Page 36 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Yes, that summed her up, though she was so much more than that.
Finishing his breakfast, he rose. “The groom will have my horse ready now, so I’ll bid you good day.”
*
The sun washigh in the sky by the time Amelia opened sleep-laden eyes. Hearing the chime of the clock announcing an hour that only the worst of lie-abeds would, with any self-respect, sleep until, she leapt out of bed, washed and dressed, and was about to dash out of the room to present herself for breakfast.
But a strange compulsion called her back to her dressing table. She sat down and, for the first time in a very long while, studied her reflection. It was usual that a quick brush of her hair, which was then twisted into a serviceable knot on top of her head sufficed. She understood the need for a fashionable appearance and had perfected this style a year or so before, refining it so that it could be effected with speed and efficiency.
Now, with her elbows on the table, she frowned at her appearance before unpinning her hair so that it hung past her shoulders. How could she bind it so that she didn’t appear so…spinsterish?
And her gown?
It wasn’t shabby. In fact, it was of a very fine fabric, but the style was assuredly outdated. Not that it mattered when she would soon be living in the country.
Except, would she?
She hitched in a breath and contemplated her uncertain future with a beating heart as she considered the feelings Sir Frederick had evoked last night in the library.
And this was the man she was trying to marry off to another in order for her to achieve her so-called dream future?
He was charming and handsome, and he’d proved excellent company. At the memory of some of their exchanges, her heartgave a little flutter. Could it even be that he harbored some modicum of admiration for her?
She recalled the amused lift of his eyebrows in the library last night, his concern at other times.
After repinning her hair, teasing out a few tendrils of her naturally wavy hair which, she thought, looked rather fetching, she chose a more flattering spencer, and then made her way downstairs. The murmurs of a couple on the landing below caused her to stop and lean over the bannisters.
The feather of a fashionable bonnet was swaying with the emphasis of what its wearer was saying, while Sir Frederick nodded, his smile indicating he was attending with great interest.
A girlish giggle suggested it was one of the Miss Ps who was making the most of this opportunity to so impress the baronet, but when she tipped her head to the side, Amelia realized with a jolt that it was in fact Mrs. Perry.
And the widow was making fun of someone.
“I can understand the desire to come to such an entertainment as Lady Pendleton’s, but if one’s most modish attire was from the age of the woolly mammoth, surely it’s worse to be on display as an object of ridicule. Of course, ladies notice these things.”
Amelia froze. She glanced at the spencer into which she’d just buttoned herself, thinking the line was flattering and little matter that it was three years old. It was not shabby, so who would notice?
Clearly Mrs. Perry did.
Mrs. Perry who was now saying, “And I hear she can’t wait to retire to the country? So why accept an invitation that would deny someone else the opportunity to take up Lady Pendleton’s offer clearly designed to facilitate the meeting and mingling of those serious about making a match—”
Amelia froze. Mrs. Perry was talking about her? Her heart began to thunder while shame burned her from within. Was everyone talking about how shabby and sad Amelia was?
Did Sir Frederick think it but simply humored her as he was humoring Mrs. Perry?
Except that it looked as if he were doing more than that for when Amelia next glanced at him, Mrs. Perry’s little hand was hooked in the crook of his arm and he was escorting her from the room.
Amelia felt her mouth hang open. Were the two of them laughing at her behind her back? Or was it only Mrs. Perry—though Sir Frederick had said not a thing to champion Amelia.
Slowly, she continued down to the next level. A knot of guests was at the far end of the gallery on the floor below her and when a voice called out from somewhere, they dispersed, Mr. Greene bringing up the rear. Amelia thought they’d all gone until she saw that one figure remained.
Miss Caroline.
She stopped, curiosity replacing her earlier shame for Caroline was reading a note?
Yes, she was sure of it, for she was bent over something, devouring the words that someone, just now, had clearly given her.
Mr. Greene? It was surely him.
