Next to him, Amelia stood calm, still, like a safe harbor. On the other side, Cassandra bounced on her toes, the jig, jig, jig making the curls in her hair dance. Daisy had spent all morning getting his sister’s hair “just right”—more time than she’d spent even on Amelia’s.
He could understand the milestone, Cassandra’s first introduction to society, but it was one he’d hoped to avoid.
Thankfully, Amelia had said Cassandra was too young to join them for dinner and activities. While his sister had been crestfallen, she’d accepted it without an argument. Had it been his refusal to allow her to participate, it would have been a very different conversation.
“I hope they like me,” his sister whispered, looking up at him. She was so vulnerable that all he wanted was to pick her up and carry her away, shutting the doors and keeping out all that might hurt her.
What kind of brother was he, risking her heart like this?
Instead, against all his better instincts, he nudged her gently under the chin. “How could anyone not like you, poppet?”
The giant grin she gave him sank his heart. He should be warning her. Helping her build a wall around her heart so she wouldn’t feel the pain that had defined his childhood when these people did reject her.
But it was too late now. Excitement rippled off her in waves.
It was a long drive, and the horses were going slowly. The longer they took, the tighter his clothing felt. His cravat was like a noose around his neck, and the waistcoat and jacket—tightly fitted with unnecessary embroidery and ridiculous jeweled buttons—began to squeeze the life from him. He tried to take a deep, calming breath and failed.
“Quit fidgeting,” Amelia murmured. “I wish you’d let me buy you something with color.”
He looked down at his outfit of charcoal and grey and wished he was wearing anything that let him breathe. Waiting there at the foot of the stairs, flanked by childhood friends dressed like stuffed turkeys, he felt like the worst kind of imposter.
“This is a bloody nuisance.”
She gave him a you-must-be-kidding look. “This ‘bloody nuisance’ is giving those ladder-climbing Americans the opportunity to rub shoulders with the cream of London society. You need this.”
And he damn well knew it.
He grunted and fixed his eye on the coach that was nearing. “Who is this?” There was an elaborate coat of arms on the coach door, but he’d not had the time—or inclination—to bother learning insignias.
“Lord and Lady Bradenstock and their son Nathaniel. You might actually like him—Lord Bradenstock. You’ll despise the boy.”
“What am I going to like about him?” It was hard to imagine these people having any useful qualities he’d admire.
“Lord Bradenstock’s quite progressive. He recently purchased a cast-iron plow.”
That was something. The cast-iron plow was an exceptional leap forward in engineering, not that many estate owners had adopted it. There were too many fears that it would poison the earth. They were stuck in traditional ways of doing things, as if accepting the smallest change would start a cascade of dominoes that would overthrow life as they knew it.
“How do you know he has the plow?”
She smiled at him. “I make it my business to know everything, have you not noticed? Information is power, at least…” She trailed off, turning her focus back to their impending guests.
“At least what?”
She kept her gaze dead ahead, not looking at him. “In London. Information is power in London. It’s hard to come by and fairly useless in Abingdale.”
It was just a little criticism. But it was enough to remind him that Abingdale was not her first choice. She seemed happy and enthusiastic, but if another opportunity arose, would she stay?
The coach pulled to a stop. The outriders, whose ridiculous costumes came with bloody two-foot wigs, opened the door.
Lady Bradenstock was a nondescript woman in what he was sure was a very fine dress. Not as fine as Amelia’s, whose blue dress skimmed her curves, but nice enough. The man next to her was equally uninspiring, but the youth that trailed them looked like an overly prissy peacock in a cacophony of colors.
Amelia gave him a quick nudge in the ribs, and Benedict realized this was his part. He bent over the woman’s hand. “A pleasure, Lady Bradenstock.”
The woman took a long, unashamed look at him, from the tips of his perfectly polished hessians to his hair, which was pulled back in a way that Amelia insisted was de rigueur.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said. “From footman’s son to the future Lord Hemshire. That’s quite a rise.”
Only a member of the bloody aristocracy would congratulate someone on a man’s death. He was just about to say as much when Amelia surreptitiously stepped on his foot.
