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

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Mary held up a sage-green dress, and Mrs. Hart clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Not that one,” she said. “Put it back. Bring out the white one with the pale pink embellishments.”

“White doesn’t suit my complexion,” Amelia complained. If she was to be forced to endure her mother parading her around like a prize filly for auction, she’d at least like to look as good as possible while it happened. “What about the blue?”

But Mrs. Hart shook her head. “No, the white showcases your purity. It’s a more appropriate choice.”

Good Lord. Knowing that the white was supposed to symbolize her untouched status somehow made her even more uncomfortable than she’d be simply wearing an unflattering color.

Mary flashed her a sympathetic look and hung the sage-green dress back in the wardrobe, then sorted through the options until she found the white dress Mrs. Hart had referenced. As she withdrew it, Amelia grimaced. Must dresses really be so… ruffled? She much preferred the simpler styles.

Mrs. Hart waved her forward. “Go on. Let’s see it on you.”

Amelia swallowed a sigh and stepped into the dress, waiting while Mary pulled it up and cinched it at the back. The fit was slightly tight, but she suspected that was by design. Her mother wished she’d eat less, and what better way to achieve that than by purchasing dresses she couldn’t breathe in properly unless she slimmed.

“Do a turn,” Mrs. Hart ordered. “Hmm. Yes. That’s perfect for the first ball of the season.”

While Mary laced the back, Mrs. Hart studied the array of jewelry she’d laid out on the bed.

“The good thing about white is that you can wear any color of jewelry with it,” she mused. “We can’t settle for just anything, however. We must choose something that properly displays our wealth.”

“I am certain most members of the ton are aware of the size of our fortune,” Amelia said dryly. It was, after all, the only reason they were permitted among them. Well that, and the fact that her father’s mines had made several key members of the aristocracy a lot of money.

“Then let’s remind them.” Mrs. Hart held up a necklace of rubies and diamonds, each one small but perfectly formed. “This will do, I think. The red of the rubies will go well with the pink embellishments on your dress, and diamonds…. Well, do I really need to remark on those?”

“I will put it on her after her hair is done,” Mary said.

Amelia didn’t argue. It was a nice necklace and far less gaudy than some of the ones her mother could have chosen. Personally, Amelia preferred not to wear jewelry at all, but until she was in control of her own destiny, she would comply. It wasn’t as if she disliked jewels. She just found it uncomfortable to attract attention to herself, and jewelry was designed for that purpose.

Mary dropped her hands from the back of the dress and stepped away. Amelia tried to draw in a deep breath but couldn’t quite manage to.

“Sit in front of the mirror, please, miss,” Mary said.

“Of course.” She lowered herself into the chair Mary had placed in front of the mirror, being careful not to burst the seams of the definitely-too-tight gown.

Mary removed the ribbon holding Amelia’s hair and briskly brushed the length down her back.

“Make sure to use the jeweled pins,” Mrs. Hart urged.

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Mary began to arrange Amelia’s hair into an elaborate knot on the back of her head, Mrs. Hart hovered over Amelia’s shoulder so that they could make eye contact in the mirror.

“Do you recall which gentlemen we intend to impress?” Mrs. Hart asked.

“Yes.” Amelia was careful not to move her head. “The Duke of Wight, the Marquess of Overton, and the Earls of Winn and Longley.”

“Good girl.”

Amelia was tempted to bark.

Mrs. Hart watched her with an unwavering gaze. “Remind me how we intend to capture their attention.”

Amelia parroted her mother’s earlier instructions. “By being demure, curtsying beautifully, and accepting every invitation to dance.”

“Don’t forget, there will be no mention of your fanciful scribblings. Nor should you mention any books you may have read.”

Amelia frowned. “What if they refer to the book first? They may ask me if I have read a particular work.”

Mrs. Hart laughed. “My dear, I can assure you that no gentleman will ask you about your reading habits.” She shuddered distastefully as she voiced the phrase as if it were dirty and would sully her by association.

Amelia supposed that since she had made it through her first season without any discussion of books, it would be no sacrifice to promise to do so again. Her mother had a point, after all. Gentlemen didn’t seem to admire ladies for their wit or their ability to read Latin or French.

“I will not mention fiction of any form,” she agreed.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Hart touched her shoulder lightly. “It is for the best. We will not secure a title if you do not try. You’re a smart girl. You can make it happen if you wish to.”

Amelia pressed her lips together. That might be one of the nicer things her mother had said to her. Not that Mrs. Hart was intentionally cruel. She was just self-centered and had a shallow view of the world.

Mrs. Hart excused herself to get prepared for the ball, and once she was gone, it didn’t take long for Mary to pin Amelia’s hair into place, frame her face artfully with curls, and arrange the necklace around the base of her throat.

“Good luck,” she murmured as Amelia swept out of her bedchamber.

“Thank you,” she called back.

Her father was waiting patiently near the bottom of the stairs. He turned toward her as she approached.

“Are you ready for a night of dancing?” he asked, looking her up and down.

“I suppose so.” She actually liked dancing—not that she was the most graceful at it.

“I think—” He broke off as Mrs. Hart appeared like a vision at the top of the stairs. She was clad in blue, because of course she would never be seen dead in an unflattering color. Not that many colors looked ill on her mother, truth be told. “My dear, you look ravishing.”

Mrs. Hart preened, fussing with her dark hair, which spilled over her shoulders like liquid silk.

Amelia pretended not to notice the way her father practically melted into a puddle at her mother’s feet. No matter how much he may care for Amelia, that affection would never hold a candle to his complete adoration of his wife.

“Do you like it?” Mrs. Hart reached the ground floor and gave a small twirl, her skirts rising high enough to reveal matching blue satin slippers.

Mr. Hart smiled and ran his hand over his balding head, clearly besotted. “You know I love to see you in blue.”

Amelia sighed. She supposed her parents’ relationship was sweet, in a way. Her father would happily worship her mother, and nothing made her mother happier than being worshiped. It may seem unbalanced, but they were harmonious, in a way. It was just unfortunate that she did not slot so easily into their dynamic.

“The carriage awaits,” she murmured, afraid they might forget without her prompting.

Mr. Hart cleared his throat. “Of course.”

He took her mother’s arm and guided her out through the massive front doors to the carriage. The horses stood placidly, their sleek brown coats gleaming in the last of the evening light.

Amelia shivered and wished she had thought to don a pelisse prior to leaving her room. While the weather was fine, there was a chill in the air. They entered and settled in the carriage. Amelia sat with her back to the front and gazed out the window as the horses pulled them out onto the street.

They navigated through Mayfair until they joined a row of carriages queued outside an intimidatingly large house with Roman-style columns affixed to the facade and a domed turret on each side of the building.

The carriage carried them around a neatly maintained lawn to a cobbled bay beside the entrance. A footman opened the door, and Mrs. Hart nudged Amelia forward. She accepted the footman’s assistance and stepped to the side while her parents disembarked,

The slight scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air. Perhaps some of the gentlemen had already sought refuge outside the ballroom.

She would too, if she were able.

Somewhere inside, a skilled pianist was playing Mozart. Mr. Hart linked one of his arms with Amelia’s and the other with his wife’s, and together they made their way up a short staircase and through the open doors. A footman gestured for them to cross the foyer and enter the ballroom on the other side.

The room was long and rectangular, with a wooden floor, white walls, and gold trim. The ceiling arched high above, and dozens of members of the ton were dressed in their finest and mingling throughout the room.

“Mr. Hart.” The Earl of Wembley, their host, greeted her father with a tilt of his head. He turned to her mother. “Mrs. Hart. You are stunning, as always. And Miss Hart. A pleasure to see you here.”

Mr. Hart shook the earl’s hand. “Thank you for the invitation, Wembley.”

“Of course, my good man. It’s an honor to hold the first ball of the season. Please, come in and enjoy yourself.”

Amelia curtsied to the earl and countess, who stood silently beside him, and moved farther into the ballroom, making way for the next guests to be greeted.

Mr. Hart surveyed those assembled. “I see an acquaintance of mine. I will keep him company while you ladies go about your business.”

As he hustled away, Amelia narrowed her eyes at him.

Traitor.

He disliked these events as much as she did, preferring to keep to the fringes and make chitchat about mining and investments, leaving only to dance with his wife.

“Oh look,” Mrs. Hart exclaimed. “It’s Lady Bowling. If I recall correctly, she has a daughter your age. Come.”

Amelia allowed herself to be escorted to join Lady Bowling and her companion, a pale young woman with an elaborate peacock-feather headdress twined into her hair, which was somewhere between ginger and blond.

“Lady Bowling,” Mrs. Hart called, a little too loudly. “Such a pleasure to see you.”

Lady Bowling flashed a fake smile. “Yes, a pleasure, Mrs. Hart.” She glanced at Amelia. “Miss Hart.”

Amelia curtsied. “Lovely to see you again, Lady Bowling.”

Lady Bowling gestured at the younger woman. “You may have met Lady Esther last year.”

Amelia curtsied to her too. “Lady Esther.”

If her mother had drilled one thing into her, it was manners.

Lady Esther dipped her head in return. “Miss Hart.”

“It looks like tonight will be a crush,” Mrs. Hart said cheerfully. “Plenty of eligible gentlemen for our daughters to meet.”

Lady Bowling looked around as if seeking escape. “Indeed.”

Mrs. Hart’s face lit up. “I say, I do believe that is the Marquess of Overton. Lady Bowling, would you do us the honor of an introduction?”

Amelia cast her eyes downward so as not to give away her shock at her mother’s audacity. She was impressed, in a way. Her mother knew what she wanted and didn’t intend to let any obstacles prevent her from achieving her goal. It was just a shame that her desires and Amelia’s did not fully align.

“Of course.” Lady Bowling curled her upper lip as if she’d smelled something foul. She led them through the crowd and to the side of the ballroom, where a handsome figure of a man with dark hair and an aristocratic nose was surveying the throng.

Amelia glanced at Lady Esther and found the other woman looking back. Lady Esther grimaced and moved her neck from side to side. Perhaps the headdress was heavy. Amelia wondered if it was Lady Bowling’s choice to display her daughter in such a way, just as Mrs. Hart had been the one to select her unflattering and frilly gown.

“My lord.” Lady Bowling swept into a dramatic curtsy as they reached the marquess.

The Harts and Lady Esther rushed to follow suit.

Lady Bowling rose. “You look very well tonight. Do you recall my daughter, Lady Esther?”

The marquess nodded and tipped his head toward Lady Esther. “You are as eye-catching as ever, Lady Esther.”

Lady Esther giggled but didn’t seem able to summon a verbal response.

Lady Bowling waved at Mrs. Hart and Amelia. “Have you met Mrs. Hart and Miss Hart?”

“I have not.” The marquess gave a shallow bow. He caught Amelia’s eyes as he rose. “Charmed.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. She did not think he was charmed at all. He had a slightly hunted expression that made her think of a fox that knew the hounds were on its tail. Of course, she kept that observation to herself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, offering him a small smile.

“A very great pleasure,” Mrs. Hart added enthusiastically. “Do you intend to dance tonight, my lord?”

“Er, yes.” The marquess shifted from one foot to the other. “I would be honored if Lady Esther and Miss Hart would each grace me with a dance. Provided that their cards aren’t already full….” He sounded so hopeful that Amelia almost laughed.

Lady Esther rapidly proffered her card, giggling again. The marquess jotted his name beside one of her dances and then did the same for Amelia.

“You must excuse me now,” he said, staring somewhere behind them. “I see… someone I must speak with.”

Neither mother seemed concerned as he beat a hasty retreat. They had accomplished their goal of securing dances for their daughters.

“Is that Lord Downing?” Mrs. Hart asked, subtly jerking her chin toward a man farther along the wall.

“I believe it is,” Lady Bowling confirmed. “Shall we?”

Amelia didn’t escape the clutches of her mother and Lady Bowling until her first dance with the aforementioned Lord Downing. She attempted to make small talk, but it was clear within the first thirty seconds of their dance that she bored him terribly.

Her next dance was with the Marquess of Overton, who at the very least seemed more inclined to carry on a conversation with her, even if it centered around how dreadful the weather had been.

Unfortunately, any joy she might feel as a result of this small win was overshadowed by the pain in her feet. The marquess was an atrocious dancer. However, he had been relatively pleasant to her, so she liked him more than Lord Downing.

On the side of the room, her mother kept widening her eyes and nodding meaningfully. Amelia wasn’t quite sure what she was trying to convey, but there was little she could do to prolong their interaction considering her next dance was promised to the Earl of Winn.

Indeed, Overton quickly melted into the crowd and the earl materialized before her. He was a short man with graying hair, and his hand was clammy as it wrapped around hers. They began to dance a quadrille.

Winn’s feet were quicker than Overton’s, and he didn’t step on her at all. However, he swayed in such a way that led her to believe he might be soused, and his eyes barely left the exposed skin of her throat and upper chest. At first, she thought he might be admiring the necklace, as her mother had intended, but she rapidly realized his thoughts were elsewhere .

Dreadful man.

As soon as the dance ended, she hurried toward the powder room without looking back. She paced the room, glancing at herself in the mirror each time she passed it. She winced. Her eyes were wide and agitated, and a faint flush had spread across her cheeks.

The door opened, and a short, curvaceous redhead strode inside. She came up short upon spotting Amelia.

“Do you need me to help you escape through the window?” she asked completely seriously.

Amelia laughed at the absurdity of the offer. “Much as I would like that, no. It’s just….” She huffed. “Does the insincerity of this whole thing not grow tiresome?”

Her companion nodded. “No one says what they mean, and everyone is so polite and stiff. It’s ridiculous. Yet this is the world we find ourselves a part of, and we must navigate it as best we can.”

Amelia checked her hand for a ring and, seeing none, asked, “How many seasons have you had?”

The redhead sighed. “This will be my sixth.”

Amelia prayed she did not have to endure another four seasons. She wasn’t sure she would remain sane. She would almost certainly accept the suit of a halfway decent man before then if only to escape the unpleasantness of forced civility.

The redhead smirked. “Don’t feel too sorry for me. It has been my choice not to wed. I intended to once, when I was much younger, but he, apparently, did not want me back.”

Amelia’s heart lurched. How awful to know who one wanted and be denied. “I am sorry.”

The woman shrugged. “There is nothing for it. I am Helena, and you?”

“Amelia.” She did not offer a last name, since Helena hadn’t done so.

Helena closed the distance between them and patted her shoulder. “Well, at least you no longer look as if you are considering fleeing. You should probably return before your mother sends out a search party, fearing that you are being debauched in some shadowy corner.”

Amelia gaped at her. She could scarcely believe Helena had used the word “debauched” in polite company. Then she quietly laughed at herself. She shouldn’t be so easily shocked. She had written plenty of scandalous things herself, although they were less of a debaucherous nature and were instead more in the vein of women doing things that society dictated they ought not to.

“I’ve shocked you.” Helena appeared pleased by this.

“No. Well, yes, but only in a good way. You’re right. I should return.”

“Good luck,” Helena called as Amelia strode out, her skirts brushing against her calves with each step.

She decided she liked Helena. She was exactly the sort of person who would have adventures like Joceline did. Not at all like Amelia herself.

“Amelia!”

She winced at the hiss from Mrs. Hart, who’d apparently been waiting beside the powder room door.

“You missed a dance,” Mrs. Hart growled. “Fortunately for you, I was able to persuade the Duke of Wight to accept the next dance instead.”

Amelia’s heart sank, but she allowed herself to be drawn back into the crush. Her mother handed her over to the duke, who was waiting on the edge of the dance floor. They had met briefly earlier, and Amelia had been relieved that he’d been distracted by a friend at the time. She’d thought she’d had a lucky escape, but it would seem not.

“Miss Hart.” The duke raised her hands to his lips and kissed the back, leaving a wet patch behind.

Amelia wished she could wipe it on her dress, but there was no way to do so without him noticing.

She curtsied. “Your Grace.”

His gaze skimmed down her body, and she couldn’t help but feel as if he were gauging her ability to bear children. For once, she thanked the heavens that she did not have particularly wide hips. The duke likely wanted someone more of Helena’s proportions if his priority was to secure an heir.

But as he led her onto the dance floor for a waltz, of all things, it didn’t feel as though he’d dismissed her potential to be the next Duchess of Wight. His hand on her waist dipped lower than necessary, and she stiffened.

“Were you in Town last season?” she asked to make polite conversation.

“I was in mourning,” he said, “but I am finally ready to move on.”

Ah, yes.

His late wife.

One of three late wives.

Amelia had no desire to become the fourth. At what point would the man admit that he might be the problem?

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-one, Your Grace.” She’d had her first season slightly later than most debutantes because her mother wanted to ensure she could integrate as successfully as possible, having come from such a different background.

“Very good.” His hand wandered lower again.

Amelia trod on his foot. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

His hand returned to its former, slightly too low, position, and he bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I expect you had less formal dance training than most chits.”

She pretended not to understand the barb. He was trying to remind her of her place, which was lesser than the aristocracy.

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the dance. As soon as possible, Amelia disentangled herself from him. She hurried to the drinks table, claimed a glass of lemonade, and forced herself not to gulp down the tart liquid in the unladylike way she wanted to.

She looked around and couldn’t see her mother. In need of a brief respite, she ducked behind an arrangement of shrubbery intended as decoration. There was a tickle in her nose, and she rubbed the side of it, thinking longingly of the chair in the corner of her bedchamber. She would so much rather be curled up there with a book.

“I say,” a cultured male voice inquired from a few feet away. “Pray tell, who are you hiding from behind the shrubbery?”