The memory of Lady Amelia Crowley’s cool demeanor came to mind. She was a beauty, true, but where Leopold was concerned, the Rakes had nothing to worry about.
Women played a part in his life, but they only ever played with a clear set of rules. For them, but also for him.
As far as dishonorable intentions, Lady Amelia Crowley had nothing to worry about.
Leopold jammed the ridiculous top hat onto his head—another concession he made to blend in with the nobs at the Emporium—and sauntered towards his offices on Bond Street.
STAND AND DELIVER
“Are you not excited for the Season?” Amelia’s mother asked as their carriage swayed along the road leading away from Cherrywood Park, their country home in Devonshire.
Amelia glanced up from her crocheting and stared out the window, already missing the familiar green fields dappled with plump sheep that would give way to village after village and eventually the smog and bustle of London.
At two and twenty, this was to be her third Season.
Her heart sank at the prospect.
Last year, she’d turned down more proposals than she could remember, and having failed to secure a betrothal with the Marquess of Winterhope last autumn, her parents had made themselves perfectly clear: this year, she would accept the gentleman of their choosing.
With each bump of the carriage, she felt her freedom slipping away.
“Of course, Mother,” she lied.
Miss Henrietta, her pinch-lipped lady’s maid who was seated beside Amelia on the backwards-facing bench, hummed a sound of disbelief. Amelia’s mother ignored it.
As was her habit. Her mother ignored truths she didn’t wish to acknowledge.
“Lord Northwoods is willing to meet with you again, despite that nasty business with Lord Winterhope. He wrote your father just last week.” Amelia’s mother elbowed Amelia’s father, jerking him out of his restful state. “What else did he say, Husband?”
Lord Foxbourne blinked and then smoothed the lapels of his jacket. Travel or no, Amelia’s father always looked the same, his silver hair combed neatly, his cravat tied in an elegant knot, and his boots shined to perfection. And even though he often napped while riding in the carriage, he never appeared wrinkled.
Appearances were important to her father.
He shot her mother a frown and then smoothed out his features to answer the question. “What did he say? Erm…Let me think.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Oh, that’s right. His Lordship requested that I send word round once we’re settled in Mayfair. He intends to renew his courtship of the most beautiful lady in all of England. I imagine he’ll claim a set at the first ball.”
Amelia winced, recalling her former suitor, a gentleman who looked close to forty but was not yet thirty, of average height and build with brownish hair that was… average as well. She’d initially found the earl vaguely attractive. But then she’d let him kiss her—a rather clumsy and awkward experience she wished she could forget. And yet, it wasn’t only that.
There was something… disingenuous about Lord Northwoods.
Like all the other gentlemen who’d attempted to court her, he had lacked… some quality she couldn’t put her finger on.
She was beginning to think she couldn’t put her finger on it because it didn’t exist. Perhaps the sort of man she wanted only existed in her mind.
He certainly didn’t exist in Mayfair.
Amelia breathed out a heavy sigh.
Because none of that mattered. The decision of who to marry, or even whether she would marry at all, wasn’t hers to make.
Society referred to the Season as the marriage mart. At one time, she’d fooled herself into believing she was an active participant, but that wasn’t the case at all.
She was the product. Debutantes were thegoods.
Dropping her gaze, Amelia sat taller so she could breathe better, and returned her focus to the toy toad she was making with a simple hook and thread. Later, she would stuff it with tiny feathers, and then donate it to one of the foundling hospitals.
If there was one activity she took solace in, it was crocheting. While other young women of her status embroidered, painted, and played various instruments, Amelia had fallen in love with the art of crochet—disappointing her parents once again.“It’s something commoners do,”her father had said when she’d shown him her first completed project.
If not for their feisty Irish housekeeper, she never would have learned.
