She grabbed at the back of the chair as her knees buckled. “You are joking.”
“No.”
Straightening, she clenched her hands into tight, fury-filled fists. “This is absurd. I can’t believe Edward would do this to me.”
“You were found in the arms of another man, with your dress…” He waved his hand at her bosom. “What’s so difficult to believe?”
“For a start, he’d have to find himself a new bride. That’s an awful lot of effort for him.”
He certainly hadn’t put any effort into their engagement. In fifteen years, she’d received one letter, and that was to ask the name of a composer she’d mentioned his mother might like.
“Well, he did. Rejected you as if you were a fish gone bad at the markets.” Her father poured himself another drink.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never stepped foot in a market.”
She walked to the window and back. And again. Her father was useless. It was up to her to set things back on course.
In the background, the ranting continued. “I told you. Be the perfect duchess. Say the right things, do the right things—”
She swatted his words away.
Lady Wildeforde was in residence. Could she convince Edward’s mother to stand beside her? She’d always been supportive—if somewhat acidic—in the past, and had been instrumental in establishing Amelia as the younger set’s preeminent figure.
“—had to keep yourself out of scandal, and you would be—” Her father wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“I can’t see why there needs to be a scandal,” she snapped. Could he not see that she was trying to focus? “It was just you, Edward, me, and…what was his name?”
“Mister Benedict Asterly.”
She shuddered.Mister.Ugh. “Right. Well, surely you can pay him off. Marrying an earl’s daughter might seem attractive, but he’s a country lummox. Give him a thousand pounds and assure him that I’m more trouble than he expects.” Because she would be. That was certain.
“You’re forgetting Lord Karstark.”
Hell. The blasted lord with his vile sneer. “For goodness’ sake, give generously to whatever cause will put the funds into his pocket, promise my firstborn child to the relative of his choice, and send him on his way. Really, must I do everything?”
Her father held the snifter up to the light and gave it a nonchalant swirl, studying the brandy as it clung to the sides of the glass. “Karstark. Brother-in-law to Lady Merwick.”
Her heart gave way like slippers on ice.
“Cousin to the Duke of Oxley,” he rattled off, “and rich as Croesus. The only things he values are power and gossip, and you just gave him both.”
Dash it.
He sniggered. “Face reality, Amelia. Abingdale is your new home. I don’t believe your future husband owns a London residence.”
This couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. Amelia spun on her heel. If Edward wasn’t in his office, where would he be?
Maids fled as they saw her approach. She didn’t stomp—a duchess’s footsteps are never heard—but her clenched fists and brisk pace ensured no one got in her way. Edward could be made to see reason.
He entered the foyer just as she did. Judging by his heavy coat and Wellington boots, she’d caught him just as he was escaping. He stopped, tapping his hand against his thigh. He was uneasy. Good.
She rushed to him and buried her face in the soft linen of his cravat.
Hesitantly, he stroked her hair. This was the most intimacy they’d shared throughout their entire courtship. Typically, it was a stiff embrace. The few times she’d pressed him for a kiss, it had been a perfunctory peck on the cheek.
“Edward.” She sobbed. “What is happening? I don’t understand.” She took in rapid, shallow breaths that made her chest press against his. “I don’t know what”—gasp—“to do. Please tell me it isn’t true.”
Looking up at him, she allowed one tear to roll down her cheek.
