Page 35 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
When they were shut inside the carriage and on their way home, her encounter with Miss Wentham returned to the front of her mind.
“Father?”
Mr. Hart’s eyes shone in the dark as he looked across at her. “Yes, Mia?”
“Amelia,” her mother griped.
He sighed. “Yes, Amelia?”
“Miss Wentham said something tonight that made me curious. Is the Earl of Longley having financial difficulty?”
“Oh, yes.”
Her stomach dropped to the soles of her feet. “He is?”
Her father nodded. “It’s a closely guarded secret, but I make it my business to know such things. My understanding is that his man of business defrauded him and fled the country. I don’t have all the details, but I suspect that, if not for his entailment, he’d be almost broke.”
An invisible vise squeezed her chest. She’d been searching for an explanation, but without having the full picture, it had been impossible to find. Now that she knew the truth, she could see exactly what was happening.
The earl had no money.
He also had a mother and a sister, whom he obviously cared for.
Social standing meant everything among the aristocracy, and he likely wanted to replenish his fortune before too many people discovered his circumstances—both to protect his reputation and to provide for those dependent on him.
As far as reasons for fortune hunting went, it was noble.
But he was still a fortune hunter.
Amelia had a sizable dowry—perhaps the largest in the ton—and she and her mother had been described as “desperate” more than once. What better way for him to refill his coffers than by marrying an heiress whose parents would be more than eager for the match?
If he made it look like a love connection, no one would ever question his actions.
Except her.
She almost wished she didn’t know the truth. It was a relief, in a way, to be reassured that she hadn’t simply been thinking the worst of him. But Lord, for a few brief seconds, she’d let herself believe that he might actually hold her in high esteem, and learning otherwise hurt.
She angled her face away from her father, looking out the window as a tear slipped down her cheek. It dripped from her chin, but she made no effort to dry her skin. That would only attract attention.
Instead, she cried quietly until they were two blocks from their home, and then she blinked her eyes dry and made a show of “sneezing” into her shoulder to blot any wetness away.
She shouldn’t be upset. It was ridiculous. She’d known something was amiss. And yet the hurt remained.
Neither of her parents noticed anything wrong as they exited the carriage and climbed the stairs. Mr. Grant held the door open, and his gaze was fixed ahead. Amelia bid them good night and went straight to her bedchamber.
“What’s the matter?” Mary asked as soon as she entered.
Amelia shook her head. “Nothing.”
It was clearly a lie, but Mary didn’t ask again, just helped her undress in silence, then took the discarded gown and left. Amelia blew out all the candles but one and got into bed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, for some time, but sleep did not come.
Eventually, she got up, took the remaining candle, and used it to light the way as she wandered through the house. As she passed her father’s office, she noticed a flickering orange glow beneath the door. She hesitated, wishing she felt comfortable enough to go inside and plead with him to rethink this season.
Do I have to marry?she wanted to ask him.Must I become a sacrificial bride for you and Mother to gain entrance into the aristocracy?
Amelia wasn’t brave though. Not like Miss Joceline Davies. She pushed the boundaries, but only so far.
She drew in a deep breath and brushed her fingers over the wood of the door.
