The coach that was coming to a stop was garishly appointed with complicated carvings covered in gold leaf. Amelia didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the door. Recently created, clearly, given she knew every significant one by sight.
Even if they weren’t the last guests to arrive, she would still have known that it was the Americans. No Englishman outside the royal family would cover their carriage in that much gilding.
Two men exited, both dressed alike in clothes the height of fashion, but in everything else they differed. The tall one—Grunt, Benedict said—was disproportionately wide and had a beard that fanned out like one of her parasols.
In contrast, Harcombe was thin and gangly—the kind of man who could be blown away by a stiff wind. Looks were deceiving, though. According to Benedict, he was by far the more ruthless of the two.
They each held out an arm for the remaining passengers.
“My goodness,” Amelia said as the misses Grunt exited. It was an utterly inappropriate exclamation, but she had never seen such an entrance during daylight hours.
The girls were preened and primped as if ready for a ball. They even had pearls seeded through their black hair. Where most women would have simple jewelry—if any when traveling—the sisters wore ropes of pearls. Their white dresses were made of heavy silk, a fabric more suited to dancing than hours sitting in a carriage.
“Aren’t they cold?” Cassandra whispered. “Why aren’t they wearing cloaks?”
Benedict chuckled. “A cloak would ruin the effect.”
Amelia nudged him in the ribs as discreetly as she could. The last thing they needed was to offend their guests of honor.
“Gentlemen.” Benedict shook the men’s hands. “May I present my wife, Lady Amelia Asterly.”
She curtseyed and gave the men her most charming smile. Her goals this weekend were twofold. Ensure Benedict gained acceptance by thetonand that the firm gained the contract it needed.
For that reason, she would curtsey to the gauche Americans as if they were Prinny himself.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”
By the time Benedict had worked up the nerve to join his guests in the drawing room before dinner, all but Wildeforde and his mother had arrived.
Even from a distance, he could tell Amelia was annoyed at his tardiness—he’d said he’d be down directly, and that had been more than a half hour ago.
Trying to hide his discomfort, he strode toward her in long, confident steps, acknowledging those he passed with a quick nod.
They were staring at him. They might be trying to disguise it behind their fans, or a drink, or by looking into the long mirror against the wall, but he felt every glance burn through his jacket.
He’d been turned into a zoo animal. He could picture the sign:HALF-BRED BUSINESSMAN TURNED SOON-TO-BE PEER. NATURAL HABITAT: NOT A DAMNED DRAWING ROOM.
However annoyed Amelia was at his tardiness, she let it go as he neared, her brows furrowing in concern. She took his hand and pressed a quick kiss to his knuckles—a very forward gesture in front of guests, and exactly what he needed. His chest relaxed slightly.
“Mr. Asterly.” The misses Grunt dipped into perfect curtseys, deep enough that light bounced off their diamond necklaces. In all other ways they were perfectly demure, but it was clear to anyone who looked what the two girls were offering. And what they were after in return.
Benedict executed a quick bow, and by the time he’d looked up, Amelia was well into her conquer-through-charm assault on Grunt and Harcombe, leaving him alone to deal with the two debutantes.
The eldest was exquisite. Her black hair against her pale skin gave her an almost otherworldly look. Her facial structure was perfectly symmetrical, her lips rosy—although he suspected not without the help of some paint—and her golden eyes arresting. And sharp. Taking in everything around her.
Her sister, Miss Eliza Grunt, was less—everything. Pretty but not striking. A participant, not predator.
The girls smiled at him expectantly, and he realized he had no idea how to talk to young women. Twelve-year-olds? Sure. His wife? Absolutely. A female engineer? One hundred percent. But debutantes?
“I, uh, I hope everything is to your liking.” He looked around for someone to save him. Right now he’d even take one of the coxcombs Amelia had invited.
From the side of the room, he caught Peter smirking in his livery, clearly enjoying his employer’s distress. What Benedict would give to be a footman and not a host this evening.
“Are you enjoying London?” he asked the girls.
“It’s a lovely experience,” Miss Grunt said. “But it’s a pleasure to visit the country to spend time with such distinguished persons.” Her smile was smooth, gentle, and as fake as the diamonds around her neck were real.
“It’s a pleasure to be somewhere I can breathe,” the younger Grunt muttered. Benedict decided that, if he had to sit next to either of them at dinner, he hoped it was her. He gave the girl an encouraging smile, which was met by an utterly bland one in response.
