“Yes, ma’am,” the maid muttered.
Amelia raised her chin, thankful for her extra height. “My name isLadyAmelia Crofton.”
The only response was a clenched jaw.
“The correct term ismy lady.”
“Yes, m’lady.” The words came through gritted teeth. The milksop chit scuttled out. No doubt the gossip below stairs was out of control.
As she choked down the rubbery eggs and tepid tea, Amelia assessed what was left of the hours ahead of her. Damage control was needed. It would take a nauseating amount of flattery, but there was no reason the situation couldn’t be rectified. It’s not like she wasactuallycompromised, just apparently compromised.
With any luck, her father had fixed the disaster while she slept. That had been the point of his visit to Abingdale in the first place—to convince Edward to set a date. Every conversation they’d had over the past fifteen years had somehow referenced her approaching marriage to Edward.
“Don’t wear yellow. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not cheerful.”
“Don’t skimp on the sugar. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not a pauper.”
“Don’t laugh. The Duchess of Wildeforde is not a barmaid.”
Her father was as invested in this marriage as she was. The whole situation was most likely solved already.
She knew the way to the study. She’d been here briefly just after her first Season. And her third. She waved off a footman’s reluctant offer to guide her and strode down the stairs and through the hall to where Edward generally conducted business. Taking a short, determined breath, she pushed open the door.
Edward’s study was much like the man himself—grand, richly appointed, and meticulously presented. The curtains fell in even lines. The journal on his mahogany desk was perfectly parallel to the edges.
Except her father, slouched in the leather wingback chair by the window, deep into his cups. She could smell the brandy from here. The other chair was empty; Edward was absent.
“Well, here she is.” Her father tipped his near-dry glass in her direction. “The lady of the hour. The key to our family’s salvation and the whore that threw it in the ashes.”
“I see you found the liquor cabinet. Again.”
He stared at her, eyes glassy. “You had one job.”
And here it was, the lecture she’d listened to more times than she’d care to count.
“Marry the Duke of Wildeforde. Become the perfect duchess. Bring…”
She rolled her eyes. “…honor and prestige to the House of Crofton. Yes. I know. I’m working on it.”
He let out a long, gaseous burp. “This never would have happened if you were male.”
It was truly unfair that her greatest failing in life was something she had no control over. “If I were male, I could have taken one of the horses and saved myself.”
His eyes narrowed. He hated it when she spoke back to him. “You’re a selfish creature, just like your mother. All I asked for was a son.”
“And all she delivered was a daughter. We’ve had this conversation.” Over and over and over. Every time he got deep in his cups.
“All I asked of you was to marry well. Now look at the shit we’re in.”
“I take it you haven’t managed to rectify the situation.”
He snorted. “Oh, it’s rectified. You’ll be married in the morning, after the Christmas service.”
She pressed a palm to her chest, noticing the weight she’d been under only as it lifted. “Well, that’s a relief. Truly, if all it took to speed things up was the threat of scandal, I would’ve half-frozen myself years ago. The way Edward has dragged his feet is intolerable.”
Her father laughed, the mean, snide laugh he made coming home half-drunk from wherever he’d been gambling—if he’d won. The hairs at the nape of her neck rose.
“You seem to be misapprehending the situation. You’ll be married. To Mr. Benedict Asterly of the…Abingdale Asterlys? Do half-breeds come from anywhere?”
