Page 8 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
Amelia smiled. For all she knew, Mary only humored her because it was her job, but Amelia preferred to think that she genuinely enjoyed the stories.
“The other maids will be eager to hear what trouble Miss Davies gets herself into next,” Mary added. “I always let them know what she’s up to, although I’m sure my storytelling isn’t nearly as good as yours.”
She slid a pin into place near Amelia’s hairline. Amelia winced as it caught the skin.
“Sorry,” Mary murmured.
“Don’t worry about it,” Amelia said. “And I have no doubt you’re a superior performer to me. My flair is for the written word, not the spoken.”
Mary hummed thoughtfully. “I believe you could be good at anything you set your mind to.”
Amelia laughed. “How very diplomatic of you.”
They fell silent while Mary finished winding Amelia’s hair into a tidy arrangement on the back of her head, with a loose curl positioned on each side of her face. By the time she stepped away and placed the brush and remaining hairpins on a cabinet, it was almost dark outside. No doubt dinner would be served soon.
Amelia thanked the maid, locked her papers in her writing desk, and wandered downstairs. The dining hall was well lit with dozens of candles positioned down the center of the table and attached to the walls.
She rolled her eyes internally at the wastefulness of the extravagance. There was no reason for them to eat every meal in the formal dining hall, but her mother insisted it was “most proper.”
Amelia claimed the seat to the left of the table’s head. Her mother and father swept into the room arm in arm a moment later. Her father held out the chair at the right of the table’s head for her mother and waited for her to lower herself down before sitting at the head himself.
“Good evening, Mia,” Mr. Hart said, smiling warmly. He was a slightly portly gentleman with dove-gray eyes and a thick gray mustache.
“Walter,” Mrs. Hart chastened. “Remember what we discussed.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Rightly so. My apologies, Amelia. I forget that you’re not my little girl anymore.”
“I’ll always be your Mia,” Amelia replied, ignoring her mother’s sigh of exasperation. There was no reason for family to stand on formality—especially not in private.
“Please refrain from saying such things in front of potential suitors,” Mrs. Hart said as footmen carried in platters laden with food.
“I will hold my tongue in front of potential suitors,” Amelia replied dutifully.
She doubted there would be any. At least, not unless they were fortune hunters. This was her second season, and to say the first had been a dismal failure would be an understatement. The only men who’d looked at her twice were those in want of her father’s dime.
Other gentlemen seemed to be put off by either her family’s position—very much outside the ton’s inner circle—her somewhat plain looks, or her mother’s obvious aspirations as a social climber. If none of those things scared them away, then the fact that she was incapable of polite small talk seemed to do the trick.
“I have been researching,” Mrs. Hart declared.
Both Amelia and her father cringed. Nothing good ever came of Mrs. Hart’s research.
“There is one duke, a marquess, and two earls seeking wives this season.”
Mr. Hart reached for the mutton and cut off a portion. Following his cue, Amelia served herself potatoes, peas, beans, and mutton. Whatever came next would surely be best endured with a full belly.
“Would you like to know which ones?” Mrs. Hart asked, a disapproving groove between her eyebrows that said she’d expected more interest.
“Of course, dear.” Mr. Hart’s knife chinked against the china as he sliced through a piece of mutton. “I’m curious how you ascertained that these particular men are seeking a wife.”
“They accepted invitations to the Wembley ball on Saturday.”
“I… see.” He clearly didn’t.
“Obviously, bringing a duke into the family would be the most impressive coup.” Mrs. Hart selected dainty portions of each dish for herself. She was of the belief that women ought not to eat much more than birds did, and her slim, girlish figure was evidence of that. “However, the Duke of Wight may be past the age of being able to produce an heir.”
Amelia’s jaw dropped. “The Duke of Wight must be at least seventy!”
Mrs. Hart nodded. “Ergo, marrying him would leave you unencumbered much sooner. But, as I said, if any of his three previous wives haven’t been able to bear him an heir, we must assume the problem lies with him and that you would have no more success.”
