The Earl’s Bluestocking Bride (Unconventional Brides #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Light streamed through the tree branches ahead, and Joceline’s heart lifted. She battled through the brush, fueled by the desperate hunger gnawing at her insides.

As she drew closer, she saw buildings and heard the hum of voices.

Lord have mercy. It was civilization.

After three weeks of being stranded in the wilderness of a foreign country, she was finally safe.

Miss Amelia Hart placed her quill in its holder, excitement thrumming through her. The latest installment of her adventures of Miss Joceline Davies was complete.

Butterflies swooped in her gut as she lifted the quill back out of its holder and scrawled “The End” beneath the final sentence.

There. That was so much more satisfying.

She rose from her chair behind the heavy wooden desk in her parents’ yellow drawing room and stretched her arms above her head, working the kinks out of her back.

She wandered to the large windows that looked out onto the square, rolling her wrists back and forth as she did so. She’d been stooped over the desk, writing frantically, for far longer than she’d intended to. She got that way when she neared the end of a story. Thoughts of it consumed her until she jotted the final words.

Amelia gazed out the window, watching a pair of women stroll through the garden in the center of the square with a maid trailing behind them. The last rays of the sun streamed through the glass, warming her skin, and she smiled.

What adventure would she send Joceline on next?

Perhaps she could travel to the Continent and discover the remnants of a lost civilization or journey to the Americas and explore the new world. Maybe Joceline would remain closer to home and uncover a hidden structure in the wilds of Cornwall or the expanses of Cumbria.

There were so many possibilities.

Amelia turned away from the window and crossed the room to the bookshelf against the internal wall. Most of the household’s books were stored in their library, but her father kept their most impressive tomes on display in the drawing room so that guests may admire them, and Amelia had discreetly added a couple of her favorites over the years.

She withdrew a leatherbound illustrated world atlas and carried it to the desk, then shifted her pile of handwritten paper aside to make room, taking care to ensure it remained in order.

Flipping through the stunning images and elaborately drawn maps inside the atlas, she considered where she might send her heroine, pausing each time a picture caught her eye. The Amazon jungle sounded thrilling. Or perhaps one of the desolate, snow-covered countries to the north.

The door flew open, and Amelia’s mother, Mrs. Hart, marched into the room, her dark eyebrows knitted together.

“You look frightful.” She shook her head, and her pretty features pinched. “It’s a disgrace. Your hands are covered with ink, and what on earth have you done with your hair? You look common. ”

Amelia’s heart fell, and her good mood slipped away. Her mother often had that effect on her.

“I’m in the privacy of my own home, Mother. It doesn’t matter if I am slightly unkempt.” In all honesty, Amelia was not in a particularly worse state than usual. Yes, perhaps she’d dressed her own hair in a loose coil, and maybe it was coming down around her shoulders, but what did it matter if no one could see her?

Mrs. Hart harrumphed, her full lips twisting with displeasure. “You won’t marry into the aristocracy with that attitude. You need polish. Sophistication. Go and clean yourself up this instant.”

Amelia glanced at the window, hiding her expression from her mother. She did not wish to marry into the aristocracy at all. That was Mrs. Hart’s ambition. She’d married beneath herself and regretted it ever since, but now her husband was rich enough to buy their way into an even more exclusive level of society than Mrs. Hart’s parents had belonged to, if only Amelia would cooperate.

“Are we going somewhere?” Amelia asked. The trouble with her mother’s plan was that Amelia had no desire to join the ton. She’d enjoyed growing up outside of high society. She’d been allowed to roam across the countryside as a child, and her father had encouraged her schooling and interest in literature.

She’d been happy. At least until her mother had decided that Amelia should become a duchess or a marchioness. She would no doubt settle for her becoming a countess or viscountess,but anything less than that was simply unacceptable.

Mrs. Hart stopped and folded her palms over her skirt. “No, but once you are married, you must maintain your appearance at a certain standard. I don’t trust you to recall something so important later, so it is best we train you into it now.”

“I’m not finished, though,” Amelia protested.

Mrs. Hart cast a cursory glance at the atlas. “Nothing is more important than preparing to become an aristocratic wife—especially not your silly scribbling. Do as I say.”

With a sigh, Amelia stood and left the atlas where it was. She didn’t dare pack it away or even close it. That would invite further attention from her mother, who might decide to have a maid toss the book into the fire so it would not steal any more of Amelia’s focus.

She did, however, gather her papers and carry them out of the room with her. She kept her work in a locked drawer in the writing desk in her bedchamber. She feared if Mrs. Hart had access, she might take it into her head to destroy all of Amelia’s hard work.

She’d spent years honing her craft and learning how to tell stories in a way that interested people. Not to mention the time she’d dedicated to creating her fictional alter ego, Miss Joceline Davies.

Joceline was everything Amelia wished she could be. Adventurous. Outgoing. And, above all, independent.

How Amelia longed to have a distant relative bequeath a fortune upon her, as had happened with Joceline. Then she wouldn’t be required to play the games of the ton or engage in the social posturing which she’d never fully understood.

Alas, no matter how rich her father might be, Amelia had no money of her own. Ergo, she must abide by her parents’ rules, and for now, that meant seeking an aristocratic husband.

She took the stairs to the second floor and turned into the west wing, where the family’s private chambers were located. She entered her bedroom, set the papers on her writing desk, and rang for her maid, then thumbed through the pages as she waited.

Mary breezed into the room and bobbed a curtsy. “How can I help, miss?”

“Can you please arrange for hot water and soap to be delivered to my chamber?” Amelia asked, gesturing at her ink-streaked hands. “I’m under orders to get clean.”

Mary’s lips pinched together. “I’ll make sure it’s your special soap.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

The maid left, and Amelia considered how lucky she was to have Mary, who didn’t bat an eyelid at any of Amelia’s eccentricities and sometimes actively encouraged them.

She returned with two footmen carrying a pail of hot water between them and guided them on its placement. Amelia placed a cushion on the floor and knelt on it, holding out her arms so that Mary could scrub them.

The block of soap was slightly scratchy as she ran it over Amelia’s skin, and it smelled of peppermint. She had never asked what was actually in it, but she knew it cleaned ink better than anything else she’d tried. There was a reason her mother didn’t realize exactly how much time she devoted to her “silly scribbling.”

When her hands and forearms were blemish free, Mary patted them dry with a towel.

“Would you like to change for dinner now?” she asked.

Amelia glanced out the window. The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, and the gray of dusk had descended. “I suppose I’d better. The pale blue dress, please.”

While it wasn’t an evening gown, the blue dress suited Amelia’s coloring, which would please her mother. Any small ways in which she could win Mrs. Hart’s approval were best taken advantage of, since there were many more significant ways in which she’d never have it.

Mary removed the dress from the closet and laid it on the bed. Amelia turned her back to Mary, and the maid quickly undid her laces so the dress dropped to the floor and pooled around her feet. She stepped out of it, clad in only petticoat, chemise, and stays, and ducked to assist Mary in sliding the blue dress over her head.

Mary buttoned the back of the dress with deft movements. “There you are, miss. Would you like anything done with your hair?”

Amelia sighed. “Yes, please.” She pulled out the padded bench from the foot of her bed and perched on it, presenting Mary with her back.

She gazed at the blue embroidery on her gold bedspread as she waited for Mary to return with a hairbrush and supplies. It was a good thing she liked blue, considering the fact that Mrs. Hart had seen fit to surround her with the color for her whole life. Growing up, most of her outfits had been blue, and her bedchambers had also been decorated in the same hue.

Amelia tended to think it was because her vivid blue eyes were both the only part of her appearance that could be solely attributed to her mother and the most noteworthy part of her.

With the exception of her eyes, she was rather plain. Dark hair, pale skin, an average build that was neither slender enough to make her appear fragile nor curvaceous enough to attract men’s attention. She was neither beautiful nor ugly. Perfectly designed to be part of the background.

Mary removed the ties from Amelia’s hair and brushed its length. Amelia closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. It was lovely to have someone brush one’s hair. As a young girl, she’d often wished for a sister so they could take turns dressing each other’s hair, but the Harts had not been blessed with a second child.

As Mary brushed her hair back from her face and began to pin it into place, Amelia spoke.

“I completed Miss Davies’s most recent adventure today. Would you like me to read it to you after dinner?”

“Oh, yes, please. That would be wonderful. ”

Amelia smiled. For all she knew, Mary only humored her because it was her job, but Amelia preferred to think that she genuinely enjoyed the stories.

“The other maids will be eager to hear what trouble Miss Davies gets herself into next,” Mary added. “I always let them know what she’s up to, although I’m sure my storytelling isn’t nearly as good as yours.”

She slid a pin into place near Amelia’s hairline. Amelia winced as it caught the skin.

“Sorry,” Mary murmured.

“Don’t worry about it,” Amelia said. “And I have no doubt you’re a superior performer to me. My flair is for the written word, not the spoken.”

Mary hummed thoughtfully. “I believe you could be good at anything you set your mind to.”

Amelia laughed. “How very diplomatic of you.”

They fell silent while Mary finished winding Amelia’s hair into a tidy arrangement on the back of her head, with a loose curl positioned on each side of her face. By the time she stepped away and placed the brush and remaining hairpins on a cabinet, it was almost dark outside. No doubt dinner would be served soon.

Amelia thanked the maid, locked her papers in her writing desk, and wandered downstairs. The dining hall was well lit with dozens of candles positioned down the center of the table and attached to the walls.

She rolled her eyes internally at the wastefulness of the extravagance. There was no reason for them to eat every meal in the formal dining hall, but her mother insisted it was “most proper.”

Amelia claimed the seat to the left of the table’s head. Her mother and father swept into the room arm in arm a moment later. Her father held out the chair at the right of the table’s head for her mother and waited for her to lower herself down before sitting at the head himself.

“Good evening, Mia,” Mr. Hart said, smiling warmly. He was a slightly portly gentleman with dove-gray eyes and a thick gray mustache.

“Walter,” Mrs. Hart chastened. “Remember what we discussed.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Rightly so. My apologies, Amelia. I forget that you’re not my little girl anymore.”

“I’ll always be your Mia,” Amelia replied, ignoring her mother’s sigh of exasperation. There was no reason for family to stand on formality—especially not in private.

“Please refrain from saying such things in front of potential suitors,” Mrs. Hart said as footmen carried in platters laden with food.

“I will hold my tongue in front of potential suitors,” Amelia replied dutifully.

She doubted there would be any. At least, not unless they were fortune hunters. This was her second season, and to say the first had been a dismal failure would be an understatement. The only men who’d looked at her twice were those in want of her father’s dime.

Other gentlemen seemed to be put off by either her family’s position—very much outside the ton’s inner circle—her somewhat plain looks, or her mother’s obvious aspirations as a social climber. If none of those things scared them away, then the fact that she was incapable of polite small talk seemed to do the trick.

“I have been researching,” Mrs. Hart declared.

Both Amelia and her father cringed. Nothing good ever came of Mrs. Hart’s research.

“There is one duke, a marquess, and two earls seeking wives this season.”

Mr. Hart reached for the mutton and cut off a portion. Following his cue, Amelia served herself potatoes, peas, beans, and mutton. Whatever came next would surely be best endured with a full belly.

“Would you like to know which ones?” Mrs. Hart asked, a disapproving groove between her eyebrows that said she’d expected more interest.

“Of course, dear.” Mr. Hart’s knife chinked against the china as he sliced through a piece of mutton. “I’m curious how you ascertained that these particular men are seeking a wife.”

“They accepted invitations to the Wembley ball on Saturday.”

“I… see.” He clearly didn’t.

“Obviously, bringing a duke into the family would be the most impressive coup.” Mrs. Hart selected dainty portions of each dish for herself. She was of the belief that women ought not to eat much more than birds did, and her slim, girlish figure was evidence of that. “However, the Duke of Wight may be past the age of being able to produce an heir.”

Amelia’s jaw dropped. “The Duke of Wight must be at least seventy!”

Mrs. Hart nodded. “Ergo, marrying him would leave you unencumbered much sooner. But, as I said, if any of his three previous wives haven’t been able to bear him an heir, we must assume the problem lies with him and that you would have no more success.”

“Three previous wives?” Amelia was astounded. If he weren’t a duke, this man would surely be a cautionary tale. Three wives could not have died of natural causes.

“The first wife died of consumption, the second in a carriage accident, and, rumor has it, the third jumped from a cliff because she was so heartbroken at not being able to provide an heir,” Mrs. Hart explained.

Or the cunning old duke had them all killed.

Amelia didn’t voice the suspicion. Her mother would consider it yet more proof that all her reading and scribbling had rendered her fanciful.

“How unfortunate for him,” Mr. Hart muttered.

Amelia forced herself to eat her mutton before it went cold. Chewing it was hard work, and she had a sour taste in her mouth.

She didn’t want to marry an aristocrat. Or, she supposed, not more than she wished to marry any other man. But she especially didn’t want to marry someone who might throw her off a cliff should she fail to get pregnant.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Hart sipped from a glass of water. “The Marquess of Overton may be a better choice. He is rich, titled, and younger.”

Stuffing a chunk of potato into her mouth, Amelia managed not to respond. The chances of the Marquess of Overton being interested in her were slim to none.

“And?” she prompted, because they may as well get this conversation over with.

Mrs. Hart smiled, pleased with her cooperation. “The Earl of Winn and the Earl of Longley.”

Amelia looked down at her meal to hide her grimace. The Earl of Winn was a lecher and a drunk. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the Earl of Longley.”

“No, you wouldn’t be.” Mrs. Hart sounded smug about having information that her daughter was not privy to. “He attended only one—maybe two—balls last year, with his childhood friend, the Duke of Ashford.”

“Ah.” Amelia poured water from a jug into her glass. “The one who was jilted and then married his former fiancée’s twin sister.”

“Exactly.” Mrs. Hart’s cobalt eyes were practically glittering. “We all know that men tend to settle down in groups. Ashford did so last year, and I’m certain that Longley intends to do the same this season. Perhaps you will be the one to win him.”

“Perhaps.” Amelia swallowed, her throat tight. She didn’t believe she had any hope of landing a decent aristocratic gentleman. She just had to pray that her mother would be satisfied with a peer’s younger sibling or, if she was lucky, a baron.

All Amelia personally wanted was someone kind who would allow her to pursue her own interests. If they were an intellectual themselves, that would be desirable, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. In this case, despite their wealth, they were very much beggars as far as the ton was concerned.

They finished their meal, and then she and her mother retired to their chambers while Mr. Hart vanished into his office. Amelia retrieved her writing papers from her desk, locked the drawer behind her, and took the stairs back down to knock on her father’s door.

“Enter,” he called.

She turned the handle and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar, her papers clutched in one hand. “Hello again, Father.”

“My dear.” His eyes creased at the corners. “What brings you here?”

“I completed a written project today, and I would be interested to hear your thoughts—if you have time to read it.”

He beckoned her forward. “Let’s see, then.”

Amelia closed the distance between them and offered him the papers, but just before he could take them, her mother rushed past her and knocked them out of her hands. Amelia gasped as the papers fell to the floor, completely out of order. She dropped to her knees and scrambled to gather them up.

“Enough!” Mrs. Hart cried. “No more of your scribblings. You will never secure a betrothal with anyone of the peerage if you persist with these bluestocking tendencies.”

Amelia snatched up the last sheet of paper and shakily rose to her feet, holding them tightly to her chest so her mother could not touch them again.

“If I were to be published,” she began quietly.

“You would bring shame to the Hart name,” Mrs. Hart snapped. “I tell you, no one wants a bluestocking wife.”

Tears prickling in her eyes, Amelia looked to her father for support. Surely he would intervene. After all, during her formative years, he’d allowed her to sit with him while he worked. He’d explained business concepts to her and gifted her the books that had expanded her mind. He would defend her now.

But no. There was a quiet apology in his eyes, and yet he said nothing. Perhaps she should have expected that. However much he cared for her, he always allowed his wife to make the decisions about her life.

He gave a small shrug. “I am sorry, Amelia. Your mother knows best in these things. You should listen to her.”