“Or he has fooled us all and will not attend at all,” another replied.
“At the first ball of the Season? Balderdash! Of course, he will be here. If it is a bride he seeks, then there is no better place. He could have his pick of the debutantes. Oh, I do wonder who the lucky girl shall be,” concluded the first with a wistful sigh.
To Amelia’s surprise, her brother did not lead her to one of the rooms where guests could go when they had tired of dancing, or had no interest in watching. They passed the refreshment room, the tea room, the music room and, for an awful moment, she wondered if her brother was going to knock on the door of the smoking room and make her wait for her ‘betrothed’ to emerge, brandy-soaked and stinking of cigars.
But they passed that too, until there was nowhere left to go but out.
“You will be nice,” Martin warned, turning to face her as they reached the double doors that led out into a flagstone courtyard. “You will be polite and courteous, and you will compliment him and show your enthusiasm for the match. Am I understood?”
Amelia swallowed thickly. “Yes, Brother.”
“Good. The sooner you are married to this man and away from the influences of that… awful woman you call a friend, the better,” Martin grumbled. “At least that other friend of yours is well-stationed now. The Baron will be delighted to hear that you are acquainted with a Duke and Duchess. Now, be silent unless you are spoken to.”
He pushed open the door and ushered her through, the tap of his shoes on the flagstones like the beat of an executioner’s drum, as he led her toward what was, apparently, to be her fate.
Nothing could have prepared her.
“Ah, Thorne! I wondered when you would hunt me down!” a slurring voice crowed from across the courtyard. A figure stood there in the light of a torch, puffing on a cigar though there were several ladies out there, taking in some fresh air.
Martin fixed a smile to his face. “Lord Hervey, I have brought my dear, sweet sister to meet you.”
Dear, sweet sister?Amelia might have snorted if she was not so terrified, trembling all the way down to the marrow of her bones.Why was it that Martin only spoke nicely about her when he was pretending to be a pleasant brother?
“This is the little dove, is it?” The figure lumbered out of the hazy torchlight, blowing out a plume of acrid, bluish smoke that struck Amelia directly in the face.
Her throat tightened, eyes watering as she tried to swallow the urge to cough.
“Indeed, here is your future bride,” Martin replied, giving Amelia a slight shove forward.
The Baron’s eyes wandered all the way from her shoes to the top of her head, his mild smile becoming a leer as he surveyed his prize. He rolled his tongue across his teeth, and pinched his cigar between them, before sucking in a mouthful of the smoke and blowing it into her face for a second time.
As daintily as she could, she coughed into her hand. “Apologies, My Lord,” she said quietly, uncertain of who she detested more: this man or her brother.
“That is quite all right,” the Baron replied. “I expect a woman to have delicate sensibilities. And you are… very delicate indeed. Your brother said I would not be disappointed but, I must admit, I had my doubts.”
He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips, where his kiss lingered far too long on the silk of her gloves. “I am pleased tosay that all of my doubts have been allayed.” He smirked. “You will do very nicely indeed.”
As he finally let go of her hand, she stole a discreet breath of relief, and proceeded to stand there before him, having no notion of what to say. Martin had told her to be silent unless spoken to, after all, and she was nothing if not spitefully compliant.
“I bet you must have dreamed of your wedding day since you were a girl,” the Baron said, his eyes glinting like hot coals in the dark.
When Amelia did not immediately respond, Martin jabbed her in the back.
“As often as any girl does,” she replied, attempting to smile. “Haveyouimagined your wedding day, My Lord?”
He must have been close to fifty, his hair gray but still thick, with far too much oil in it. Amelia imagined one could fry several eggs with it if one were to wring out the strands. Perhaps he had been handsome once, but the years of indulgence were marked upon his face: in the purple bulbosity of his nose, the sallowness of his complexion, the jowls around his mouth, and the glassiness of his eyes.
I cannot marry this man.The words were a scream in Amelia’s head as she did her best to hold her nerve.
“Heavens, no,” the Baron replied, snorting. “Never thought Iwouldmarry, truth be told, but I am certainly glad I changed my mind. How nervous and innocent you are, Lady Amelia. I cannot decide if want to scare you or embrace you. Utterly… thrilling.”
Amelia fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist, her skin crawling beneath that awful man’s admiring gaze. “Do you like to read, My Lord?”
“Not if I can help it.” He pulled a face. “Do not tell me you are one of those bluestockings?”
Martin intervened swiftly. “She reads but little, Lord Hervey. Why, she would rather embroider or take tea with her acquaintances than read. Did I mention that her dearest friend is the Duchess of Davenport?”
“Davenport, eh?” The Baron nodded, seemingly pleased. “Excellent grounds for hunting, I hear. Well, that is something at least. You will have to see me invited when it is time for fox hunting, Lady Amelia.”
