“Get a handkerchief at once!” her father ordered. “What is the matter with you this morning? It is like a fishwife has taken the place of my daughter. Disgraceful.”
Martin peered at her over the top of the book he could not read, tutting under his breath. She gripped her embroidery hoop a little tighter, wondering if she ought to take her chances and hurl it at her brother’s head.
No, Amelia. You have to be on your best behavior today,she reminded herself, relaxing her grip. If the Earl of Westyork had truly meant what he said about accepting the proposal, then he would be calling upon her any time now. She could not risk her father rejecting the proposal because she had lobbed a bit of wood and fabric at Martin’s face.
“I am sorry, Father,” she murmured, rising from her seat.
“Where are you going?” her father barked.
She smoothed out the frown that threatened to form. “I was going to fetch a handkerchief, Father, as you instructed.”
“Well, now is not the time,” he muttered in reply, waving a hand at Martin. “Give her yours.”
Martin balked. “I do not want her blood spoiling my silk, Father.”
“Are you questioning me, boy?” Francis replied, his eyes steely.
It was not often that Martin received any sort of chiding, so the sight of him squirming in his chair, torn between ruining his newest purchase and doing his father’s bidding, was rather satisfying to Amelia. Almost as satisfying as giving him a smack across his wretched, rosy cheeks.
“You can buy me another with your pin money,” Martin seethed, handing over the square of light green silk.
Amelia took it and wrapped her finger in it, taking care not to show her delight as she sat back down. “Of course, Brother. I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“As you should,” Martin said, folding his arms across his chest, giving up on his book altogether.
She knew what her father and brother were waiting so eagerly for, but they did not know whatshewas waiting for. She had overheard them at breakfast discussing the approximate arrival of Baron Hervey, deciding that he would probably call upon the household before luncheon.
Amelia, however, suspected the Baron would not call at all, for the last time she had seen him in the Assembly Rooms, he had tripped drunkenly over a boot scraper, coming in from the courtyard, and had fallen face first into the solid marble floor. There had been blood, hastily attended to by servants, but she was in no doubt that the Baron had broken his nose and would not deign to call upon anyone in such a state.
Then again, stranger things have happened.A chill beetled down her spine, as she peeked to see if the bleeding on her finger had ceased.
Indeed, the entirety of the previous night had been one strange occurrence after the other. Oddest of all, that the gentleman who had caught her staring at the ball had turned out to be the Earl of Westyork. She could never have anticipatedthat, for not a single other person had noticed him, though almost everyone had been talking about him.
Why did he do that, I wonder? Why did he not announce himself?She was grateful, of course, for she would not have had the opportunity to get ahead of the crowd of mothers withunwed daughters otherwise. But it continued to intrigue her, as did the man himself, and the generosity with which he had accepted her bizarre proposal.
Just then, the bell rang, jangling through the townhouse and joining the chill in prickling down her back. Martin and Francis exchanged a conspiratorial look and sat up straighter in their armchairs, while Amelia froze, praying it was the Earl, but not entirely sure it would not be the Baron.
A moment later, the butler came bustling in, eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost. “Your Grace, there is a… caller.” He cleared his throat, pointing back at the hallway. “He is asking to speak with you about Lady Amelia.”
“I know, you halfwit!” Francis grumbled. “He is expected. I hope you have not left him standing on the porch?”
The butler hesitated. “But… it is not the Baron, Your Grace. It is… someone else.”
“Someone else?” Francis rose from his chair, casting a dark look at Amelia. “Who else would be calling upon us to speak about her?”
“That would be me, Your Grace,” a rich, masculine tenor replied, preceding the tall and intimidating figure of the Earl of Westyork.
He wore a beautiful tailcoat of burgundy velvet, his waistcoat half a shade lighter, while his cravat was half a shade darker. It had a striking effect upon his posture and his appearance, making him appear somehow taller and broader than she remembered. From the pocket of his dark trousers, a scarlet watch fob provided a simple but impactful embellishment, a ruby glinting at the end of the strip of scarlet silk.
“Lionel Barnet, Earl of Westyork,” he said, putting out his hand.
Wearing a dazed expression, Francis took Lionel’s hand and shook it. “And… to what do we owe this unexpected visit?”
“You should sit,” Lionel replied. “There is a lot to discuss. It would be uncomfortable for us both if we were to talk standing. I find it to be poor etiquette.”
Francis backed up, lowering himself down into the armchair with all the obedience of a schoolboy. “Of course, Lord Westyork.”
“Might you move?” Lionel turned to Martin next, his voice twice as commanding as it had been the previous night. “I should hate to have to shout the purpose of my visit to your father.”
