Page 24 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
She didn’t have high hopes.
Last season, they’d prepared for callers many times, only to receive absolutely none or, at best, someone her mother considered subpar and in whom Amelia had no interest anyway.
Just because Mrs. Hart had decided to take a more aggressive approach this season by thrusting her in front of potential suitors didn’t necessarily mean they would be more successful.
They took the stairs and passed by her father’s office on the way to the drawing room they used to greet visitors. She peeked inside. Mr. Hart was bent over a ledger, a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows. She wished she could join him like she used to as a girl rather than going through this farce.
Alas, she was now a marriageable miss, not a child. She could not afford to flout propriety as she used to. No one cared if a merchant’s daughter was eccentric, but the same could not be said of a woman of the ton. She must adapt or continue to be treated as less than their equal simply because of her birth.
Mrs. Hart summoned the housekeeper as they entered the drawing room.
“Please ensure we are prepared for callers,” she ordered. “We will require tea, scones, and clotted cream.”
Mrs. White nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Hart ushered Amelia over to one of the two chaises facing each other on the right side of the room. The regal blue-and-silver pattern of the fabric matched that of the wallpaper. Once again, her mother’s love of blue had prevailed in this space.
“Sit,” Mrs. Hart urged, looking around in search of any last-minute imperfection to tidy away.
Amelia personally thought her mother had done a wonderful job of making this room as grand as anypossessed by the aristocracy, with paintings by well-known artists on the walls, a pianoforte in the corner, and a chessboard arranged atop a small table in front of the window.
Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Hart sat beside Amelia.
“Who do you think we can expect to call?” She sounded as excited as Amelia had ever heard her. “The Duke of Wight seemed quite taken with you. As did both the Earls of Winn and Longley. Could you imagine what a coup it would be if they all came to see us?”
“Quite a coup, indeed.” Not that she cared one way or the other, except for the effect it would have on her mother’s temper.
As Mrs. Hart straightened, maintaining excellent posture even though there was no one around to see, Amelia couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Even though she didn’t like the way her mother went about it, all she really wanted was to be accepted, and it wasn’t fair that society kept that from her.
Mrs. White hustled into the room, carrying a tray of tea. She set it on the table to the left of the chaise that Amelia and her mother were seated on. A maid followed behind her, bringing scones with jam and clotted cream to the table beside the chaise opposite them.
“Thank you,” Amelia murmured.
They both curtsied and left.
Amelia wondered who—if anyone—would be the first to put in an appearance. After last evening, she was certain that neither Lord Downing nor the Marquess of Overton would visit. She feared she’d bored them both dreadfully. A shame, when the marquess was one of only two of the gentlemen she’d danced with whom she considered appealing.
The other, the Earl of Longley, confused her. He had ever since he’d startled her while she was loitering behind the shrubbery. She didn’t know what to make of him, or whether he’d been genuinely interested in her, simply humoring her, or somehow mocking her.
He was a solid man, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and an innate gracefulness that had made him enjoyable to dance with. His square-jawed face was pleasant to look upon, and his sparkling gold-flecked eyes, smattering of freckles, and reddish hair kept him from bland handsomeness.
There was a rap at the door.
“The Earl of Winn has arrived,” their butler announced.
Amelia stiffened.
Her mother, on the other hand, beamed. “Show him in, Mr. Grant.”
He bowed and backed away, returning moments later with the Earl of Winn’s familiar paunchy figure.
Amelia’s eyebrows rose. She was surprised by how well he looked, considering he’d seemed to have had a few too many glasses of champagne the previous evening. But now, the earl stood tall, his clothing impeccable, his eyes clear. He still did not appeal to her in the slightest, but she couldn’t help being a little impressed.
Both Amelia and Mrs. Hart rose to their feet. Mrs. Hart made a display of curtsying deeply. Amelia followed suit. As she rose, she noticed the earl’s gaze dart away from her decolletage. Her cheeks heated. Sober or not, he was a lecher.
“We are honored you have called on us,” Mrs. Hart said, sinking gracefully onto the chaise. She gestured at the one opposite them. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Would you like tea?” Amelia asked, knowing her role in this performance.
