Beatrice nodded. “Of course you may. We’d better try it on you first thing in the morning and see if Delia needs to take a tuck in it anywhere. Plus, you shall have to wear higher heels than you normally do, or the skirt will drag at the back and trip you at the front.”
“What about me?” Charlotte said. “I already wore my best dress, too.”
Their mother had just entered the parlor. “You must wear your second-best dress and make do. We have all day tomorrow to add a little ribbon or a flounce if need be.”
“Don’t look sad,” their father said, peering at his youngest daughter over his hand of cards. “We shall buy you new gowns by February if you want to be part of next year’s Season.”
Charlotte let them all know of her pleasure with a piercing whistle of joy.
“Why did you ever teach her to do such a thing?” their mother asked their father.
He shrugged sheepishly, then he looked at Beatrice. “A Season for you, too, if you want. Because Amity didn’t want to enjoy the buffoonery of the ballrooms doesn’t mean you can’t partake in London’s finest social events.”
“I know, and I thank you,” Beatrice said, and nothing more, keeping her future plans to herself.
Amity could not spare an ounce of worry for either sister at that moment. Her nerves were stretched thin at going to the duke’s party, seeing Lady Madeleine again, and hoping there was no unpleasant scene. More than that, she didn’t really want to witness the presentation of her chocolates when the duke made his grand proposal. It seemed something better done in private just in case.
Amity was being a ninny. Lady Madeleine would hardly say no to the Duke of Pelham, and thus he didn’t risk public mortification. In fact, the greatest risk was that Amity would fall over wearing high heels and disgrace herself.
“Come along,” her father enjoined, “let us all play whist. Where has your Mr. Cole got to these days? I feel as if I haven’t seen that young man in ages.”
Chapter Seventeen
As his valet helpedhim dress, Henry knew he ought to feel some sort of nervousness. After all, that very night, he would get himself engaged. Be that as it may, he felt calm. It seemed like any other party, except for the excitement of the chocolatier coming to his home to mingle with his guests and his family.
He didn’t doubt she would comport herself well although both her sisters seemed a little unpredictable. He only wished he had told Amity about her repeatedfaux pasin calling him “my lord.” Hopefully, tonight, he would get a chance before she said it in front of his friends.
“Finished, Your Grace.” His valet did a final brush down of the back of his evening jacket. “I cannot improve a hair on your head.”
“Thank you.” The man provided impeccable service, but sometimes, it was like having a nanny again. Henry wanted to rip off his ascot or ruffle up his own hair out of spite.
Ingrate!he berated himself. He must always recall how fortunate he was to have been born into his particular circumstances. Strange how Amity had mentioned not coveting his world when everyone he met, even those such as Lady Madeleine who already lived in it, seemed to want more — more money, more luxury, more power, more of whatever it was they liked about being titled and privileged.
Furthermore, he could not dismiss Amity as a silly chit who didn’t know what was what. She did know something of the world. She had traveled abroad, been to the opera, and met with chocolatiers in Switzerland and France. Hers had not been a sheltered, narrow existence. And still, she said she preferred her own lifestyle to his.
He sighed as he walked downstairs and decided to have a pre-party drink with his mother, his sister, and her husband. He needed to stop thinking about Amity and focus on his bride-to-be. As soon as he saw Madeleine again, he was confident he would feel some sort of thrill that she would soon be his duchess.
