Page 25 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
He nodded. “Please, my dear.”
Her skin crawled, but she did her best to hide it as she crossed to the table, poured tea into three cups—for him, her mother, and herself. “How do you take it?”
“Black. No sugar.” He fingered the edge of his mustache. “That’s the most British way, in my opinion.”
Mrs. Hart giggled. “How right you are.”
Amelia fixed two black teas and one with sugar and milk,as she preferred. She stirred, set the spoon down with a clink, and served her mother and the earl before claiming her own cup and returning to her seat.
They sat in silence. It dragged out for far too long. Mrs. Hart shot Amelia a look, but she didn’t know what to say. She was good at recalling social rituals but less so at actually speaking to people she had little in common with.
“How are you enjoying the season?” she asked awkwardly.
“So far, so good.” He sipped his tea, and she inwardly winced. It must still be very hot. “Of course, it’s all about the company, isn’t it? I very much enjoyed yours during our dance.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Remembering how he’d attempted to look down her dress at every opportunity, she’d prefer to be less polite, but her mother would be furious, and it wasn’t worth the bother.
Sometimes, she thought it would be nice if Mrs. Hart wasn’t quite so mercenary. She probably meant well, but Amelia had difficulty believing that her mother cared whether she married a lecherous drunkard like Winn or a handsome charmer like Longley, provided they were titled.
They continued a somewhat stilted conversation until the earl took his leave.
Soon after he departed, Mr. Grant declared the arrival of the Duke of Wight. The duke entered with a dignified gait that Amelia supposed arose from age as much as station. She doubted he could move much faster. Perhaps she would be safe married to him if she failed to bear his children. After all, she only had to be able to outrun him.
That said, the thought of him touching her made her want to fling herself off the cliff anyway.
She poured him tea, which he promptly set aside, instead helping himself to a scone laden with jam and cream. He began a conversation that didn’t seem to require theirparticipation to maintain. He kept up a constant stream of hunting stories, bragging about how many grouse he’d bagged, among other things.
Amelia did her best to hide her distaste. She understood the need to kill for sustenance, but the idea of killing for sport had always seemed unnecessarily cruel to her.
Of course, her mother flattered the duke every time he stopped speaking for even a few seconds. She probably considered that Amelia ought to do the same, but he didn’t even notice her lack of interest, so what did it matter?
The duke excused himself after yet another scone, leaving his tea untouched. He scanned Amelia in the same way he had at the ball, as if she were a broodmare he was considering purchasing, then made a passing remark about seeing them soon. She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or if he’d decided she was not his best bet as the provider of his heir and they’d never hear from him again.
Despite her mother’s obvious hopes to the contrary, she couldn’t help but pray for the latter.
After Mr. Grant showed the duke out, Amelia and Mrs. Hart sat alone in the drawing room as the minutes ticked by.
Mrs. Hart’s optimism gradually faded, and after a while, she instructed Amelia to get her needlepoint. Amelia knew better than to refuse, so she did, and they worked side by side. Her mother created beautiful artistry while Amelia struggled with a simple floral design.
Eventually, Mrs. Hart heaved a sigh. “I do not understand. I was certain we’d receive more callers.”
“Perhaps they will come soon.” But Amelia wasn’t surprised. No matter how much her mother tried to foist her onto society, the only men who’d consider marrying her were either fortune hunters or less desirable for some other reason, such as the Earl of Winn and the Duke of Wight.
“Perhaps.” But Mrs. Hart didn’t sound hopeful.
They resumed their needlepoint. While Amelia’s fingerstripped clumsily over the needle, and she pricked herself on more than one occasion, she allowed her mind to wander to Joceline Davies. She longed to get started on her next tale. She’d decided that Joceline would set sail for the Americas but was still fleshing out the whys and hows.
She jabbed her finger and hissed as a droplet of blood welled on the tip. She sucked it into her mouth, ignoring her mother’s rebuke.
“You are not a heathen,” Mrs. Hart muttered. “I know you are able to do needlepoint better than this.”
She really wasn’t. Amelia had never been particularly adept at any of the ladylike skills her mother had attempted to teach her, with the exception of speaking other languages. She was a passable dancer at best, had no eye for color, and would much rather have a quill in hand than a needle.
Still, she supposed it was nice that her mother cared enough to delude herself into believing that Amelia possessed some of the expected feminine talents.
“Ma’am. Miss.”
Both of their faces snapped toward the door where Mr. Grant stood, his potbelly buffed out in a display of self-importance.
