A/N: Apologies - this chapter contains outdated language referring to race. I used it for historical accuracy and this does not reflect my views. I wanted to include characters of colour in my historical fiction without completely dodging the issue of historical racism. I take responsibility for any offence caused.
"I am so sorry about those two," exclaimed Lady Madeleine as she attempted to busy herself with the embroidery she had dropped when she dismissed her two middle children. "I think the spring is warming up a little too quickly for their temperaments."
Lady Delilah and Lady Madeleine were taking advantage of the bright sunshine filtering into the blue room that morning by working on some much-neglected embroidery. Amelia was going to join them as soon as she finished her letter to Judy and Paul – she had written to them yesterday, as she had every day, because it seemed appropriate that a lady should have somebody to write to. But now she had not received a letter from them in nearly two weeks. Were they well? Had they forgotten her? It was beginning to distract her from her duties.
"I do not mind," Amelia said in the same monotonous tone she used for nearly everything.
She took a deep breath and ceased the jagged scrawling of her handwriting which she now realised looked slightly unhinged before continuing with her letter more calmly, simply asking the Howells if they were well and needed her to come home.
Henry and Christina, those two, had just been dismissed from the room and ordered to take their latest argument to the stables. Christina had been instructed to join Henry for a ride in the park, but she was normally able to find something more pressing to do to get out of it. Amelia did not know what they were arguing about this time – there was always something for them to fall out over. Frederick meanwhile had gone shooting with the Marquess of Hastings for a couple of days and would return this evening.
Where the blazes were Judy and Paul?! Amelia nearly swore with frustration.
"You are very focused on your correspondence this morning, your ladyship," Delilah chirped with a nervous smile.
Amelia looked up and realised she was being steadily watched by the ladies – she must have been ignoring them again. Conversations in the Warstone House usually just happened around Amelia; she was not used to participating.
"I am determined to ensure my home is in good working order. I am unsure of when I will return so I want my staff to be ready." I want to ensure they are well.
"Managing multiple estates can be a challenge," said Madeleine with what she thought was a comforting nod. Amelia wanted to roll her eyes – a housemaid finding suitable work after being cast out or a wife looking after her dying husband could be a challenge. Estate management was a hobby for people who ate using silverware engraved with the family crest.
"Has your house sold yet?" asked Delilah in an unnaturally cool voice. "It might be hard to sell it now that Mr Babbage is selling his house – Lady Hampton told me so last night."
The last thing Amelia wanted to hear was what Delilah and her infernal friends had been gossiping about. As Frederick became more independent, Amelia had to consider her own departure. She would not stay with her cousins indefinitely, and one day Frederick would stop being grateful for the help – in her experience, men's gratitude never went beyond civility.
One minute she decided to stay and build her reputation here, and the next she was reminded that this would require hosting parties and constant company and running away to an empty house in the countryside would be far more comfortable.
Though it was also hard to ignore what a social creature she had become. She was the guest of honour at so many parties, and these honours gave her more sustenance than she was willing to admit. She loved being adored, or feared, or whatever they thought of her. She loved that, after almost a decade in darkness, they thought of her. Her father had never believed that anyone would think of her.
"Oh, that's right. Mr Babbage is hosting one last party there next week – I think most people are only going in order to see whether the house is worth much," said Lady Madeleine.
"Speaking of Mr Babbage's party, I wondered whether I might have a new dress," asked Delilah, now concentrating on her embroidery too much.
Madeleine sighed loudly. "Darling, I wish you had told me sooner. I cannot go today as I am waiting on a call from Mrs Middlebrook, and I doubt the dress will be prepared by Wednesday."
Delilah went to apologise but was silenced by a cool voice saying, "I can accompany Lady Delilah to the modiste."
Delilah and Madeleine turned back to Amelia, who had not looked up from her work.
"I require twenty minutes to finish my letter and get changed and then we shall go."
A moment of silence passed before Delilah sprang up squealing, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Oh mama, can I go? I can surely go if I am chaperoned by my cousin?"
Lady Madeleine could barely speak at Lady Amelia's show of such relaxed kindness to her daughter and merely nodded. Delilah gave her a kiss on the cheek before sprinting away to get dressed.
"My youngest daughter is rather taken with you," said Lady Madeleine with a small smile. "I fear she will be quite upset when you leave."
Delilah had taken to loitering around Amelia since Mr Cardney asked her to dance, constantly taking her arm and offering to fetch her refreshments. A couple of days ago, when Amelia felt she was pushing the limits of her widowhood by attending so many parties, Delilah had tried to feign sickness to stay home with her. When Christina attempted to do the same, Lady Madeleine put her foot down in a way Amelia had never witnessed and dragged her four unwed children to the dancefloor. Christina dutifully reported to Amelia that Delilah had danced with a viscount (badly, but they still danced) and she had refused to dance with his younger brother.
It was not just the parties – now Delilah had taken to reading outside of Frederick's office during his and Amelia's meetings and finding something to embroider while Amelia wrote her letters in the morning, just to silently dangle off of the Marchioness. She never said a word.
All considered, it was very sweet. Only a touch annoying.
Amelia wanted to feel warmed by Lady Madeleine's smile, but warm was not in her nature anymore, especially with the heirs to her fortune. "It is good to know I have made a decent impression on one of your children. Now if you'll excuse me, I should like to finish this letter before we depart."
Lady Madeleine opened and closed her mouth a few times, not sure whether more talk was welcome or whether she had anything to say. She resorted to keep her mouth closed.
Amelia tried to contain her concern and simply instructed Judy and Paul to write her as soon as they received this note. She could not think of anything to say to them. Hopefully this little excursion with Delilah would distract her, so she readied herself to leave.
Amelia had hoped that a brisk walk to the modiste would calm her, but Delilah had already summoned the carriage. She was sure she would never grow used to being tossed about a carriage, nor Delilah's incessant excited tapping.
"How far away is the modiste?" snapped Amelia after a couple of minutes.
Delilah was too cheerful to notice Amelia's tone. "Madame La Rose? It is only a fifteen-minute walk but I thought you would prefer the carriage. If traffic is light we shall be there in another five minutes."
Amelia tried not to feel irritated with Delilah's consideration.
"Heatherfords on the other side of town is the far more popular dressmaker, if you would prefer to go there," Delilah continued, now slightly uneasy.
"Are they more expensive?" asked Amelia, torn between her normally modest nature and the desire to buy the most expensive dresses available because she could.
Delilah nodded. "Naturally, but I prefer Madame La Rose. Everyone agrees that her dresses are much more flattering."
Amelia prayed that Delilah had ambitions for her dresses to be more than just flattering. The girl was certainly short and round and marked by pimples, but she deserved something to make her feel pretty.
"So why is Heatherfords more popular?" asked Amelia, in the hopes that this would clue her into another of London society's many secret codes. Being a dowager marchioness was fun, but there were benefits to being a debutante who learnt these things when they were fifteen.
Delilah began to stutter. "You see... You see one of the ladies, that is one of the seamstresses...is...she is..."
Amelia could not quite hear the last whispered word. "Excuse me?"
"She is...a mulatto." Delilah said the word so quietly Amelia could not be sure she had heard correctly until her cousin continued. "She is not how you would think at all. She is intelligent and friendly and very skilled and-"
"Yes, I will thank you not to make assumptions of what I may think of people. We have wasted enough of the morning."
"Oh," Delilah muttered meekly, her mouth forming a perfect circle.
If Amelia did permanently retire to Denmead Hall, Delilah perhaps might never learn that Paul Howell was also a mulatto, and that Paul Howell was one of the few decent people in the world, married to another of the few decent people in the world. Having been born in Kenya did not impede his ability to bring up Judy's daughter Charity when he adopted her at the age of fourteen and had no impact on how greatly he had wept at the funeral, nor at the deathbed of a gentleman he had served for most of his life.
The only difference Paul's birth had made to his conduct was that Amelia could not recognise the cheery tunes he hummed as he went about his day and he sometimes screeched in Swahili if he tripped on the stair or dropped something on his foot – Amelia took a while to understand what such utterances meant, but as soon as she did, hearing them always brought a small smile to her face.
Were Paul and Judy well? Why had they not contacted her? What was going on?
*
Amelia adored dresses. She could not help it – they were the best thing about her new position. She loved dressing herself for every occasion, changing between breakfast lunch and dinner, between going out and coming back home for tea. At Denmead Hall, sometimes she would change seven or eight times a day or set aside an afternoon so she could try every item of clothing on.
Jewellery she did not care for. She had inherited the bulk of the Warstone family jewels, but she only kept them because that was what Lord Thomas seemed to want. She was entitled to wear a coronet, and any other diamonds she may like, but it all felt pointless to dangle the odd piece of metal on random parts of her body.
Dresses were long and warm and devoured her. Every inch of skin touching a piece of cloth was a sensation Amelia never became used to, always somehow intimate and sensual. No matter how well everyone around her dressed, how much pride they took in their dress, Amelia doubted anyone in her acquaintance loved clothing as much as she did.
"Would Madame like anything today?" asked Madame La Rose softly. She was older than Amelia had expected, in her late fifties. While her silver hair, neatly tied up in a bun, gave away her age, her smile was full of energy.
In spite of her love of dresses, Amelia knew it was not appropriate to buy anything just yet – she was to remain in black for the next eight months.
"Thank you. I have sufficient dresses to see me through to the end of the year."
Delilah had remained quite frigid after the carriage ride. Miss Mason, Madame La Rose's assistant, showed Delilah through all the fabrics and let her hover by the pinks for several minutes before whispering to the young lady, "Which one do you believe suits me best?"
Miss Mason's wide eyes flickered nervously between Delilah and the fabrics. Amelia watched as Madame La Rose nodded to her softly and the lady said, "I believe you look very becoming in both colours. Perhaps you could try both and see which you like."
Delilah huffed and nodded.
"Why not get one dress in each?" asked Amelia.
Delilah turned to her cousin with her jaw open wide. "But... I only have need of one dress for Mr Babbage's party."
"There will be other parties, my dear cousin," chuckled Amelia. At least it was the closest thing to a chuckle she had ever produced, and the first informal address – my dear cousin. She had meant it to sound patronising, but instead it came out...affectionate.
Amelia made her face return – the face of Lady Amelia Warstone, the Dowager Marchioness, the only face she could afford to wear anymore. "Would you please open an account under the name of Lady Amelia Warstone? Lady Delilah, order whatever you want."
As hard as it was, while her gleeful cousin paraded around the shop in every pink and blue fabric available, Amelia remained in the corner with her face stone. She could not let it fall, not now.
*
"I cannot thank you enough!" Delilah screeched as they left the shop, earning some confused glares from the people on the busy street. Delilah quickly quietened. Keen for some exercise, they agreed to send the carriage back to Warstone House and make the fifteen-minute walk home. They extended it to twenty-five minutes when Delilah offered to show Amelia her favourite detour through Hyde Park.
In spite of the cold weather, Hyde Park proved to be a warm, bright stage for many a drama, comedy or tragedy. After just a couple of minutes, they had witnessed two ladies toppled over by a lively dog and a gentleman reacting badly to a rejected courtship.
Then, Amelia remarked, one of the greatest tragedies she knew suddenly appeared at her elbow.
"I trust you are enjoying your stroll," Lord Herriot exclaimed with a sickening grin. Delilah jumped back in surprise but Amelia met his eyes easily. She had sensed his presence a second before he arrived – at first it was a mild suspicion but now he was unmistakeable. Recently Lord Herriot had taken to haunting her – complimenting her at balls, trying to converse with her at dinner with the Warstones (which he now attended twice a week), and even inviting her out to promenade. She had ignored him at every opportunity, not letting him see how annoying he and his sickening grin were.
"We were," said Amelia plainly.
Edward was just returning from calling on the Warstones and couldn't believe his luck when he saw the Marchioness cross his path. He had truly wanted to speak to Frederick about his time with the Marquess of Hastings, but he had not yet returned – Edward took this as a good sign that his friend was making progress with a particularly influential member of the House of Lords. Hopefully he was abandoning some of his radical beliefs.
He had naturally hoped to see Lady Amelia there too, as he started to hope to see her everywhere he went if only to make this transition into a courtship easier. He only had eight months and she had not started thawing yet.
"Allow me to see you home," Edward offered. He was surprised when Amelia didn't try to refuse – she didn't say a word. "I have just come from there, in fact. Lady Warstone informed me that you had gone to the modiste."
Edward watched Amelia's face keenly, waiting for the slightest twitch. Would his attempt at a conversation get any kind of reaction from her? He felt a sudden spasm in his chest when he saw the slightest movement in the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, we had a wonderful day, did we not Lady Delilah?"
That was enough to launch Delilah into a near eight-minute speech about how wonderful the dressmaker had been and the latest season's styles and who was wearing them best. She barely paused for breath – Edward wondered if she was wasted out here rather than in the House of Lords where she would be able to filibuster any bill out of the house.
But what distracted him most was Lady Amelia's cunning in using her cousin to completely obstruct his conversation. Lady Amelia offered the odd prompt to keep Delilah going and transition the conversation from dresses to jewellery to hairstyles to gloves, all of which Delilah knew more about than Edward thought possible. He was developing a newfound respect for the various crafts. God knows he knew nothing about dressmaking and could contribute nothing to the conversation apart from to say that certain young ladies looked well, but not too emphatically so as to slight the ladies he was with. Lady Amelia had pushed him into a corner, into a conversation he could not participate in without offending somebody.
"Oh dear, I seem to have dominated the conversation. I apologise," Delilah finally sighed with a slight flush.
They were nearly halfway to the Warstone House and Edward suspected that Amelia had a few more tricks to keep him excluded from the conversation while politely attached to it. He could not just leave, and he didn't want to – that would be admitting defeat, and the loss of the most prized bride in London.
"Do not apologise," Lady Amelia commanded. "It is important to have interests, is it not Lord Herriot?"
That very spasm returned to Edward's chest at the mention of his name, the hope that she was willing to speak to him now. He knew he had to be cautious with the small opportunity she was giving him. Perhaps she was measuring him up, letting him prove himself – he could but dream.
"Very important, and I am glad Lady Delilah has found hers. Speaking of our interests, I see Frederick is coming along well under your tutelage."
Propriety would only allow Edward this small compliment, so he returned his intense gaze to Lady Amelia's porcelain face, begging for the slightest sign of approval. He knew he was perhaps standing too closely, but he wanted to step closer still. He was sure he was no more than an inch away from the warmth of her body. Every body radiated some kind of heat, but Lady Amelia found a way to keep her shell closer to her skin than any other person in the world could. Edward could not get to her. He could not dance with her, could not kiss her hand, could not touch her. It unnerved him and endlessly drew him closer.
"I shall tell him that you approve," she replied simply.
Nothing, but at least it was not another prompt for the now thoughtful Delilah.
"Do you approve of his handling of your late husband's estate?" Yes, the late husband. The one barrier between him and the perfect Parliamentarian bride. Of course it was all very tragic but Edward was a pragmatist before anything else – the man had been a fifty-eight-year-old maniac married to a goddess of eight-and-twenty. If anyone were allowed to move on quickly, it was Lady Amelia.
"I have decided that my cousin should be allowed to run the estate however he sees fit."
"And what led you to this decision?" asked Edward, trying to keep all desperation out of his voice. He was getting nowhere.
Without a thought, Edward suddenly stopped still in the centre of the park. He shook his head, trying to figure out what invisible barrier stopped his body from moving forward. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move an inch.
Delilah was stood frozen a few paces back, silently watching a large family enjoying a picnic in the middle of the park. The picnic was lively and abundant – every food, every game, every colour was being enjoyed in the middle of the grassy knoll. Edward realised that Amelia had paused to watch the forlornness radiate from her cousin, and he had stopped the moment she did, unable to continue to move without her.
Finally, Delilah murmured, "I do so love...a picnic."
It had been several months since the Warstones had been able to host any event since Caroline Warstone had married and Frederick had his new title to deal with. Madeleine was trying to cope with being the mother of a Marquess, and Edward doubted Henry and Christina had even noticed the adjustment, or perhaps they were ignoring it. Delilah's first season had not been easy for anyone.
"I shall speak to my sister," Edward offered. "We loved a picnic as children – it was a good excuse to push one another into the dirt during a game of blind man's bluff." Well it was his excuse anyway. "If she were to hold a picnic, you would all be invited."
A wide unadulterated grin burst across Delilah's face, the type of expression he would kill to see upon Lady Amelia. "Oh, that would be marvellous, Lord Herriot!"
"Come along, Lady Delilah. It is impolite to stare," Lady Amelia ordered. Her cousin skipped back to her and the group walked onwards. Could Edward sense the slightest bit of annoyance in her voice? He had after all made another excuse to see her.
"Are you fond of picnics, Lady Warstone?" asked Edward as they reached the edge of the park.
"I hardly know. I have little experience of them."
"Well then I must insist you join our party," he continued grinning. "I trust your cousin will help me to encourage you to...broaden your horizons."
Delilah skipped a few steps squealing, "Oh yes, Am- Your ladyship! You must join us!"
Edward felt almost childishly giddy as he sensed Lady Amelia scowl. "My husband never approved of picnics."
He never approved of anything, Edward wanted to point out, but instead he tried to nod sympathetically. "Of course. But did you never attend any with your father as a child? Surely picnics are popular in the countryside."
"My father never approved of children."
Her icy countenance nearly froze him to the spot, but as she continued walking his body automatically followed her. She had fastened him to her side without him noticing.
All three of them fell silent as they turned the last corner to the Warstone House. From Delilah's glazed eyes, Edward wondered if she too had reached the conclusion that Lady Amelia's iciness had not been developed in her widowhood, nor her marriage, but in her infancy. Edward felt an absolute fool – everyone was so curious about Lady Amelia's time as a marchioness. What of the two previous decades of her life? They remained a mystery.
He wanted to warm her cold shell. He wanted to see if he could unfreeze the neutral expression on her face. But no matter the attentions or the compliments or the many glances he paid her, she did not thaw.
It might take him years, but he was sure she was worth it – marrying her and her encyclopaedic knowledge and her ideas and her undying self-possession would be worth all of this strife. Edward might not be the best husband, and they might not have the fiery love that so many craved, but he vowed he would never be cold to her.
Too quickly they arrived at Warstone House. At the doorstep, Amelia turned to Edward with a small smile. "As you have already called on the house today, I shall save you the formality of inviting you in for tea. I assume you would wish to return home."
Edward could not help but chuckle – this was too easy a way for Lady Amelia to slight him, it felt beneath her. "You assume a great deal about me, your ladyship."
"You are very predictable."
Edward quirked his lips. Predictable? Perhaps he had been too polite, and boldness would earn him some more respect – it certainly had the night of Lord Writtle's ball. "I wish to call on you tomorrow."
"Yes. I had assumed you would be keen to see Frederick."
"I am keen to see you," he said, almost gasping because he said it so quickly. "Perhaps I am not quite so predictable."
Again, Edward couldn't be sure he was delirious or if her soft lips had actually twitched. He found himself taking a small step closer to see her face better, and maybe, just maybe, he felt a couple of prickles of heat from her body against his chest. There was that tiny smile, barely present, telling him that she knew exactly what he was up to, and rather than being affronted she seemed almost entertained.
"Rather disappointing," she muttered, with a slight shake of the head. "I did not believe you to be a man who enjoys wasting his time."
"You are not a waste of time," he growled in a voice much lower than he had intended. He covered it with a cough.
Her expression did not move. "Some would consider it inappropriate to call on a widow."
"I will call on you tomorrow morning."
"I will have to see whether I am home."
Lady Amelia slowly made her way up the steps to the front door where Delilah was waiting politely. Edward had not walked away with a courtship, but this was better than nothing.
As Lord Herriot saluted them goodbye, Amelia wondered why it was so hard to keep wearing the face of Lady Amelia Warstone, the Dowager Marchioness, when all she wanted to do was rip it to pieces and smile.
Upon entering the house, Amelia was accosted by some kind of servant or footman – she was still getting used to having so many people around, constantly walking in and out of rooms with noisy discretion.
"Your ladyship has received two letters," the short blond man mumbled before presenting Amelia with a couple of letters on a silver platter. As soon as she saw the handwriting, she knew that these slips of paper were far more valuable than the plate. "The messenger apologised for the delay. He believes the letters were misdirected."
"Thank you!" she squawked, before dashing to her chambers. Judy and Paul were well! They had not forgotten her! Her suffering was over, and as soon as she consumed the letters she would write them immediately to assure she had received word from them. Nothing would delay her.
By the time Delilah had removed her bonnet and gloves, her cousin had abandoned her alone in the hall, and both ladies remained alone until dinner.
*
Amelia tossed her embroidery to the side in boredom. She had been working away at the same piece all morning, unable to concentrate as she twitched in anticipation.
"Anything the matter, Lady Amelia?" called Frederick softly from his desk without raising his eyes from his papers. He rarely raised his eyes from his papers, and rarely conversed outside of dinner and their conversations in his study about his work. Normally Amelia found this charming, but she was in no mood to be charmed by anything today.
"Not at all, Lord Frederick. I am just considering having this room redecorated. Or perhaps burning the house down and starting from scratch."
"Very good," he muttered. "Perhaps you would speak to Mother about that."
Christina, who was sat reading in her armchair – at least Amelia had to assume it was hers because nobody else used it – exhaled through her nose as she closed her book. She pushed her round spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose, magnifying her dark eyes, as she glanced over to Amelia's handiwork. "I have never been competent at sewing."
"I can sew," Amelia grumbled defensively. "I have no interest in embroidering napkins. They work just as well without my initials stitched into them."
"Did the late Lord Warstone tell you that?"
"I am capable of independent thought," Amelia growled. "I do not appreciate any insinuation that he controlled me, or that he was not a good man."
"Was he a good man?" asked Christina as she tucked into one of the choux buns on the plate between herself and Amelia. When Amelia glared up at her, she saw that Christina was asking out of genuine interest. Nobody had taken much of an interest in the isolated Marquess, especially regarding whether he was a good man.
Had her husband been a good man? He had been affectionate to his wife...in his own way. This way often meant giving Amelia her space and communicating more through letters than through conversation and not forcing a single of society's expectations upon her, from hosting balls to providing an heir – she was unsure which one of those she was more relieved to forego. Lord Thomas had shown her consideration, even empathy on occasion – many marriages were founded on far less.
Of course the only reason he had married was so he didn't have to leave his fortune to his own family. A fortune which included miles of land with villages and towns he never visited, tenants he never spoke to. Whatever Lord Thomas was worth as a husband, he had failed as a cousin, and as a marquess.
Amelia shook her head. "That is not the point."
Christina helped herself to another choux bun. Her chin wobbled slightly, tipping a bit of cream onto her pink dress. "Will you join us in our country seat at Christmas, your ladyship?"
Before Amelia could reply, the two ladies turned towards the loud clatter of boots stomping up the stairs from the kitchen. Henry, red-faced and dressed in his new riding wear, stormed into the room. Unlike his brother who faded into the corner behind his desk, Henry's furious presence took up the whole room.
"Chris!" he screeched, his voice higher than he would have liked. "Where the blazes are my choux buns?!"
Christina slowly finished a final bite of the bun she had been eating, the last on the plate. Amelia realised that she had managed all the pastries by herself, consuming each one after the other in just a couple of bites.
Christina met her brother's glare with a relaxed frown. "I do not think they were your choux buns, Henry."
"You knew they were set aside for after my ride!"
The young lady tilted her head. "Really? It must have slipped my mind that you had planned to eat these after riding to Green Park and back with James Alsopp. How unfortunate! I completely forgot."
"You little-"
"Henry!" Frederick suddenly bellowed from across the room, making his two siblings jump. Amelia contentedly sat back to watch the argument play out. She had been uneasy all morning and needed the diversion.
"Don't 'Henry!' me, Fred. This is the third time this week she has eaten my food."
Christina rolled her eyes and turned back to her book.
"We have more than enough food in this house," Frederick grumbled, before attempting to continue his work.
"Then she can get her own!"
The eldest sibling rolled his eyes. "Henry, you are now a lord of three-and-twenty. Act like it."
Henry seemed to think that the best way to act like a lord of three and twenty was to knock Christina's book clean out of her hands before storming out of the room as furiously as he had stormed in. Just as Christina composed herself, the footman entered.
"The Earl of Holbeck to see Lady Amelia Warstone."
Now he graced her with his presence. Lord Herriot had threatened to call on her in the morning yesterday, and now it was two minutes to midday so technically he had fulfilled his promise.
Amelia had been up at the crack of dawn ready to receive his call, ready to retaliate to any barb he might throw at her dressed up in a pretty little compliment for a pretty little lady. Declining to see him would naturally disappoint him, but Amelia was not one to cower out of a verbal match with Frederick's friend – a friend who just so happened to walk Frederick to and from Parliament every day, feeding him all his opinions.
"Lady Amelia?" Frederick gasped.
"Very well. Show him in," Amelia muttered. No doubt that at this hour he would expect an invitation for lunch.
"I did not know Edward intended to...call on you," said Frederick as he stood to greet his friend. "I have never known Edward to call on anybody."
Amelia took a deep breath. "You might wonder how well you know your friend, your lordship."
Upon entering the room, Edward knew his strategy of boldness was working. It might not earn any affection from Lady Amelia – yet – but it was gaining him access to her presence. He decided to take a bolder step.
"Lady Amelia. You look enchanting as always," he exclaimed, before taking a hand she had not offered and kissing it.
The entire room seemed to freeze for a minute in shock. Perhaps he had overstepped the line between bold and presumptuous, and continued overstepping it – leaping over it – in those seconds when he found he could not let her soft hand go. She did have warmth. Their hands when touching held a hint of addictive heat, a heat he felt shoot into his brain as soon as he pressed his lips against the back of her hand. He did not want to relinquish it, but the three pairs of eyes upon him forced him to straighten his back, step away, and finally, finally, let go of her.
Amelia's eyes brightened slightly as she realised she had to do very little to render Lord Herriot's call a humiliation.
"Frederick," Edward suddenly called, taking his wide eyes off of Amelia at the last possible second. "I hope you are well."
Frederick nodded and came to shake his friend's hand. "Very well, thank you. I'm sorry we were not expecting you otherwise we would all be here. Delilah and Mother are calling on the Middlebrooks."
"You were not expecting me?" asked Edward incredulously as he made himself comfortable in the chair across from Amelia. "I declared to Lady Amelia my intentions to call on her yesterday."
"Really?" Frederick turned to Amelia, who feigned a small smile.
"I recollect now. It seems I thought you too had forgotten. I apologise for getting my hopes up."
Edward offered her a tight smile. "All is forgiven. I am here now."
"I assume you will want tea."
"For once you assume correctly, your ladyship."
Frederick attempted to summon a maid but Amelia sent him back to his seat with a glare and made her own way to the tea set. Immediately she could feel Lord Herriot's gaze caressing her shoulder blades up to the nape of her neck – he was perplexed to see her preparing her own tea, yet another London faux pas she hadn't quite worked out of her system. Rather than be embarrassed at her miss-step, she embraced his confusion.
"I know how everyone takes their tea apart from you, Lord Herriot."
After a moment of stuttering, he muttered, "A touch of cream and no sugar."
Amelia set about preparing their tea, serving Christina and Frederick first. She had no idea about the order of people who were to be served, but if she slighted Lord Herriot she did not mind, not after the morning she had spent waiting for him, wondering what he was going to see, how he would look at her, what his next threat would be.
Henry, having changed out of his riding attire, entered the room and threw himself down on the sofa next to Christina after greeting Lord Herriot. When asked if he wanted any tea, he grumbled, "No thank you. I have lost my appetite," before jostling his arm into Christina's, almost making her drop her cup.
Amelia finally passed Edward a cup and saucer before sitting down with her own on the chair next to the tea set, the other side of the room to him.
"Yesterday Delilah was lamenting that it has been quite some time since she attended a picnic," said Edward. "I spoke to my sister and she has agreed to host one next week on Saturday. You are all invited."
Frederick's grin broke out once more. "That was very kind of you, Edward. I shall be happy to pass the message on. We will all go."
"I look forward to it!" Edward raised his cup but as soon as the hot liquid touched his throat he nearly gagged. Amelia hid her grin but couldn't stop her eyes from shining as she watched Lord Herriot discover that she had put just a spoonful or two or nine of sugar in his tea using the very hand he kissed. She could feel the small oval on her skin where he had pressed his warm lips, and the way it tingled cold as he had breathed on it. She wanted to blow on the spot again just to see if she could revive the sensation.
As Edward coughed and tried to convince Frederick he was fine, Christina attempted to raise her voice. "I may-"
Henry silenced her by hitting her book again and seethed, "Don't you dare!"
"But-"
"If I must go, so do you," Henry hissed, just quiet enough for only his sister to hear him. "Mother will be determined that I go and she will try to set me up. At whom do I glare when someone says something stupid? Whenever someone says something stupid, I glare at you."
"Fine," Christina grumbled. Henry could never hide an expression, certainly not a glare, and he wouldn't wish to offend anyone by glaring at them after they said something to annoy him. Just about everything annoyed him, so Christina regularly found Henry directing his glare to her until his annoyance dissolved.
Edward finally managed to stop coughing and tolerate the tea he had been given. He knew it was given on purpose and it was a challenge he would not back down from. He would not make her look bad, he would not betray Amelia, and damnit he would prove he could be a good husband!
"Anything the matter, Lord Herriot?" asked Amelia, just about able to keep her voice level. A chill ran through her core as his eyes narrowed, his glare completely focused on her.
"Not at all," he growled. She didn't mind admitting she rather liked that low voice, she liked that so far she had been the only person to trigger it.
Edward took a deep breath. "Frederick, how is Caroline?"
Frederick's smile somehow grew bigger. "Very well. I received a letter from her on Friday. Married life seems to suit her."
"How fortunate for her," said Amelia. "Married life does not suit everyone. After being so happily married the first time, I do not think I would like to bother with a second attempt."
Christina suddenly glared into the book on her lap. "Well some are fortunate enough to remain unwed."
Amelia's left eyebrow quirked. "And others are fortunate enough to know people who may offer them a living if they are not inclined to marry."
Amelia had not realised she was going to say it, but now that she had, she had no desire to take it back. Yes she revelled in the power she held over this family – her knowledge, her fortune, her favour in London society. She was determined to rule alone, but that did not mean she wanted her cousins to have nothing. Why should Amelia not help Christina have a life in her own right? Being a woman with no obligations was delightful – she wished more ladies could understand the freedom.
She realised that she liked her cousins more than she had thought she would.
Christina's eyes widened. Her spectacles magnified the tears gathering in the corners. "Truly?"
Henry rolled his eyes but failed to hide his grin. "I think I should not tell Mother you said that."
"Well it is good to know that your sister is well, all the same," Amelia continued, turning to an astonished Frederick.
"You know, perhaps when Caroline returns we ought to host a ball. We have not held one all season," Frederick suggested.
"Absolutely!" Edward agreed. "Your ballroom is going to waste."
Out of the corner of his eye, Edward could see Amelia's brow twitch. He turned to her and fixed her with a hard stare. "Your ladyship does not approve of balls?"
"Ballrooms are always a waste," she replied coolly. "It is the largest room in the house and it is almost always empty."
Edward chuckled. "Its sole use is for dancing."
"And it is used perhaps twice a year, if you have the inclination to dance which not everybody does. As I do not have a room in my home dedicated to Christmas or my birthday, I do not see why I should have one dedicated to balls."
"But you do have a ballroom in Denmead Hall?" asked Edward.
"I suppose so," Amelia muttered. "We have the largest room in the house but it has not been a ballroom since my late father-in-law was Marquess. We used it almost every day for our exercise."
Amelia and Charity used to sprint laps around the great hall, sometimes slipping on the marble below them and crashing into pillars. It was not quite dancing, but how could something so regulated bring them as much joy as darting about from column to column until they fell to the floor?
"Exercise?" asked Edward. "How so?"
"I hope you are not waiting on a demonstration."
Be bold, Edward. Be bold. "You exercised in front of your husband."
The corner of Amelia's lip twitched as she matched his unapologetic boldness. "Women demonstrate all manner of things in front of their husbands. If such a supremely unfortunate woman exists, perhaps you will find that out for yourself one day, Lord Herriot."
Edward nearly choked on his tea again. With the topic of conversation and the sugar in his tea, he was turning bright red, as were Henry and Christina. Frederick glanced between the two, not quite aware of what was going on. The lady was the richest in the room – who was going to chastise her? The glint in her eye told Edward that she knew exactly what power she had over them, and he was furious for it. He had not come here to be humiliated. How was this going so wrong?
Amelia took another sip of tea. She couldn't resist making such a vulgar hint, but she knew she had to back down. Not completely, though. "But as I said, I need never exercise in front of a man again, nor host a ball if I do not wish it."
"You cannot conceive the possibility of your being happy in a second marriage?"
"No. Known devil is better than unknown angel, as my husband used to say."
"I'm sure he did," Edward grumbled.
"Excuse me?"
Amelia was looking at him pointedly, and of course she was because she did not expect someone to be so unabashedly rude about Lord Thomas in front of her. That magazine was bad enough, and now she was expected to tolerate someone slighting him before her very eyes.
Edward was sick of this woman. Sick of her confusing, undulating personality, sick of her arrogance, her condescension. He was an earl with an important legacy to uphold and he was humiliating himself because he deluded himself in thinking that she, an earl's daughter and a true nobody in London society, could help him achieve anything. Oh, she was beautiful and intelligent and had excellent manners, but she was sharp and bloodthirsty. How could he survive with her as a wife?
"I am sure Edward meant nothing by it," Henry yelped, sensing the awkwardness build. Christina meanwhile had become engrossed in her book. "That does seem like the kind of think the late Marquess would have said."
"Because you all knew him so well," Amelia snapped sharply, before taking a deep breath. Her quarrel was not with her cousin and she did not want to make any more enemies than necessary. "I do not expect you to grieve someone you did not know, but my husband was my husband, not my gaoler."
Perhaps it was hypocritical, as Amelia was in fact enjoying her freedom and did not want it snatched away in a second marriage. She had thought she would have more than six months before she had to start fighting off suitors after her fortune – she had never truly thought she would have any suitors at all.
"I hope that nobody was so callous with Lady Madeleine when she became a widow," Amelia muttered.
Christina slowly peered up from her book and cleared her throat. "So you would never like a family of your own?"
Amelia shrugged. "I do not believe it is in my nature." She could not allow it – given the choice she had to make between her freedom and any children she might have, she had to choose freedom. She had to choose not to let her children even exist.
Edward rolled his eyes and tried not to gag on the disgusting tea he was forcing down himself. "Well maybe your nature did not have a proper experience during your first marriage. There is a difference between a wife and a nursemaid," he grumbled under his breath. Except not quite under his breath, as when he raised his eyes he met Amelia's frozen glare. Any chance he had of thawing her was now gone, as was the warmth in the eyes of all their companions.
"Edward!" Frederick screeched. His jaw was clenched tighter than Edward had ever witnessed.
"Please cousin, do not concern yourself," said Amelia, but her eyes didn't soften.
"I am sorry!" Edward squealed. "I apologise. I did not mean offence."
"What did you mean?"
She fixed him with such a cold stare that he was sure she was sending ice through his chest and up his throat so all he could splutter was, "I... I... I d-"
"Lord Herriot, when you compared the Dowager Marchioness of Bedgebury to a nursemaid, and you did not mean offence, what did you mean?" Amelia asked again, but her tone silenced him. After letting the room chill for a second, she continued. "I suppose you meant that you should be allowed to make unwanted advances towards a six-month widow, because her marriage was not real. Was that what you meant?"
A word. An excuse. Anything. Edward was desperately searching his mind for something that would put this damn blunder behind them.
"Well as the conversation has run dry, I propose we take our lunch now, cousins. Lord Herriot, you may see yourself out."
Amelia finally broke her glare and glided out of the room, followed promptly by Christina. Edward suddenly missed the ice of her glare, because at least he felt something. Now the room was hollow.
"I think you should leave, Edward," Frederick mumbled, more stunned than angry.
As Edward stumbled outside and towards the nearest gentleman's club for a strong drink, the hollow feeling never left him. He could not help but worry that a government position was not the only thing he had just lost, and he had no idea how to get it back.
*
Amelia fell straight into her bed fully clothed. With no lady's maid to assist her, she remained like that for quite some time, dozing in and out of consciousness.
She was exhausted. Lying was exhausting – lying to herself, lying to everyone else. After all his efforts, she had wanted Lord Herriot to feel as wearied and as empty as she had.
Lady Amelia Warstone was exhausting, this person she was trying to sculpt from stone using only her fingernails and tears. Some days the performance was easy, and others she was trying to dance while holding up the curtain. As soft as the velvet was, it was still weighing her down.
Her letters to Judy and Paul were her only reprieve, the only time she had to drop the pretence. Her return to Denmead Hall would give her enough rest and reflection to decide whether she would want another season in London.
Oh, she wanted one, naturally. At least Lady Amelia Warstone did, the creature feeding off of the attention and compliments and wine – London had such delicious wine! In the past, Amelia would have sworn she never needed any of those things – for her sake or for Lord Thomas', she did not know. Now Amelia didn't know where she ended and this thing she had created began. Perhaps in that tiny hollow in her chest she felt growing, the space where she had to remind herself that Lord Herriot wanted Lady Amelia Warstone, not her.