Page 15 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
“I think—” He broke off as Mrs. Hart appeared like a vision at the top of the stairs. She was clad in blue, because of course she would never be seen dead in an unflattering color. Not that many colors looked ill on her mother, truth be told. “My dear, you look ravishing.”
Mrs. Hart preened, fussing with her dark hair, which spilled over her shoulders like liquid silk.
Amelia pretended not to notice the way her father practically melted into a puddle at her mother’s feet. No matter how much he may care for Amelia, that affection would never hold a candle to his complete adoration of his wife.
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Hart reached the ground floor andgave a small twirl, her skirts rising high enough to reveal matching blue satin slippers.
Mr. Hart smiled and ran his hand over his balding head, clearly besotted. “You know I love to see you in blue.”
Amelia sighed. She supposed her parents’ relationship was sweet, in a way. Her father would happily worship her mother, and nothing made her mother happier than being worshiped. It may seem unbalanced, but they were harmonious, in a way. It was just unfortunate that she did not slot so easily into their dynamic.
“The carriage awaits,” she murmured, afraid they might forget without her prompting.
Mr. Hart cleared his throat. “Of course.”
He took her mother’s arm and guided her out through the massive front doors to the carriage. The horses stood placidly, their sleek brown coats gleaming in the last of the evening light.
Amelia shivered and wished she had thought to don a pelisse prior to leaving her room. While the weather was fine, there was a chill in the air. They entered and settled in the carriage. Amelia sat with her back to the front and gazed out the window as the horses pulled them out onto the street.
They navigated through Mayfair until they joined a row of carriages queued outside an intimidatingly large house with Roman-style columns affixed to the facade and a domed turret on each side of the building.
The carriage carried them around a neatly maintained lawn to a cobbled bay beside the entrance. A footman opened the door, and Mrs. Hart nudged Amelia forward. She accepted the footman’s assistance and stepped to the side while her parents disembarked,
The slight scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air. Perhaps some of the gentlemen had already sought refuge outside the ballroom.
She would too, if she were able.
Somewhere inside, a skilled pianist was playing Mozart. Mr. Hart linked one of his arms with Amelia’s and the other with his wife’s, and together they made their way up a short staircase and through the open doors. A footman gestured for them to cross the foyer and enter the ballroom on the other side.
The room was long and rectangular, with a wooden floor, white walls, and gold trim. The ceiling arched high above, and dozens of members of the ton were dressed in their finest and mingling throughout the room.
“Mr. Hart.” The Earl of Wembley, their host, greeted her father with a tilt of his head. He turned to her mother. “Mrs. Hart. You are stunning, as always. And Miss Hart. A pleasure to see you here.”
Mr. Hart shook the earl’s hand. “Thank you for the invitation, Wembley.”
“Of course, my good man. It’s an honor to hold the first ball of the season. Please, come in and enjoy yourself.”
Amelia curtsied to the earl and countess, who stood silently beside him, and moved farther into the ballroom, making way for the next guests to be greeted.
Mr. Hart surveyed those assembled. “I see an acquaintance of mine. I will keep him company while you ladies go about your business.”
As he hustled away, Amelia narrowed her eyes at him.
Traitor.
He disliked these events as much as she did, preferring to keep to the fringes and make chitchat about mining and investments, leaving only to dance with his wife.
“Oh look,” Mrs. Hart exclaimed. “It’s Lady Bowling. If I recall correctly, she has a daughter your age. Come.”
Amelia allowed herself to be escorted to join Lady Bowling and her companion, a pale young woman with anelaborate peacock-feather headdress twined into her hair, which was somewhere between ginger and blond.
“Lady Bowling,” Mrs. Hart called, a little too loudly. “Such a pleasure to see you.”
Lady Bowling flashed a fake smile. “Yes, a pleasure, Mrs. Hart.” She glanced at Amelia. “Miss Hart.”
Amelia curtsied. “Lovely to see you again, Lady Bowling.”
Lady Bowling gestured at the younger woman. “You may have met Lady Esther last year.”
