“A dark green?”
“Why?”
Innocent lashes batted. “It suits you.”
Hugh cast a sideways glance. “And…”
“And you’ll match Amelia’s dress.”
He grinned. “You call her Amelia now?”
“She asked that I call her that as her name’s not really Miss Jones.”
“Ah. She told you or…you guessed?”
“Both. But I believe she will wear green tonight. Stay here and I’ll go fetch yours.”
Hugh absently nodded as an image of Amelia, not in drab governess grey but in green silk came to the fore, her skin radiant, blond curls falling upon her décolletage.
Damn it, but Amelia Lambert had tumbled into his life from nowhere and he had no idea what to do about it. Never considered that such strong feelings could besiege him.
What was he to–
“Uncle?” A green waistcoat was thrust in front of him. “My coach has arrived.”
“Ah. Perfect. Thank you. And be good for Lady Kemble.”
“I’m always good.” Phoebe’s lips curved. “And you be careful tonight, Uncle.”
“I’m always careful.”
A snort. “And remember to compliment Amelia’s dress.”
“I’m famed for lavishing the ladies with flattery.”
A small hand laid on his chest. “No, Uncle. No flim-flam flattery. Just truth.” And she was gone in a swish of black.
“The blue?”
Amelia peered at the silk dress Charlotte brandished.
“Too demure for tonight.”
Charlotte sighed and rummaged for another while Amelia eyed her rather diminutive, terraced home. After the elegance of Hanover Square, it felt a little shabby but at least it was all Amelia’s – the deeds in her own name, paid for with her own earnings – and no one could take it from her. Unless, of course, she chose to marry.
For propriety’s sake, she’d hired a maid when she’d moved in and informed the neighbours that she’d a brother in India who actually owned the property. That had been enough to ensure she met the standards of respectability for the area – which weren’t all that lofty, this being Holborn, not aristocratic Mayfair.
“This one?”
Amelia turned to a poppy-red gown. “Too bold for tonight.”
With a grump, Charlotte folded her arms. “I wish you’d tell me why you are attending the theatre with Mr Cadwalader. Are you to be his…his ladybird?”
“No! Not at all.” Though ’twas true, Amelia would indeed be viewed as a ladybird tonight, attending the theatre unchaperoned and unknown. She rose to clasp Charlotte’s hand, for how she so wanted to tell Charlotte all, how she longed to have friends to just talk with, but… “I wish… I wish I could tell you more… I wish it were different.”
“Tell me one thing then. You’re not in any danger from Mr Cadwalader, are you?”
In some ways, yes, but…
