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

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Amelia’s hand flew across the paper as she jotted down ideas about what adventures might await Joceline next.

“Amelia!”

She froze, her hand an inch from the paper. Then, hearing her mother outside her bedchamber, she rushed to hide the paper beneath her pillow. She’d taken to working on her stories in private, since Mrs. Hart somehow always knew when she did so in the library, and she preferred not to deal with any more lectures than necessary.

Mrs. Hart breezed into the room and eyed Amelia with disapproval. “Stop lying about in bed. You ought to be preparing to receive callers.”

Amelia checked the clock and winced. “I’m sorry. Time got away from me.”

Mrs. Hart scowled. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Our guests will be here soon, and you must look your best.”

“Of course, Mother. I’ll call for Mary now.” She was just relieved her mother hadn’t seen the papers and that she’d avoided a scolding. Mrs. Hart’s temper was a fragile thing when it came to Amelia failing to live up to her expectations.

“No need. I will summon Mary,” Mrs. Hart said. “You must freshen yourself up. There’s a pot of water in the corridor. Once you’ve done that, we can choose your dress.”

Amelia’s face fell. She’d hoped that she’d be able to select her own attire today, but since her mother was here, then she would simply have to accept whatever she thought was best.

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Hart left to find Mary, for which Amelia was grateful because it allowed her to dart into the corridor, retrieve the pot of warm water, and scrub her ink-stained hands with peppermint soap before anyone else could see them. She splashed her face and checked in the mirror to ensure there were no ink smudges on her cheeks or chin.

Mrs. Hart and Mary arrived seconds after she locked the desk drawer with her notes tucked safely inside.

“Good morning, miss,” Mary said, dropping her chin respectfully.

“Hello, Mary,” Amelia greeted in return.

There was nothing more she could say with Mrs. Hart present, so as much as she might like to ask what the other maids thought of her ideas for Joceline, some of which she’d shared with Mary last night, she would have to wait.

Never mind. Amelia could be patient.

Mrs. Hart removed a dress from the wardrobe, and Amelia exhaled a breath of relief. It was a simple frock of pale blue that would actually flatter her complexion and potentially even look rather nice.

“This one,” Mrs. Hart declared.

Mary took it from her, laid it on the bed, and helped Amelia remove her nightgown. She folded the nightgown on the padded seat at the end of the bed and then positioned the dress for Amelia to step into.

Mary lifted the dress up over Amelia’s hips, and they both ignored her mother’s tutting about their difficult size—as if it were Amelia’s fault they were not either willow slim or of the impressive proportions labeled as “childbearing.”

She simply was as she had always been.

Average.

The worst possible outcome, as far as Mrs. Hart was concerned. At least if she were one extreme or the other, people would notice her.

“I think the pearl necklace today,” Mrs. Hart mused.

Amelia almost chuckled. God forbid anyone forget for a single second just how wealthy the Harts were.

She held still while Mary buttoned the back of her dress, and her mother fetched the aforementioned necklace from a drawer and held it up in front of Amelia.

“Yes. That will pair nicely with the dress.” She placed it atop the cabinet beneath the mirror. “I do wish you’d been more mindful not to waste the morning like a layabout. As it is, we don’t have the time to dress your hair properly.”

Amelia was quietly pleased that they would not be able to do anything too extravagant. It was an awful nuisance trying to comb out her hair after an event for which her mother insisted on an elaborate style. Her scalp always stung something fierce, and the tangles brought tears to her eyes.

“I am sure that Mary is more than capable of coming up with something appropriate in the time we have,” she said, flashing the maid a smile.

Mary glanced at Mrs. Hart and, finding her waiting, nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think, considering the hour, we would be best to leave her hair loose and perhaps swept over her shoulder. We can set a few curls around her face.”

Mrs. Hart sighed and waved her hand dismissively. “Fine. But next time, I expect you to be prepared earlier.”

She stalked out—no doubt to double-check her own appearance—and Amelia sat while Mary fixed her hair.

When her mother returned to escort her downstairs, she drew in a deep breath and braced herself for a morning of either painful chitchat or uncomfortable silence, depending on whether or not they received any callers.

She didn’t have high hopes.

Last season, they’d prepared for callers many times, only to receive absolutely none or, at best, someone her mother considered subpar and in whom Amelia had no interest anyway.

Just because Mrs. Hart had decided to take a more aggressive approach this season by thrusting her in front of potential suitors didn’t necessarily mean they would be more successful.

They took the stairs and passed by her father’s office on the way to the drawing room they used to greet visitors. She peeked inside. Mr. Hart was bent over a ledger, a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows. She wished she could join him like she used to as a girl rather than going through this farce.

Alas, she was now a marriageable miss, not a child. She could not afford to flout propriety as she used to. No one cared if a merchant’s daughter was eccentric, but the same could not be said of a woman of the ton. She must adapt or continue to be treated as less than their equal simply because of her birth.

Mrs. Hart summoned the housekeeper as they entered the drawing room.

“Please ensure we are prepared for callers,” she ordered. “We will require tea, scones, and clotted cream.”

Mrs. White nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Hart ushered Amelia over to one of the two chaises facing each other on the right side of the room. The regal blue-and-silver pattern of the fabric matched that of the wallpaper. Once again, her mother’s love of blue had prevailed in this space.

“Sit,” Mrs. Hart urged, looking around in search of any last-minute imperfection to tidy away.

Amelia personally thought her mother had done a wonderful job of making this room as grand as any possessed by the aristocracy, with paintings by well-known artists on the walls, a pianoforte in the corner, and a chessboard arranged atop a small table in front of the window.

Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Hart sat beside Amelia.

“Who do you think we can expect to call?” She sounded as excited as Amelia had ever heard her. “The Duke of Wight seemed quite taken with you. As did both the Earls of Winn and Longley. Could you imagine what a coup it would be if they all came to see us?”

“Quite a coup, indeed.” Not that she cared one way or the other, except for the effect it would have on her mother’s temper.

As Mrs. Hart straightened, maintaining excellent posture even though there was no one around to see, Amelia couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Even though she didn’t like the way her mother went about it, all she really wanted was to be accepted, and it wasn’t fair that society kept that from her.

Mrs. White hustled into the room, carrying a tray of tea. She set it on the table to the left of the chaise that Amelia and her mother were seated on. A maid followed behind her, bringing scones with jam and clotted cream to the table beside the chaise opposite them.

“Thank you,” Amelia murmured.

They both curtsied and left.

Amelia wondered who—if anyone—would be the first to put in an appearance. After last evening, she was certain that neither Lord Downing nor the Marquess of Overton would visit. She feared she’d bored them both dreadfully. A shame, when the marquess was one of only two of the gentlemen she’d danced with whom she considered appealing.

The other, the Earl of Longley, confused her. He had ever since he’d startled her while she was loitering behind the shrubbery. She didn’t know what to make of him, or whether he’d been genuinely interested in her, simply humoring her, or somehow mocking her .

He was a solid man, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and an innate gracefulness that had made him enjoyable to dance with. His square-jawed face was pleasant to look upon, and his sparkling gold-flecked eyes, smattering of freckles, and reddish hair kept him from bland handsomeness.

There was a rap at the door.

“The Earl of Winn has arrived,” their butler announced.

Amelia stiffened.

Her mother, on the other hand, beamed. “Show him in, Mr. Grant.”

He bowed and backed away, returning moments later with the Earl of Winn’s familiar paunchy figure.

Amelia’s eyebrows rose. She was surprised by how well he looked, considering he’d seemed to have had a few too many glasses of champagne the previous evening. But now, the earl stood tall, his clothing impeccable, his eyes clear. He still did not appeal to her in the slightest, but she couldn’t help being a little impressed.

Both Amelia and Mrs. Hart rose to their feet. Mrs. Hart made a display of curtsying deeply. Amelia followed suit. As she rose, she noticed the earl’s gaze dart away from her decolletage. Her cheeks heated. Sober or not, he was a lecher.

“We are honored you have called on us,” Mrs. Hart said, sinking gracefully onto the chaise. She gestured at the one opposite them. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Would you like tea?” Amelia asked, knowing her role in this performance.

He nodded. “Please, my dear.”

Her skin crawled, but she did her best to hide it as she crossed to the table, poured tea into three cups—for him, her mother, and herself. “How do you take it?”

“Black. No sugar.” He fingered the edge of his mustache. “That’s the most British way, in my opinion.”

Mrs. Hart giggled. “How right you are.”

Amelia fixed two black teas and one with sugar and milk, as she preferred. She stirred, set the spoon down with a clink, and served her mother and the earl before claiming her own cup and returning to her seat.

They sat in silence. It dragged out for far too long. Mrs. Hart shot Amelia a look, but she didn’t know what to say. She was good at recalling social rituals but less so at actually speaking to people she had little in common with.

“How are you enjoying the season?” she asked awkwardly.

“So far, so good.” He sipped his tea, and she inwardly winced. It must still be very hot. “Of course, it’s all about the company, isn’t it? I very much enjoyed yours during our dance.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Remembering how he’d attempted to look down her dress at every opportunity, she’d prefer to be less polite, but her mother would be furious, and it wasn’t worth the bother.

Sometimes, she thought it would be nice if Mrs. Hart wasn’t quite so mercenary. She probably meant well, but Amelia had difficulty believing that her mother cared whether she married a lecherous drunkard like Winn or a handsome charmer like Longley, provided they were titled.

They continued a somewhat stilted conversation until the earl took his leave.

Soon after he departed, Mr. Grant declared the arrival of the Duke of Wight. The duke entered with a dignified gait that Amelia supposed arose from age as much as station. She doubted he could move much faster. Perhaps she would be safe married to him if she failed to bear his children. After all, she only had to be able to outrun him.

That said, the thought of him touching her made her want to fling herself off the cliff anyway.

She poured him tea, which he promptly set aside, instead helping himself to a scone laden with jam and cream. He began a conversation that didn’t seem to require their participation to maintain. He kept up a constant stream of hunting stories, bragging about how many grouse he’d bagged, among other things.

Amelia did her best to hide her distaste. She understood the need to kill for sustenance, but the idea of killing for sport had always seemed unnecessarily cruel to her.

Of course, her mother flattered the duke every time he stopped speaking for even a few seconds. She probably considered that Amelia ought to do the same, but he didn’t even notice her lack of interest, so what did it matter?

The duke excused himself after yet another scone, leaving his tea untouched. He scanned Amelia in the same way he had at the ball, as if she were a broodmare he was considering purchasing, then made a passing remark about seeing them soon. She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or if he’d decided she was not his best bet as the provider of his heir and they’d never hear from him again.

Despite her mother’s obvious hopes to the contrary, she couldn’t help but pray for the latter.

After Mr. Grant showed the duke out, Amelia and Mrs. Hart sat alone in the drawing room as the minutes ticked by.

Mrs. Hart’s optimism gradually faded, and after a while, she instructed Amelia to get her needlepoint. Amelia knew better than to refuse, so she did, and they worked side by side. Her mother created beautiful artistry while Amelia struggled with a simple floral design.

Eventually, Mrs. Hart heaved a sigh. “I do not understand. I was certain we’d receive more callers.”

“Perhaps they will come soon.” But Amelia wasn’t surprised. No matter how much her mother tried to foist her onto society, the only men who’d consider marrying her were either fortune hunters or less desirable for some other reason, such as the Earl of Winn and the Duke of Wight.

“Perhaps.” But Mrs. Hart didn’t sound hopeful.

They resumed their needlepoint. While Amelia’s fingers tripped clumsily over the needle, and she pricked herself on more than one occasion, she allowed her mind to wander to Joceline Davies. She longed to get started on her next tale. She’d decided that Joceline would set sail for the Americas but was still fleshing out the whys and hows.

She jabbed her finger and hissed as a droplet of blood welled on the tip. She sucked it into her mouth, ignoring her mother’s rebuke.

“You are not a heathen,” Mrs. Hart muttered. “I know you are able to do needlepoint better than this.”

She really wasn’t. Amelia had never been particularly adept at any of the ladylike skills her mother had attempted to teach her, with the exception of speaking other languages. She was a passable dancer at best, had no eye for color, and would much rather have a quill in hand than a needle.

Still, she supposed it was nice that her mother cared enough to delude herself into believing that Amelia possessed some of the expected feminine talents.

“Ma’am. Miss.”

Both of their faces snapped toward the door where Mr. Grant stood, his potbelly buffed out in a display of self-importance.

“The Earl of Longley.”

Amelia’s hands stilled. The earl had come?

She didn’t have time to gather her thoughts before Mr. Grant was showing him in. Longley grinned at them with that same mischievous smile he’d worn yesterday. His hazel eyes twinkled as if he knew something they didn’t, and his thick auburn hair was slightly tousled.Her stomach fluttered. He was awfully good-looking, and she liked that despite his attractiveness, he didn’t seem unapproachable.

“My lord.” Her mother looked utterly delighted as she placed her needlepoint in a basket near her feet and rose. “We so hoped you would grace us with your presence. ”

Longley held his palms up. “Please don’t get up on my account.”

He bowed to her and then to Amelia, one side of his mouth curled as if he found the world incredibly amusing.

“B-but we must,” Mrs. Hart sputtered, thrown off by his casual demeanor. “It is only proper.”

“Do as you wish, my good lady.” He strode farther into the room, glancing about and studying one of the paintings with interest.

“Would you like tea and scones?” Amelia asked, eagerly dropping her own needlepoint into the basket too.

His gaze followed the movement, and he smirked. “Tea and scones would be welcome, Miss Hart.”

She gestured for the earl to sit while she went to the tables. “How do you prefer your tea?”

“With two spoons of sugar, please. Both jam and cream on the scone.”

He waited while she poured a drink, stirred in sugar, and prepared a scone for him. When she’d passed them over, he blew across the top of the teacup and placed it back on the table to cool.

The earl bit into his scone, careful not to smear any cream on his face. “You have a lovely home,” he said after swallowing his mouthful. “Who is the art aficionado in the family?”

“We all appreciate the arts,” Mrs. Hart hedged. “But it was I who selected the paintings for our walls.”

“You have excellent taste.”

Amelia watched the interplay, baffled. When he’d said he would call today, she’d assumed it was a polite overture that would not be followed up on. Yet here he was.

She didn’t understand. What possible interest could a rich, charming, and titled man have with a plain merchant’s daughter he’d found hiding behind a plant ?

Mrs. Hart preened and sent Amelia another pointed look. She reminded Amelia of a cat with a mouse in its sights.

“We need more tea,” she said, standing and brushing off her skirt. “I will speak to Mrs. White. I’ll be just a moment.” She widened her eyes meaningfully and sashayed out of the drawing room.

Amelia cocked her head, confused. Her mother could just as easily have called for Mrs. White to come to her. It was unlike her to go in search of the servants herself. She considered that kind of behavior beneath her.Not to mention the fact that she was leaving them alone together, which was most improper.

Then it struck her. Mrs. Hart must have realized that Amelia wasn’t as repulsed by him as she had been by the others, and that therefore the earl was her best chance thus far of marrying into the aristocracy.Perhaps she hoped that something scandalous might occur between them while she was gone to force the issue.

Amelia looked at the earl.

He looked back.

She pursed her lips, uncertain what to say. She decided the direct approach would be best. “What is it that brings you to our home this morning?”

His forehead crinkled. “The pleasure of your company. It is rare that I find a woman who sparkles the way you do.”

She narrowed her eyes. Was that supposed to be a reference to her looks? Her clothing? Or perhaps the expensive jewelry her mother insisted on dressing her in.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

He tilted his head and eyed her quizzically, then changed tack. “In all honesty, I found you to be the most interesting woman I was lucky enough to meet yesterday. I’m not one to deny myself that which interests me, so here I am, eager for more of your company.”

Against her better judgment, she smiled. Considering how they had met and the unconventional encounter that had followed, she could believe he’d found her interesting more easily than that he had been struck senseless by her beauty.

“You are an unusual man,” she observed. “Yesterday, you asked me to tell you something about me, and I did. Now, I’d like to know something about you. All I know is that you’re an earl and my mother is impressed by you.”

He grinned, and her insides fluttered again. “What else do you need to know?” He ate another bite of scone while he thought. “I have one sibling. A younger sister. Do you have any siblings?”

Amelia’s chest squeezed. “No. I should have liked a sister.”

“They’re pests of a thing,” Longley teased before growing serious. “But I love her dearly anyway.”

“What’s her name?”

“Katherine. We call her Kate.”

“And how old is she?”

“Eighteen. We intend to introduce her to society next season.”

“I am sure she will have every success she wishes for.” The words held a hint of bitterness, and she hoped he didn’t notice. It was just that it would be nice to have someone care about her as Longley cared for Kate. She could already tell that he was a protective older brother.

“I have returned,” Mrs. Hart declared, striding into the room with Mrs. White close behind her. When she spotted Amelia and Longley still sitting on opposite chaises, her face fell.

Amelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. What had she thought would happen? Amelia was hardly the sort to seduce a man in her parents’ drawing room.

Mrs. White set a fresh teapot on the table and removed the other. She left without a word.

Mrs. Hart joined Amelia on the chaise. “My lord, Amelia and I would love to hear about Longley Manor. It is in Suffolk, is it not?”

The earl popped the remainder of the scone into his mouth, wiped his fingers on his handkerchief, and started to tell them a little about his country home. Amelia listened, eager to learn more about a part of the country she had not yet visited.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get far before her mother took over the conversation. As she listened to Mrs. Hart’s chatter, Amelia wished she’d had more of a chance to learn about who Longley was as a man.

When the earl finally glanced at the clock and said he had best leave, Amelia still could not make heads or tails of his intentions toward her.She couldn’t imagine that a man like him would court her without an ulterior motive, but he did seem sincere.

She and her mother escorted him to the door. He turned toward her.

“May I call on you again?” he asked.

She inclined her head. “Of course. We would be delighted.”

Although what would please her even more was if she knew exactly what the man was up to. She wanted to believe that he was simply interested in her as a prospective bride because he found something about her intriguing, but her instincts told her there was more to the story than she was seeing.

She feared that if she did not uncover his true motives soon, she might allow herself to fall for his flirtation.

That could only end poorly.