Chapter 1
It was a crime that Amelia Willoughby was not married.
At least that was what her mother said. Amelia—or more correctly, Lady Amelia—was the second daughter of the Earl of Crowland, so no one could fault her bloodlines. Her appearance was more than passable, if one’s taste ran toward wholesome English roses, which, fortunately for Amelia, most of the ton’s did.
Her hair was a respectable shade of medium blond, her eyes a grayish sort of greenish color, and her skin clear and even, so long as she remembered to stay out of the sun. (Freckles were not Lady Amelia’s friend.)
She was also, as her mother liked to catalogue, of adequate intelligence, able to play the pianoforte and paint watercolors, and (and here was where her mother punctuated the speech with an enthusiastic flourish) in possession of all of her teeth.
Even better, the aforementioned teeth were perfectly straight, which could not be said of Jacinda Lennox, who had made the match of 1818, neatly landing the Marquis of Beresford. (But not, as frequently reported by Jacinda Lennox’s mother, before turning down two viscounts and an earl.)
But all of those attributes paled next to what was certainly the most pertinent and overreaching aspect of Amelia Willoughby’s life, and that was her longstanding engagement to the Duke of Wyndham.
Had Amelia not been betrothed in the cradle to Thomas Cavendish (who was at the time the Heir Apparent to the dukedom and barely out of leading strings himself), she certainly would not have reached the unappealing age of one-and-twenty as an unmarried maiden.
She had spent one season back in Lincolnshire, because no one thought she’d need to bother with London, then she’d spent the next in the capital, because her elder sister’s also-betrothed-in-the-cradle fiancé had the misfortune of contracting a fever at the age of twelve, leaving his family heirless and Elizabeth Willoughby unattached.
And as for the next season—Elizabeth was almost, practically, we’re-sure-it-is-forthcoming-at-any moment engaged by then, and Amelia was, as ever, still engaged to the duke, but they went to London anyway, because by then it would have been embarrassing to remain in the country.
Amelia rather liked town. She enjoyed conversation, and she very much enjoyed dancing, and, if one spoke with her mother for more than five minutes, one would have learned that had Amelia been free to marry, there would have been a half-dozen offers, at least.
Which meant that Jacinda Lennox would still have been Jacinda Lennox and not the Marchioness of Beresford. And more importantly, Lady Crowland and all of her daughters would still outrank the annoying little chit.
But then, as Amelia’s father was often heard to say—life wasn’t always fair. In fact, it rarely was. Just look at him, for the love of heaven. Five daughters. Five! And now the earldom, which had descended neatly from father to son since there were princes in the tower, would revert to the Crown, with nary a long-lost cousin in sight to lay claim upon it.
And, he frequently reminded his wife, it was thanks to his early maneuverings that one of his five daughters was already settled, and they need only fret about the other four, so would she please stop yammering on about the poor Duke of Wyndham and his slow progress to the altar.
Lord Crowland treasured peace and quiet above all else, which was something he really ought to have considered before taking the former Anthea Grantham as his bride.
It wasn’t that anyone thought that the duke would renege on his promise to Amelia and her family. On the contrary, it was well-known that the Duke of Wyndham was a man of his word, and if he said he would marry Amelia Willoughby, then as God was anyone’s witness, he would.
It was just that he intended to do so when it was convenient to him. Which wasn’t necessarily when it would be convenient to her. Or more to the point, her mother.
And so here she was, back in Lincolnshire.
And she was still Lady Amelia Willoughby.
“And I don’t mind it at all,” she declared, when Grace Eversleigh brought up the matter at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly. Aside from being the closest friend of Amelia’s sister Elizabeth, Grace Eversleigh was the companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham, and thus in far closer contact with Amelia’s affianced husband than Amelia ever had occasion to be.
“Oh, no,” Grace quickly assured her. “I did not mean to imply that you did.”
“All she said,” Elizabeth put in, giving Amelia a queer look, “was that his grace plans to remain at Belgrave for six months at least. And then you said—”
“I know what I said,” Amelia bit off, feeling her skin flush. Which wasn’t precisely true. She could not have repeated her speech word for word, but she had a sneaking suspicion that if she tried, it would come out something like:
Well, that’s certainly lovely, but I shouldn’t read anything into it, and in any case Elizabeth’s wedding is next month so I certainly could not dream of finalizing anything anytime soon, and regardless of what anyone says, I am in no great rush to marry him. Something something something. I barely know the man. Something something more, still Amelia Willoughby. And I don’t mind it at all.
Which was not the sort of speech one generally wished to relive in one’s head.
There was an awkward, empty moment, and then Grace cleared her throat and said, “He said he would be here this evening.”
“He did?” Amelia asked, her eyes flying to Grace’s.
Grace nodded. “I saw him at supper. Or rather, I saw him as he walked through the room as we were taking supper. He chose not to dine with us. I think he and his grandmother are quarreling,” she added as an aside. “They frequently do.”
Amelia felt the corners of her mouth tighten. Not in anger. Not even in irritation. It was resignation, really, more than anything else. “I suppose the dowager pestered him about me,” she said.
Grace looked as if she did not wish to answer, but finally she said, “Well, yes.”
Which was to be expected. It was well-known that the dowager Duchess of Wyndham was even more eager to see the marriage take place than Amelia’s own mother. It was also well-known that the duke found his grandmother vexing at best, and Amelia was not at all surprised that he would agree to attend the assembly just to get her to leave him alone.
As it was also well-known that the duke did not make promises lightly, Amelia was quite certain that he would indeed make an appearance at the assembly. Which meant that the remainder of the evening would follow a well-worn path:
The duke would arrive, everyone would look at him, then everyone would look at her, and then he would approach, they would share several minutes of awkward conversation, he would ask her to dance, she would accept, and when they were done, he would kiss her hand and depart.
Presumably to seek the attentions of another woman. A different kind of woman.
The sort one did not marry.
It was not something Amelia cared to ponder, not that that ever stopped her from doing so. But truly, could one expect fidelity from a man before marriage? It was a discussion she and her sister had had any number of times, and the answer was always depressingly the same:
No. Not when the gentleman in question had been betrothed as a child. It was not fair to expect him to forgo all of the entertainments in which his friends partook, just because his father had signed a contract a few decades earlier. Once the date was set, however, that was a different story.
Or rather, it would be, if the Willoughbys ever managed to get Wyndham to set a date.
“You don’t appear to be terribly excited to see him,” Elizabeth remarked.
Amelia sighed. “I’m not. Truth be told, I enjoy myself far better when he stays away.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Grace assured her. “He’s actually rather sweet once one gets to know him.”
“Sweet?” Amelia echoed dubiously. She had seen the man smile, but never more than twice in a conversation. “Wyndham?”
“Well,” Grace hedged, “perhaps I overstated. But the duke will make you a fine husband, Amelia, I promise you. He’s quite diverting when he chooses to be.”
Amelia and Elizabeth stared at her with such expressions of disbelief that Grace actually laughed and added, “I do not lie! I swear! He has a devilish sense of humor.”
Amelia knew that Grace meant well, but somehow this failed to reassure her. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She was quite certain she was not in love with Wyndham. How could she be? She rarely had occasion to exchange more than two words with the man. Still, it was rather unsettling that Grace Eversleigh had come to know him so well.
And she could not tell this to Elizabeth, in whom she usually confided everything. Elizabeth and Grace had been fast friends since they’d met at the age of six. Elizabeth would tell her that she was being silly. Or she’d give her one of those dreadful looks that were meant to be sympathetic but instead came out as pitying.
Amelia seemed to be on the receiving end of many such glances these days. Usually whenever the topic of marriage arose. Had she been a betting woman (which she actually thought she might be, should she ever be given the opportunity to try), she would have wagered that she had received sym-pitying looks from at least half the young ladies of the ton. And all of their mothers.
“We shall make it our mission for the autumn,” Grace suddenly announced, her eyes sparkling with intent. “Amelia and Wyndham shall finally become acquainted.”
“Grace, don’t, please…” Amelia said, flushing. Good Lord, how mortifying. To be a project.
“You are going to have to get to know him eventually,” Elizabeth said.
“Not really,” was Amelia’s wry reply. “How many rooms are there at Belgrave? Two hundred?”
“Seventy-three,” Grace murmured.
“I could go weeks without seeing him,” Amelia responded. “Years.”
“Now you’re just being silly,” her sister said. “Why don’t you come with me to Belgrave tomorrow? I devised an excuse about Mama needing to return some of the dowager’s books so that I might visit with Grace.”
Grace turned to Elizabeth with mild surprise. “Did your mother borrow books from the dowager?”
“She did, actually,” Elizabeth replied, then added demurely, “at my request.”
Amelia raised her brows. “Mother is not much of a reader.”
“I couldn’t very well borrow a pianoforte,” Elizabeth retorted.
It was Amelia’s opinion that their mother wasn’t much of a musician, either, but there seemed little reason to point it out, and besides, the conversation had been brought to an abrupt halt.
He had arrived.
Amelia might have had her back to the door, but she knew precisely the moment Thomas Cavendish walked into the assembly hall, because, drat it all, she had done this before.
Now was the hush.
And now—she counted to five; she’d long since learned that dukes required more than the average three seconds of hush—were the whispers.
And now Elizabeth was jabbing her in the ribs, as if she needed the alert.
And now—oh, she could see it all in her head—the crowds were doing their Red Sea imitation, and here strode the duke, his shoulders broad, his steps purposeful and proud, and here he was, almost, almost, almost—
“Lady Amelia.”
She composed her face. She turned around. “Your grace,” she said, with the blank smile she knew was required of her.
He took her hand and kissed it. “You look lovely this evening.”
He said that every time.
Amelia murmured her thanks and then waited patiently while he complimented her sister, then said to Grace, “I see my grandmother has allowed you out of her clutches for the evening.”
“Yes,” Grace said with a happy sigh, “isn’t it lovely?”
He smiled, and Amelia noted it was not the same sort of public-face smile he gave her. It was, she realized, a smile of friendship.
“You are nothing less than a saint, Miss Eversleigh,” he said.
Amelia looked to the duke, and then to Grace, and wondered—What was he thinking? It was not as if Grace had any choice in the matter. If he really thought Grace was a saint, he ought to set her up with a dowry and find her a husband so she did not have to spend the rest of her life waiting hand and foot upon his grandmother.
But of course she did not say that. Because no one said such things to a duke.
“Grace tells us that you plan to rusticate in the country for several months,” Elizabeth said.
Amelia wanted to kick her. The implication had to be that if he had time to remain in the country, he must have time to finally marry her sister.
And indeed, the duke’s eyes held a vaguely ironic expression as he murmured, “I do.”
“I shall be quite busy until November at the earliest,” Amelia blurted out, because it was suddenly imperative that he realize that she was not spending her days sitting by her window, pecking at needlework as she pined for his arrival.
“Shall you?” he murmured.
She straightened her shoulders. “I shall.”
His eyes, which were a rather legendary shade of blue, narrowed a bit. In humor, not in anger, which was probably all the worse. He
was laughing at her. Amelia did not know why it had taken her so long to realize this. All these years she’d thought he was merely ignoring her—
Oh, dear Lord.
“Lady Amelia,” he said, the slight nod of his head as much of a bow as he must have felt compelled to make, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”
Elizabeth and Grace turned to her, both of them smiling serenely with expectation. They had played out this scene before, all of them. And they all knew how it was meant to unfold.
Especially Amelia.
“No,” she said, before she could think the better of it.
He blinked. “No?”
“No, thank you, I should say.” And she smiled prettily, because she did like to be polite.
He looked stunned. “You don’t wish to dance?”
“Not tonight, I don’t think, no.” Amelia stole a glance at her sister and Grace. They looked aghast.
Amelia felt wonderful.
She felt like herself, which was something she was never allowed to feel in his presence. Or in the anticipation of his presence. Or the aftermath.
It was always about him. Wyndham this and Wyndham that, and oh how lucky she was to have snagged the most handsome duke in the land without even having to lift a finger.
The one time she allowed her rather dry humor to rise to the fore, and said, “Well, of course I had to lift my little baby rattle,” she’d been rewarded with two blank stares and one mutter of “ungrateful chit.”
That had been Jacinda Lennox’s mother, three weeks before Jacinda had received her shower of marriage proposals.
So Amelia generally kept her mouth shut and did what was expected of her. But now…
Well, this wasn’t London, and her mother wasn’t watching, and she was just so sick of the way he kept her on a leash. Really, she could have found someone else by now. She could have had fun. She could have kissed a man.