Page 37 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
Amelia’s hand faltered, and she smudged ink on the paper. Cursing, she dabbed at the paper and then the side of her palm, where the ink was already drying.
Never mind that. If the fictional Joceline could take control of her own future, why could Amelia not do the same?
Perhaps she wasn’t as courageous or as adventurous as Joceline, but she was determined. She had dreams and ambitions. Just as Joceline didn’t have to accept the options that were presented to her, nor did she.
She pushed the paper aside and began to jot notes on a clean sheet.
Whatwereher options?
She tapped her chin as she thought. Obviously, she could pretend not to know about Longley’s ulterior motive and continue with their farce of a courtship. After all, if she hadn’t known, she likely would have married him. He was, objectively, the best of the suitors available to her.
Failing that, she could marry one of the other men her mother considered suitable. The Duke of Wight probably didn’t have too many years left in him, and she knew enough about him to be on her guard in case he attempted to do away with her.
The trouble was that she shuddered at the idea of allowing him to touch her, and honestly, she’d prefer not to spend years of her life paranoid that her husband might try to get rid of her.
The Earl of Winn was not an option she could countenance. She would be miserable with him—potentially for decades to come. But perhaps there were other men she could win over. Surely there was more than one impoverished aristocrat desperate to replenish his coffers. Would any of the others appeal more than Longley?
She didn’t know.
Her third option was to refuse to marry and hope her father was willing to provide a living for her. She could move to a cottage in the country and write her stories in peace. There would be long walks, starry skies, and fresh air.
But all of that relied on Mr. Hart being willing to override her mother’s wishes. If she were honest with herself, she didn’t believe he would. Not even for her.
She could run away to the Americas like Joceline. She could easily sell some of her jewelry, buy a ticket on the next ship to depart, and begin anew in a foreign land.
Unfortunately, while Amelia loved to write adventure stories—and to read them—she wasn’t certain that she’d enjoy living in one. She liked comfort. A warm bed, regular meals, and a reliable supply of books. Not to mention privacy. Aboard a ship, she may not get that, let alone in a strange place she’d only ever read about.
All right, so not that option. Nor was she willing to rely on her father’s good graces.
As long as she was unmarried, she would be under her mother’s thumb because her father would never stand up to her on Amelia’s behalf.
Ergo, she required a husband.
But then she would be under her husband’s thumb.Unless, of course, she had leverage to ensure he couldn’t control her.
A slow smile spread across her face. She did have leverage. A temptingly large dowry.
Perhaps the most pragmatic course of action was to beat the men at their own game. They wished to wed her, either for her money or her childbirthing ability, and she needed to wed in order to chart her own course.
Two of her three prospective suitors could likely not be wooed by money, but the third could.
Her smile grew.
She would propose a marriage of convenience to the Earl of Longley. If he agreed to her terms, he’d gain access to her dowry. She wanted freedom, and as her husband, he would be able to grant it to her.
Right now, she was in the best possible position to negotiate. After all, she could still refuse to marry him, and then he’d have to start over with another heiress. Certainly, another heiress would accept him, but for whatever reason, he’d decided on her, and if he were willing to make a few concessions, she would make it easy for him to get her.
Would it hurt to marry a man she’d come to admire, knowing he had no feelings for her?
Possibly.
But she could live with injured pride—especially when the earl was an otherwise agreeable man. He didn’t seem to be cruel—or at least, if he was, he hid it well. He had good hygiene and nice hair and eyes. She doubted she could do better.
“Amelia!”
She flinched, caught off guard by the shout outside her bedchamber door. Hurriedly, she hid her scribbled notes and the beginning of a scene she had written for Joceline’s next story. She considered pulling on a pair of gloves to hide the ink smudge on her hand but didn’t want to ruin them, soinstead she held her hands by her sides, angled away from the door, as she stood.
“What is it?” she called.
