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

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

A sharp knock on her bedchamber door startled Amelia, and she clapped her hand to her chest. “What is it?”

“Miss Hart.” Mr. Grant sounded miffed that she had not rushed over. “The Earl of Longley is asking to see you.”

“Oh.” She jolted upright, almost knocking over her inkwell. “Tell him I will be there soon. Can you please send Mrs. White up?”

“Yes, miss.”

She heard his footsteps retreat, and she quickly tidied away her papers. She’d been working on more of the story where Miss Joceline fled to the Americas, driven to desperation by the fickle attention of a suitor who wasn’t worthy of her.

She looked at her hands and grimaced. There were two particularly obvious ink smudges. She didn’t have the supplies to clean her hands properly, so instead she donned one of her least favorite pairs of gloves—so as not to ruin one of the pairs she actually liked—and inhaled deeply, attempting to pull herself together.

It had been two days since the earl had departed from her family’s house with the marriage agreement in hand, and she hadn’t heard from him since. She’d tried not to tie herself in knots worrying over what his response might be or, God forbid, whether he’d tell her parents about her proposition, but it was difficult not to when faced with such a large unknown.

She steepled her fingers and closed her eyes, doing her best to gather herself.

“Miss Hart?”

Her eyelashes fluttered open, and she blinked as her vision cleared. “Mrs. White. Thank you for coming. Would you be able to arrange for tea and cakes to be sent to the yellow drawing room, please?”

Mrs. White nodded, her cheeks ruddy. “I’ll get on that right away, and I’ll ask Mary to join you.”

She bustled away without waiting for Amelia to dismiss her.

What would the earl say? Would he agree to her proposal?

With a sigh, she strode out of the room. The only way she’d find the answers to those questions was by asking him herself.

As she hurried down the stairs, she thought to check her dress to make sure it was acceptable for interacting with an earl. It was probably a little plain, and the skirt was slightly crumpled from sitting for so long, but it would have to do.

She shivered as she reached the ground floor. It was cooler than on the second floor—especially her bedchamber, which was flooded with midafternoon light.

She rounded the corner into the drawing room and forced a smile onto her face.

“My lord.” She swept into a curtsy. “How lovely to see you.”

He grinned at her from where he stood in front of the bookshelf, flashing his crooked incisor. For some reason, the sight of it felt oddly intimate. “And you too.”

She glanced at Mary, who stood in the corner with her hands folded over her lap and her head down.

“Our housekeeper will be in with tea and cake. I assume you’ve come to discuss my proposition?”

He opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to respond, Mrs. Hart glided through the doorway and into the drawing room. She beamed at Lord Longley and shot Amelia a disapproving glare.

“What a surprise to see you, my lord,” she said. “Do forgive my lateness. I wasn’t informed that we have a guest.”

His mouth quirked up on one side. “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Hart. You’re here now.”

“I am indeed. Would you like some tea?”

Longley met Amelia’s gaze. “Miss Hart just finished telling me that tea and cakes will arrive momentarily.”

Mrs. White hurried in, faltering slightly when she spotted Mrs. Hart, but she covered the brief hesitation and set the tea tray on the side table.

“Amelia?” Mrs. Hart said.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Won’t you be a dear and fix the earl a cup of tea?”

Amelia struggled not to laugh at Mrs. Hart’s attempt to show off her domestic skills in front of a potential husband. She poured him a cup, grateful she could recall his preference from last time. Sugar, but no milk. She passed it to him, then prepared a cup for her mother and then herself.

Her mother accepted the saucer and perched on the edge of a brown leather chair.

“Why on earth did you see fit to receive a caller in this room?” she asked Amelia. “The blue drawing room is far more suited to such things.”

Yes, and she’d thought being in the yellow drawing room was less likely to attract her mother’s attention, but look how that had worked out.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Hart was right. The yellow drawing room had fewer chairs, so unless Amelia wanted to sit at the desk, she had to either remain standing and allow Longley to take the other chair or claim it herself. She couldn’t decide whether her mother would prefer for her to abide by society’s dictates and sit or show graciousness by offering the earl her seat.

Fortunately, he saved her from making the decision.

“Miss Hart, please take a seat,” he said, gesturing at the chair with his free hand. “Don’t feel the need to stand on my account.”

Relieved, she did as he said, arranging her skirts around herself and holding on to her teacup and saucer.

“What brings you here on a day as cold as this one?” Mrs. Hart asked. “I’d have thought everyone would be eager to stay home.”

He glanced at Amelia, and she did her best not to let him know she was quietly panicking. He wouldn’t sell her out, would he?

He smirked. “I simply couldn’t stand the idea of going another day without Miss Hart’s company. After our visit to the museum, she suggested I read a particular paper of interest to her, and I wanted to give her my thoughts on it.”

Her chest tightened. He must be referring to the marriage agreement she’d given him.

Mrs. Hart’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing too academic, I hope?”

The earl waved dismissively. “No, nothing like that. It was an article about women’s fashion through the ages.”

Thankfully, her mother was satisfied by that explanation, and the tension gripping Amelia eased.

“What did you think of it?” she asked, knowing he referred to their agreement, since there had been no fashion article.

He cocked his head, and a hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “I definitely thought it was worthy of further discussion. It raised several interesting points, and I’d like to learn more.”

Her stomach fluttered. Surely that must mean he was interested in taking her up on the offer.

She hesitated. “There’s a tome in our library that may be of interest. I’m sure Father won’t mind if you’d like to borrow it.”

Mrs. Hart’s nose crinkled, and she looked between them, clearly uncertain whether to steer the conversation in a direction she deemed more appropriate or whether to go along with it, since the earl hadn’t expressed any dissatisfaction.

Her lips twisted wryly. “You may borrow whatever book catches your eye, my lord. I’ll leave you two to peruse the library in peace, but before you go, may I inquire as to the next ball you will be attending?”

Longley nodded. “I will be at the Studholme ball on Thursday.”

Mrs. Hart deflated. “Ah.”

Amelia understood her disappointment. The Harts had not secured an invitation to the exclusive Studholme ball.

The earl, noticing her dejection, said, “Won’t you come as my guests?”

Mrs. Hart’s head shot up, and her mouth fell open. “We would be thrilled to accept. That’s so generous of you.”

“Excellent. I shall have the arrangements made.” He turned to Amelia. “I hope you will save me two dances.”

She grinned, her heart lifting. That sounded promising. “I will.”

He emptied his teacup in a few mouthfuls, and she did the same. He took it from her and set both cups on the table; then he offered her his arm. She stood and took it.

“A pleasure, as always,” he said to her mother and led Amelia out of the room. “Which way to the library?”

“Up the stairs and to the right. ”

They climbed the stairs and headed down the corridor, only stopping when Amelia gestured at a closed door. Lord Longley turned the handle and pushed it open. The library was dim, muted light coming through a small window on the far wall. The darkness helped preserve the integrity of the books, many of which were old.

“This is quite a library for a family like yours,” he remarked.

She laughed. “Common?”

He pulled a face as he released her and strolled over to read the spines of the books on the shelf closest. “I mean no offense. But a family that has a history such as mine accumulates books over many generations, whereas I assume all of these were purchased by your father?”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You would be right about that. My father is an avid reader of business, science, and mathematics texts. The fiction, I must admit, he bought solely to entertain me. I also enjoy factual texts, but in my opinion, they’re best when interspersed with stories that give them context.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, something calculating in his gaze. “You are quite a reader?”

“Indeed.” Not that her mother would be pleased she’d admitted as much. Still, if they were to wed, then it was best he knew that now. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” He trailed his finger down the spine of a book, withdrew it from the shelf, and opened it to the first page. “I must confess, I’m curious. In your agreement, you reference literary pursuits. What did you mean by that?”

She pressed her lips together and closed the door to ensure no one could overhear them. “I’ve already told you that I like to read.”

He nodded, still looking down at the book rather than at her, as if he knew that would make it easier for her to continue. She debated how much to tell him. She needed to share enough to allow him to make a reasonably informed decision, but she was also afraid that being wholly truthful might put him off.

“I also like to dabble in writing,” she said finally. It was true, but also somewhat of an understatement. “Letters, scenes from fictional situations. Whatever catches my fancy. It would make me miserable if my husband were to interfere with my ability to do that.”

His shoulders relaxed. He returned the book to the shelf and turned toward her. “As far as hobbies go, I cannot imagine it is a particularly dangerous or expensive one. I see no reason you couldn’t continue if we were to wed.”

Her soul lightened. It felt as though a weight she had been carrying for years had finally lifted. “Thank you, my lord.” He had no idea how much this meant to her. “Does this mean you are willing to agree to my terms?”

He raised a finger. “I have two other questions.”

She bit her lip. Of course it would not be so simple. “Ask them.”

He took a step toward her, and her heart rate increased. “First, you do not want your husband to attempt to control your actions. Please explain exactly what you mean by that.”

Amelia twined her fingers together and drew in a calming breath. “Just what it sounds like. I don’t want a husband who will tell me what I can and can’t wear, or eat, or read. If I feel like writing a story or going for a walk in the countryside, I don’t want anyone to stop me. If I find a particular person or event unpleasant, I’d like to be able to leave without being chastised later.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “That’s perfectly reasonable.”

The knot in her gut loosened. “Thank you.”

“But,” he added, “if we were to marry, I hope you would take your husband’s thoughts and feelings into consideration. Say if you wanted to walk outside when a storm was approaching. I might advise against it. Not for the sake of controlling you, but to keep you safe. Of course, the end decision would be yours, but I hope you would at least consider my opinion.”

Nibbling on her lip, she searched for issues in what he’d said but found none. He was right that it would be respectful to consider her husband’s wishes even if she ignored them in the end.

“I can agree to that,” she said. “What’s your second question?”

He stepped even closer, and warmth pooled inside her. “What do you get out of this arrangement?”

She frowned, the warmth dissipating. “I don’t understand.”

He moved forward again and reached for her hand. She allowed him to take it, ignoring the zing of sensation his touch elicited.

“You said that your parents would like you to wed an aristocrat, but that’s not a benefit to you . It’s one for them .”

“Oh.” Her voice was small. She hadn’t expected him to ask. Most men wouldn’t. She studied the firm set of his mouth, which contrasted with the warmth of his hazel eyes. “Marriage to you would appease my mother, so I would no longer have to deal with her machinations. Also, to be perfectly blunt, I doubt I will find a better potential husband than you.”

His eyes widened. “How so?”

She looked to the side. “Surely you know that most young ladies would consider you a catch.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman to go along with common opinion.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed, removing her hand from his and striding to the small window. She needed space to clear her thoughts. It was difficult to concentrate when he touched her. “You are young. You don’t seem half-witted or dull, and you have always been good-natured toward me. That’s all I can ask for in a husband.”

He paced along behind her, closing the distance between them once again. “But you don’t trust my financial judgment?”

She glanced back at him. “Can you blame me?”

He winced but didn’t argue. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re selling yourself short. You could have any husband you desired. Your situation is not so dire.”

She turned away, doing her best to quell the little fizz of joy his claim brought her. They didn’t mean anything. He was a born charmer. Sweet words no doubt spilled from his lips without any real emotion or meaning behind them.

“Never mind that.” She pivoted on her heels and stuck out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the fact that Miss Hart seemed to believe the only thing of value she had to offer a husband was her dowry. She was an intelligent, interesting woman—not to mention attractive, even if her style of beauty wasn’t that favored by the ton, but instead the sort which grew upon a person over time.

He couldn’t help but wish that he’d courted her for more honorable reasons.

If he still had his fortune, he’d have showered her with gifts so she didn’t doubt her appeal. Unfortunately, this was reality, and he wasn’t in a position to do that.

He shook her hand. “We do.”

Some of the rigidity eased from her shoulders. “Good.”

Had she really expected any other outcome? Surely she knew that the deal she offered was too tempting to resist. He suspected she’d learned negotiation at her father’s knee. She’d found something she could use as leverage and had done so to get what she wanted.

In truth, he admired her for that.

“I didn’t bring the agreement.” He hadn’t been certain what the outcome of their conversation would be. “I will sign both copies later today and have one returned to you.”

“Thank you. Please ensure it is taken directly to me and does not fall into either my mother’s or father’s hands.”

“You have my word.” Considering all that she’d risked to make this proposal, the least he could do was protect her privacy.

“I’ll show you out.” She marched to the door and held it open for him, then escorted him down the stairs and out of the house.

It was only as he seated himself in his carriage that he realized what this meant. He was, for all intents and purposes, betrothed.

Not even two months ago, that thought would have been enough to drive him to the Regent to drink more than his fair share of brandy, but now, it made him smile. At the very least, being married to Miss Amelia Hart would not be boring.

Once he arrived home, he retired to his office and penned a letter to Ashford. The duke had returned to his country estate, and Andrew had promised to keep him up-to-date on his search for a wife. He skimmed over the details of their betrothal, keeping it sufficiently vague and ensuring Ashford knew that it wasn’t official yet.

At the end of the missive, he paused. Then, after a long hesitation, added a postscript.

P.S. I have a query for Lady Emma. Theoretically, how would I go about ensuring my future wife knows that I value her for more than her dowry?