With Juliette’s help, they both might make sense of his uncle’s holdings and work together to continue the profits. And when she was comfortable running the estate without him, he would turn to what mattered most.
Killing the man who had taken away everything.
There were days when being sixteen years old was a plague. Amelia knew she was lucky to even attend assemblies, but it bothered her that she was too young to speak to anyone under the age of forty.
She had her eye on Viscount Lisford. It didn’t matter that he was five-and-twenty. He was dashing and kind. His manners were exquisite, and he never once made a misstep when he danced.
She sent him the brightest smile she could muster, hoping that he would see her pining from across the room. Even if she was too young now, she could marry within two years.
Two. It sounded like eternity. She’d heard of a few young women who had married at seventeen, but when she’d asked about it, Mother had promptly informed her that the women had married because theyhad to.Whatever that meant.
“Don’t you think it’s time you went up to bed?” Margaret asked from behind her. “It’s after midnight.”
“Youaren’t going to bed yet.”
“No, I’m not.” The serene look upon her older sister’s face was irritating.
“And how is your quest for a husband progressing?” Amelia tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but truly, it wasn’t fair that Margaret was old enough to do everything, while she had to remain pinned to Aunt Charlotte’s side.
To her surprise, Margaret blushed. “There might be someone. But I came to ask you about Juliette’s letter.”
“She asked me to send half a dozen of theyou-know-whatsto her.” Standing on tiptoe, she whispered in Margaret’s ear, “She wanted the most seductive we had.”
Margaret fanned herself furiously. “Well, I—I suppose Juliettehasbeen married for nearly a fortnight now.”
“I took some of the extra garments that Victoria sent us and had them posted to Edinburgh instead. Madame Benedict doesn’t need to know about them.”
“I still don’t like the risk.” Margaret lowered her fan, frowning. “Though I have been glad about the money.”
“No one will know,” Amelia promised. “Our secret is entirely safe. In the meantime, we can continue to stand on the edges of the crowd like ninnies, hoping for a man to smile at us.”
Waiting around was not Amelia’s strong suit. She much preferred to make decisions and act upon them.
At that moment, the object of her adoration turned and began walking straight toward them. Amelia went breathless as the Viscount Lisford crossed the room. She half expected angels to begin singing when he smiled in her direction.
“Miss Andrews, I believe the next dance is mine?” he said.
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
But with horror, Amelia realized he was speaking to Margaret. Prim and proper Margaret. Not her.
The angels suddenly began screeching off-key in her brain.It’s a dance,she told herself.Only a dance.
But from the way her sister was returning Viscount Lisford’s smile, she knew whatthatmeant. The “someone” Margaret had spoken of was escorting her to join in a country dance.
All the happiness within her dried up into a hollow shell. Margaret hadknownhow much she wanted the viscount. She’d known it, but she’d gone and smiled at him anyway. Whatever happened to her complaints that Viscount Lisford gambled at White’s? And what about their Sisters’ Meeting, where Margaret had been more interested in the Earl of Castledon?
Whirling around, Amelia was prepared to march away when she crashed into a gentleman standing behind her. “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Good Heavens. It was the Earl of Castledon—otherwise known to her as Sir Personality-of-a-Handkerchief. He was the very last person she wanted to encounter. A quick escape was what she needed.
“I should have watched where I was going,” she apologized. “I didn’t see you at all.”
“I was busy being a wallflower,” he remarked drily. “It doesn’t surprise me that you never noticed.”
She took a closer look and realized that he wasn’t entirely bad-looking. A little average, but he was exceptionally tall, and his blue eyes were nice.
“Men aren’t wallflowers,” she said. “The term is too delicate for a man. Stoic is a better word, I think. Or aloof.”
