Page 17 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
Winn’s feet were quicker than Overton’s, and he didn’t step on her at all. However, he swayed in such a way that led her to believe he might be soused, and his eyes barely left the exposed skin of her throat and upper chest. At first, she thought he might be admiring the necklace, as her mother had intended, but she rapidly realized his thoughts were elsewhere.
Dreadful man.
As soon as the dance ended, she hurried toward the powder room without looking back. She paced the room, glancing at herself in the mirror each time she passed it. She winced. Her eyes were wide and agitated, and a faint flush had spread across her cheeks.
The door opened, and a short, curvaceous redhead strode inside. She came up short upon spotting Amelia.
“Do you need me to help you escape through the window?” she asked completely seriously.
Amelia laughed at the absurdity of the offer. “Much as I would like that, no. It’s just….” She huffed. “Does the insincerity of this whole thing not grow tiresome?”
Her companion nodded. “No one says what they mean, and everyone is so polite and stiff. It’s ridiculous. Yet this is the world we find ourselves a part of, and we must navigate it as best we can.”
Amelia checked her hand for a ring and, seeing none, asked, “How many seasons have you had?”
The redhead sighed. “This will be my sixth.”
Amelia prayed she did not have to endure another four seasons. She wasn’t sure she would remain sane. She would almost certainly accept the suit of a halfway decent man before then if only to escape the unpleasantness of forced civility.
The redhead smirked. “Don’t feel too sorry for me. It has been my choice not to wed. I intended to once, when I was much younger, but he, apparently, did not want me back.”
Amelia’s heart lurched. How awful to know who one wanted and be denied. “I am sorry.”
The woman shrugged. “There is nothing for it. I am Helena, and you?”
“Amelia.” She did not offer a last name, since Helena hadn’t done so.
Helena closed the distance between them and patted hershoulder. “Well, at least you no longer look as if you are considering fleeing. You should probably return before your mother sends out a search party, fearing that you are being debauched in some shadowy corner.”
Amelia gaped at her. She could scarcely believe Helena had used the word “debauched” in polite company. Then she quietly laughed at herself. She shouldn’t be so easily shocked. She had written plenty of scandalous things herself, although they were less of a debaucherous nature and were instead more in the vein of women doing things that society dictated they ought not to.
“I’ve shocked you.” Helena appeared pleased by this.
“No. Well, yes, but only in a good way. You’re right. I should return.”
“Good luck,” Helena called as Amelia strode out, her skirts brushing against her calves with each step.
She decided she liked Helena. She was exactly the sort of person who would have adventures like Joceline did. Not at all like Amelia herself.
“Amelia!”
She winced at the hiss from Mrs. Hart, who’d apparently been waiting beside the powder room door.
“You missed a dance,” Mrs. Hart growled. “Fortunately for you, I was able to persuade the Duke of Wight to accept the next dance instead.”
Amelia’s heart sank, but she allowed herself to be drawn back into the crush. Her mother handed her over to the duke, who was waiting on the edge of the dance floor. They had met briefly earlier, and Amelia had been relieved that he’d been distracted by a friend at the time. She’d thought she’d had a lucky escape, but it would seem not.
“Miss Hart.” The duke raised her hands to his lips and kissed the back, leaving a wet patch behind.
Amelia wished she could wipe it on her dress, but there was no way to do so without him noticing.
She curtsied. “Your Grace.”
His gaze skimmed down her body, and she couldn’t help but feel as if he were gauging her ability to bear children. For once, she thanked the heavens that she did not have particularly wide hips. The duke likely wanted someone more of Helena’s proportions if his priority was to secure an heir.
But as he led her onto the dance floor for a waltz, of all things, it didn’t feel as though he’d dismissed her potential to be the next Duchess of Wight. His hand on her waist dipped lower than necessary, and she stiffened.
“Were you in Town last season?” she asked to make polite conversation.
