Stephen glanced back at Amelia, just in time to watch the color drain from her face.
We always knew this day was coming,he wanted to say, but now did not seem like the right time.
“What?” she gasped, snatching the paper from her sister.
She flipped through the pages frantically, not having to search long before she found the article she was looking for. She paused, paling even further.
“The mysterious figure of the famous club, Orion, is at last revealed as none other than the Duke of Redcliffe, a missing piece of our fine society, long presumed dead,” she read aloud, her voice catching and echoing in the silent room. “Imagine the surprise of this author to learn that the Duke has been under our noses this whole time, staying hidden for reasons best known only to him and soon to be revealed to us. On the heels of his revelation, this author has learned that His Grace intends to wed immediately. However, rumor has it that this bride-to-be is no lady at all…”she trailed off, swallowing.
“Well?” Madeline prompted anxiously. “What else does it say?”
“More of the same,” Amelia muttered, frowning. “Now that they know my name, they’ll soon uncover our parentage. It’s all over.”
“Over? I think not,” Stephen responded smoothly, neatly plucking the paper out of her hands. “This was always going to happen. We can weather a little scandal. And in a few days, you’ll be the Duchess of Redcliffe, and you can do and say as you like.”
“I hardly think?—”
“Being a duchess is not the same as being a seamstress,” he interrupted, catching her gaze and holding it. “A flood that washes away your life when you live on the forest floor won’t touch you if you live on the top of a mountain.”
She did not hold his gaze. Instead, she glanced away, biting her lip.
“I haven’t climbed the mountain yet,” she muttered. “And no title can change the fact that I was once a seamstress, and am still an illegitimate daughter.”
“And nor can those things change the fact that you will be a duchess. Come, let’s think no more of this filth.”
To drive his point home, he tore the paper in two, then in four, then eight, then again and again until the air was full of tiny shreds of paper, the scandal sheet reduced to a collection of scraps.
Marjory mournfully watched the papery snowfall drift to the floor. “I was going to read that,” she mumbled.
Stephen ignored her and turned to the man at the pianoforte. “A waltz, I think,” he ordered. “Amelia, I hear that you are well taught in etiquette. Did you learn to dance?”
She wavered. “Well, yes, but I have not practiced for years.”
“It will come back to you quickly,” he assured her, then extended a hand. “Come, my bride-to-be. Dance with me.”
She swallowed, staring at his hand. Then her gaze flitted away, darting over Letitia, Madeline, and, of course, her sisters.
Stephen cleared his throat. “No spectators. We can hardly do without our music, but so long as the fellow keeps his eyes on the keys and not us, we’ll have no trouble.”
“Stephen…” Letitia began, but he fixed her with a cool, pointed look.
“No spectators,” he repeated softly.
Marjory looked as though she wanted to argue. His grandmother, however, recognized his tone. He would hear no argument. She got to her feet with a sigh and gestured for Marjory to support her.
“Very well,” she said crisply. “Girls, Madeline, come along. We’ll take tea in the parlor, and I’m sure that Stephen and Amelia will meet us very soon.”
Stephen did not bother to confirm or deny it.
The others shuffled away, their low voices echoing through the huge room. He would not have been surprised if Amelia’s nerve broke and she raced after them. However, she stayed where she was, quiet and still.
Once the door had closed behind the others, and they were alone with the half-asleep music tutor, Stephen extended his hand once more. And waited, like any good hunter.
Amelia took a moment, swallowing hard, her tongue darting out to wet her red lips. Then, as if she’d made a decision in a rush, she placed her hand in his. Her cold palm in his warm one. He closed his fingers over her hand and drew her close to him.
“You have practiced the waltz, I take it?” he murmured.
She cleared her throat. “Not… not the waltz. Mama never thought it was proper.”
