Page 7 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
“I’m not finished, though,” Amelia protested.
Mrs. Hart cast a cursory glance at the atlas. “Nothing is more important than preparing to become an aristocratic wife—especially not your silly scribbling. Do as I say.”
With a sigh, Amelia stood and left the atlas where it was. She didn’t dare pack it away or even close it. That would invite further attention from her mother, who might decide to have a maid toss the book into the fire so it would not steal any more of Amelia’s focus.
She did, however, gather her papers and carry them out of the room with her. She kept her work in a locked drawer in the writing desk in her bedchamber. She feared if Mrs. Hart had access, she might take it into her head to destroy all of Amelia’s hard work.
She’d spent years honing her craft and learning how to tell stories in a way that interested people. Not to mention the time she’d dedicated to creating her fictional alter ego, Miss Joceline Davies.
Joceline was everything Amelia wished she could be. Adventurous. Outgoing. And, above all, independent.
How Amelia longed to have a distant relative bequeath a fortune upon her, as had happened with Joceline. Then she wouldn’t be required to play the games of the ton or engage in the social posturing which she’d never fully understood.
Alas, no matter how rich her father might be, Amelia had no money of her own. Ergo, she must abide by her parents’ rules, and for now, that meant seeking an aristocratic husband.
She took the stairs to the second floor and turned into the west wing, where the family’s private chambers were located. She entered her bedroom, set the papers on her writing desk, and rang for her maid, then thumbed through the pages as she waited.
Mary breezed into the room and bobbed a curtsy. “How can I help, miss?”
“Can you please arrange for hot water and soap to be delivered to my chamber?” Amelia asked, gesturing at her ink-streaked hands. “I’m under orders to get clean.”
Mary’s lips pinched together. “I’ll make sure it’s your special soap.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
The maid left, and Amelia considered how lucky she was to have Mary, who didn’t bat an eyelid at any of Amelia’s eccentricities and sometimes actively encouraged them.
She returned with two footmen carrying a pail of hot water between them and guided them on its placement. Amelia placed a cushion on the floor and knelt on it, holding out her arms so that Mary could scrub them.
The block of soap was slightly scratchy as she ran it over Amelia’s skin, and it smelled of peppermint. She had never asked what was actually in it, but she knew it cleaned ink better than anything else she’d tried. There was a reason her mother didn’t realize exactly how much time she devoted to her “silly scribbling.”
When her hands and forearms were blemish free, Mary patted them dry with a towel.
“Would you like to change for dinner now?” she asked.
Amelia glanced out the window. The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, and the gray of dusk had descended. “I suppose I’d better. The pale blue dress, please.”
While it wasn’t an evening gown, the blue dress suited Amelia’s coloring, which would please her mother. Any small ways in which she could win Mrs. Hart’s approval were best taken advantage of, since there were many more significant ways in which she’d never have it.
Mary removed the dress from the closet and laid it on the bed. Amelia turned her back to Mary, and the maid quickly undid her laces so the dress dropped to the floor and pooled around her feet. She stepped out of it, clad in only petticoat,chemise, and stays, and ducked to assist Mary in sliding the blue dress over her head.
Mary buttoned the back of the dress with deft movements. “There you are, miss. Would you like anything done with your hair?”
Amelia sighed. “Yes, please.” She pulled out the padded bench from the foot of her bed and perched on it, presenting Mary with her back.
She gazed at the blue embroidery on her gold bedspread as she waited for Mary to return with a hairbrush and supplies. It was a good thing she liked blue, considering the fact that Mrs. Hart had seen fit to surround her with the color for her whole life. Growing up, most of her outfits had been blue, and her bedchambers had also been decorated in the same hue.
Amelia tended to think it was because her vivid blue eyes were both the only part of her appearance that could be solely attributed to her mother and the most noteworthy part of her.
With the exception of her eyes, she was rather plain. Dark hair, pale skin, an average build that was neither slender enough to make her appear fragile nor curvaceous enough to attract men’s attention. She was neither beautiful nor ugly. Perfectly designed to be part of the background.
Mary removed the ties from Amelia’s hair and brushed its length. Amelia closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation. It was lovely to have someone brush one’s hair. As a young girl, she’d often wished for a sister so they could take turns dressing each other’s hair, but the Harts had not been blessed with a second child.
As Mary brushed her hair back from her face and began to pin it into place, Amelia spoke.
“I completed Miss Davies’s most recent adventure today. Would you like me to read it to you after dinner?”
“Oh, yes, please. That would be wonderful.”
