Page 12 of War of the Wedding Wagers
But then, that’s what they were all there for. For one of them, at least, to win his heart.
“Excuse me?” Amelia responded with prickly pride as he strode across the floor. “I have as much desire for enjoyment as anyone here.”
“But your book learning is more important to you than fun and frivolity. Please, my remark was meant as a compliment,” he went on as he leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece and smiled at the seated young ladies.
But the way the young ladies looked at Amelia suggested that a love of book learning was a dubious attribute.
“It is true that the characters in books disappoint me less frequently than in real life,” Amelia said, looking down at her fingers as they folded the fabric of her muslin skirts. While her gown was of good quality, she was not dressed as fashionably as the Miss Ps, who seemed to have coordinated their ensembles in shades of spring green and pale pink.
It was in fact Amelia’s Mama who had insisted on selecting the gowns Amelia was to take with her for the weekend party, saying she feared Amelia’s predilection for the sober and severe would dampen her already muted propensity for fun and frivolity. The deep blue of her current gown at least brought out her eyes, though she noticed Sir Frederick’s gaze lingering on Miss Penny’s more modish costume.
“Goodness, Amelia,” her mother had admonished her, “you’ve already started to dress like a staid spinster or bluestocking as I think they call girls like you which is not a compliment. And you haven’t even begun your new life in the country which I still think is a mistake you’ll learn soon enough when you discover that being alone is… lonely.”
Amelia had countered that with all her lovely books to keep her company, she could never feel alone.
Now she felt herself coloring at Sir Frederick’s considered contemplation and grappled for the first thing she could think of. “Lady Pendleton says there is a particularly troublesome ghost who floats between the tower—which I understand is unsafe to visit—and the library. Do you have any ideas as to how it can be rendered…untroublesometo be helpful to our hostess?”
Lady Pendleton turned from the conversation she was having near the doorway with Lord Thornton who’d just arrived. “Indeed, if only someonecouldsend the troublesome spirit away during our ghost hunting! I’ve never seen it, but I can’t tell you the number of guests who say they have. It’s the main reason I dislike coming here though Lord Pendleton enjoys his fishing and hunting here very much. Generally, I will not accompany him for I get so many complaints from guests who say they can’t sleep because of its moaning and clattering.”
Amelia noticed the amusement on Sir Frederick’s countenance and considered this one of the few things they had in common: a skepticism for ghosts.
“My goodness, who is this ghost, Lady Pendleton?” asked Miss Playford.
Lady Pendleton lowered her voice. “It is the ghost of my great-great aunt. Some say she died after she tried to escape from the tower attempting to elope with one of the grooms, though others claim that’s just a myth. There she is.” She pointed to a small portrait hanging on the wall. “Now, apparently, her ghost makes a habit of wailing in the tower at all hours of the night, though I do believe it’s really the wind. Never mind that Pendleton doesn’t hear a thing. He’s as deaf as a door post at the best of times. But you, young ladies, and my other guests, I will be most interested in what you report in the morning.”
Amelia studied the portrait more closely, noting the book clutched in the subject’s hands and the intelligence in her eyes. Somehow, this didn’t look like a woman foolish enough to throw her life away for a mere stable hand.
“Yes, indeed. And we shall have to deal severely with this ghost, will we not, Lady Pendleton?” said Sir Frederick, moving behind Miss Playford’s chair. “This ghost-hunting weekend will hardly be a success if we cannot at least ensure that the spirit of your great-great aunt is laid to rest so that you can get yours. What did you say her name was?”
“Pernilla,” said Lady Pendleton, her tone dismissive. “Poor, pathetic Pernilla.”
Conscious of Sir Frederick’s eyes upon her, Amelia resisted making eye contact though her skin felt unaccountably warmed by his attention.
He should be conversing with the Miss Ps, she thought, rising.
“If you’ll excuse me, I will rest awhile before I ready myself for the Masquerade Ball tonight,” she said. “Especially if I run the risk of a sleepless night due to Pernilla’s ghostly wailing,” she added with a poor attempt at a joke. “Come, Edward.”
But her brother just grinned at her, his appreciative gaze lingering on the young ladies and Amelia had to use all her training not to snap at him as a big sister would have any reason to do.
Chapter Nine
The great hallat dinner time was illuminated by dozens of candles in brass sconces, their flickering light casting dancing shadows on the ancient tapestries. The table, long enough to seat thirty guests, gleamed with polished silver and crystal, though the conversation proved as lackluster as the cold soup. Amelia found herself trapped between the vacuous Miss Penny and pompous Mr. Stanley, the latter presenting her with his perpetually hunched back as he strained to catch every word of Mr. Greene’s presumably fascinating discourse on hunting dogs.
Now, after an hour in which to don their costumes, a markedly more excited atmosphere prevailed as the company reconvened in the drawing room. The air was thick with perfume and anticipation, silk rustling against silk as elaborately costumed figures moved about the space.
Edward’s Janus costume drew gasps and nervous titters, the two-faced mask catching the candlelight as he moved through the crowd.
Amelia, who had hastily assembled a costume to represent a mysterious fortune-teller—all flowing dark fabric and jingling bangles—earned barely concealed smirks from the Miss Ps. They had clearly spent weeks planning their costumes: Miss Playford as a fairy nymph in gossamer and pearls, Miss Penny as an angel whose wings shed tiny feathers with every movement.
“Are you really going to read people’s fortunes?” asked Miss Playford. “Mama wouldn’t let me go near the fortune-teller tent at the fair when I was younger but maybe I could just ask you to read my palm.” She tittered but then was clearly surprised when Amelia suddenly leaned forward and, in a mysterious tone, said, “I shall happily read your fortune, Miss Playford. Take a seat in the window embrasure and let’s begin, shall we?”
For it suddenly occurred to her that Miss Playford might be as easily led as she looked, and hinting at a destiny that might include Sir Frederick could give her the impetus she needed to make Sir Frederick regard her in a favorable light.
The ancient mullioned window provided the perfect backdrop for Amelia’s impromptu fortune telling, its leaded panes casting a latticed shadow across Miss Playford’s eager face. From this vantage point, Amelia could observe the room’s dynamics: Edward holding court in his unsettling mask, Lady Townsend and Lady Pendleton engaged in what appeared to be a forcedly pleasant conversation, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes.
And then Sir Frederick entered, his tall figure drawing every eye in the room. His costume—whatever it was meant to be—did nothing to diminish his commanding presence, and Amelia noticed with irritation how Miss Playford’s breath caught audibly at the sight of him. With renewed purpose, she grasped the girl’s wrist perhaps a touch too firmly, channeling her annoyance into her performance as a seer.
There was Lady Townsend in conversation with Lady Pendleton. Amelia’s mama had been even more surprised to learn her daughter was on the viscountess’s guest list. She’d then recounted several tales of that lady’s duplicitous behavior towards Lady Townsend dating back to their youth which made Amelia wonder at Lady Townsend’s motivations in remaining her friend. Birds of a feather?
