Grabbing the embroidery that had gone untouched by the chaise for the past few weeks, she tossed a piece onto Cassandra’s lap. What she couldn’t fix she would hide.
“Show her in, Greenhill,” she said. “And please ask Mrs. Greenhill to bring some tea.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He wasn’t happy—obviously—but he knew well enough to leave it alone.
As he exited, Amelia allowed herself a small smile. She might have taken a step backward in her quest for social domination, but like Wellington, she could not be put down for long.
“Benedict doesn’t like Lady Karstark,” Cassandra whispered.
“Well, I doubt he’s spent much time in her company. Learn to judge for yourself, poppet.”
They were prevented from saying any more by the woman’s appearance in the doorway. Amelia stood, followed a half second later by Cassandra.
“Lady Karstark. What a pleasant surprise.”
The smile she got in return was cold. “I was in the neighborhood,” Agatha said.
“Lucky us.”
They’d been making strained conversation for thirty minutes by the time Benedict barged in. By the looks of him, their groom had ridden down to the firm, and Benedict had run back.
“Lady Karstark.” His voice was cold, clipped, his expression closed as he walked to the chaise longue and put a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. He didn’t sit. Either he didn’t plan on staying long or he was about to boot Agatha from his house—a distinct possibility given his recent decree that “that woman will never be welcome. Ever.”
The old woman’s face barely changed. Her lips remained pursed as if current company left a bad taste in her mouth, but her eyes took on a nasty gleam. “Benedict. You continue to grow. It’s quite unseemly.”
He didn’t respond, but Cassandra flinched. “That is very rude. You shouldn’t say mean things.”
Whether the shock on Agatha’s face was due to the censure or simply because a child was talking, Amelia couldn’t tell.
“It’s all right, poppet. Why don’t you head to the kitchens? I smelled pastries.” Benedict shooed her out gently.
“What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly once Cassandra was out of earshot.
Amelia sighed and made a mental note to chastise whoever had decided to fetch the master of the house. “Lady Karstark is paying a social call,” she said.
Be nice, she wanted to yell.
“Your house looks adequate. I suppose that’s her doing.” Agatha squinted at the furnishings as though she had just walked in.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Agatha took a sip of tea. “I wanted to express my sympathies. I was so sorry to hear that no one was coming to your hunt. I was quite looking forward to some proper society.”
As the meaning of Lady Karstark’s words sank in, Amelia clenched her stomach and calves and thighs and jaw—everything she could clench to avoid tightening her fists and giving that woman any satisfaction in her distress.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she managed to say evenly. “I’ve had an excellent response. I’m afraid I’ve invited far too many people and am trying to work out how to house them.”
It was a lie. Agatha knew it.
She gave a horrid, knowing smile over the rim of her teacup. “What a relief. How mortifying it would have been to host your first event as a married woman and to have no one attend. I shall have to inform my sister that her information is faulty.”
Agatha’s sister was Lady Merwick—the biggest gossip London had ever seen—and her information was always annoyingly accurate.
She’d received one reply—a polite decline from the Duke of Camden—but he had always been fastidious in his correspondence. Most of thetontook longer to respond to an invitation.
That was why she’d not received any other responses. Because her friends were fashionably late in all things. Surely. And if they were running a little bit later than fashionable?
Amelia felt as though the laces of her corset had taken on a life of their own and were squeezing every ounce of breath and hope out of her.
