Page 9 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
“Three previous wives?” Amelia was astounded. If he weren’t a duke, this man would surely be a cautionary tale. Three wives could not have died of natural causes.
“The first wife died of consumption, the second in a carriage accident, and, rumor has it, the third jumped from a cliff because she was so heartbroken at not being able to provide an heir,” Mrs. Hart explained.
Or the cunning old duke had them all killed.
Amelia didn’t voice the suspicion. Her mother would consider it yet more proof that all her reading and scribbling had rendered her fanciful.
“How unfortunate for him,” Mr. Hart muttered.
Amelia forced herself to eat her mutton before it went cold. Chewing it was hard work, and she had a sour taste in her mouth.
She didn’t want to marry an aristocrat. Or, she supposed, not more than she wished to marry any other man. But she especially didn’t want to marry someone who might throw her off a cliff should she fail to get pregnant.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Hart sipped from a glass of water. “The Marquess of Overton may be a better choice. He is rich, titled, and younger.”
Stuffing a chunk of potato into her mouth, Amelia managed not to respond. The chances of the Marquess of Overton being interested in her were slim to none.
“And?” she prompted, because they may as well get this conversation over with.
Mrs. Hart smiled, pleased with her cooperation. “The Earl of Winn and the Earl of Longley.”
Amelia looked down at her meal to hide her grimace. The Earl of Winn was a lecher and a drunk. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the Earl of Longley.”
“No, you wouldn’t be.” Mrs. Hart sounded smug about having information that her daughter was not privy to. “He attended only one—maybe two—balls last year, with his childhood friend, the Duke of Ashford.”
“Ah.” Amelia poured water from a jug into her glass. “The one who was jilted and then married his former fiancée’s twin sister.”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Hart’s cobalt eyes were practically glittering. “We all know that men tend to settle down in groups. Ashford did so last year, and I’m certain that Longley intends to do the same this season. Perhaps you will be the one to win him.”
“Perhaps.” Amelia swallowed, her throat tight. She didn’t believe she had any hope of landing a decent aristocratic gentleman. She just had to pray that her mother would besatisfied with a peer’s younger sibling or, if she was lucky, a baron.
All Amelia personally wanted was someone kind who would allow her to pursue her own interests. If they were an intellectual themselves, that would be desirable, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. In this case, despite their wealth, they were very much beggars as far as the ton was concerned.
They finished their meal, and then she and her mother retired to their chambers while Mr. Hart vanished into his office. Amelia retrieved her writing papers from her desk, locked the drawer behind her, and took the stairs back down to knock on her father’s door.
“Enter,” he called.
She turned the handle and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar, her papers clutched in one hand. “Hello again, Father.”
“My dear.” His eyes creased at the corners. “What brings you here?”
“I completed a written project today, and I would be interested to hear your thoughts—if you have time to read it.”
He beckoned her forward. “Let’s see, then.”
Amelia closed the distance between them and offered him the papers, but just before he could take them, her mother rushed past her and knocked them out of her hands. Amelia gasped as the papers fell to the floor, completely out of order. She dropped to her knees and scrambled to gather them up.
“Enough!” Mrs. Hart cried. “No more of your scribblings. You will never secure a betrothal with anyone of the peerage if you persist with these bluestocking tendencies.”
Amelia snatched up the last sheet of paper and shakily rose to her feet, holding them tightly to her chest so her mother could not touch them again.
“If I were to be published,” she began quietly.
“You would bring shame to the Hart name,” Mrs. Hart snapped. “I tell you, no one wants a bluestocking wife.”
Tears prickling in her eyes, Amelia looked to her father for support. Surely he would intervene. After all, during her formative years, he’d allowed her to sit with him while he worked. He’d explained business concepts to her and gifted her the books that had expanded her mind. He would defend her now.
But no. There was a quiet apology in his eyes, and yet he said nothing. Perhaps she should have expected that. However much he cared for her, he always allowed his wife to make the decisions about her life.
