two lords together couldn’t deny their sheer attractiveness; it was as if each’s good looks amplified the other.
The man behind Cavendish was smaller and less athletic, though he had a kind, pleasant look about him. A softer approachability. I recognized him as Lord Arlington, who I knew little about apart from his rumored wealth.
