Chapter 20
“Tell me you did not actually faint when Lord Pembrook stepped on your hem.”
Amelia looked up from pouring tea to find her cousin watching her with that particular gleam of mischief that meant trouble.
Lady Clara Whitmore had arrived precisely seventeen minutes ago—Amelia had counted—and already the drawing room felt lighter.
Warmer. As though Clara had carried sunshine in with her ostrich-plumed bonnet and impossible energy.
“I did not faint,” Amelia replied, grateful for the first genuine smile she’d managed in days. “Though I confess the temptation was considerable. The man has absolutely no sense of spatial awareness whatsoever.”
“Spatial awareness.” Clara accepted her teacup with a laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep and genuine. “What a diplomatic way of saying he moves like a drunken elephant. Poor Lady Pembrook looked ready to murder him on the ballroom floor.”
“Clara!”
“Well, she did! I saw her face when he trod on her own gown not five minutes later. Murderous intent, written clear as day.” Clara settled back against the cushions with the ease of someone utterly comfortable in her own skin—a quality Amelia had always admired and never quite managed to cultivate.
“Though that was hardly the most interesting drama of the evening. Did you hear about Miss Hartwell?”
“Which Miss Hartwell? There are three, and all equally prone to scandal.”
“The eldest. Apparently she fainted dead away at Almack’s last Thursday. Right in the middle of a waltz with Lord Ashford.”
Amelia paused mid-sip. “Truly? Was she ill?”
“Oh, terribly ill.” Clara’s eyes danced with unholy amusement. “Ill with the sort of condition that requires nine months to recover from, if you take my meaning.”
“Clara Whitmore!”
“What? I’m merely repeating what half of London is whispering. And before you scold me further—” Clara raised one hand in mock surrender. “—I should mention that Lord Ashford did the honourable thing. They’re to be married next month. Very quietly, of course. His mother is beside herself.”
Despite everything, Amelia felt her lips twitch. This was precisely what she’d needed—Clara’s irreverent commentary, her complete disregard for propriety’s more tedious requirements, her ability to make even scandal sound absurdly amusing rather than tragic.
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, though warmth flooded through the words.
“I prefer ‘refreshingly honest.’ Far more flattering.” Clara reached for a biscuit, studying it with exaggerated concentration.
“Though speaking of honesty, there’s also considerable speculation about Lord Waverly’s sudden departure for Scotland.
Something about debts and an actress and a very angry husband with a very large pistol. ”
“Good heavens.”
“Quite. Society has been deliciously entertaining this Season.” Clara bit into the biscuit, then continued with her mouth slightly full—a habit that would have sent their mothers into apoplexy. “Which brings me to the most interesting development of all.”
Something in her cousin’s tone made Amelia’s teacup pause halfway to her lips. “What development?”
“You, darling. You and your return to society.” Clara’s smile turned knowing. Dangerous. “Half the room at every event spends the evening whispering about you.”
The tea nearly spilled. Amelia set down her cup with more force than intended, the delicate china rattling against its saucer. “Whispering what, precisely?”
“Oh, the usual tedious nonsense. How you looked remarkably well for a grieving widow. Whether your mourning period was truly concluded. What your intentions might be regarding remarriage.” Clara waved one hand dismissively.
“The matrons are positively salivating with speculation. You’d think they’d never seen a woman emerge from black crepe before. ”
“How very kind of them,” Amelia muttered, reaching for her own biscuit simply to occupy her hands.
“Isn’t it just?” Clara leaned forward, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone that meant she was about to say something truly outrageous. “Though of course, the most interesting whispers had nothing to do with you specifically.”
“No?”
“No. They concerned your very attentive brother-in-law.”
The biscuit crumbled between Amelia’s suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared at the ruins scattered across her lap, her mind racing whilst her mouth refused to form coherent words.
“Tobias?” Her voice was strangled, and heat rushed to her cheeks. “He is simply being... polite. Ensuring my return proceeded smoothly.”
“Polite.” Clara’s laugh was bright and utterly merciless. “My dear, the man looks ready to murder any gentleman who dares ask you for a second chance. Is that truly merely polite?”
Heat flooded Amelia’s cheeks with mortifying speed. She focused intently on gathering the biscuit crumbs, anything to avoid her cousin’s too-knowing gaze. “You imagine things. Tobias is protective of Henry. That’s all.”
“Henry.” Clara shook her head slowly. “Yes, I’m certain his murderous glares at every lord who asks you for a dance has everything to do with his nephew and nothing whatsoever to do with watching another man’s hand settle at your waist.”
“Clara, please—”
“It’s all right, you know.” Clara’s thumb traced gentle circles across Amelia’s knuckles.
“To feel something. To want something. You’ve spent so long being the perfect widow, the perfect mother, the perfect lady.
But you’re also just... a woman. One who happens to be sharing a household with a man who is—let’s be honest—dreadfully handsome. ”
“Clara!”
“Well, he is!” Her cousin’s laughter bubbled up again, irrepressible. “I’m not blind, even if society pretends we’re all supposed to be. Those eyes alone could make a saint contemplate sin. And that smile—the real one, not the practiced charm he wears in ballrooms—”
“Stop.” Amelia pulled her hands free, pressing them against her burning cheeks. “This is entirely inappropriate. He’s my late husband’s brother. It isn’t... it wouldn’t be...”
“Right?” Clara supplied gently. “Proper? Appropriate?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Relief flooded through her that Clara understood that she didn’t need to explain further.
But Clara merely tilted her head, studying Amelia with an expression of such tender understanding it made something in her chest crack.
“No, perhaps not. Society would certainly have opinions. But tell me honestly, Amelia—not what’s proper.
Not what the matrons would whisper or what Edward would have wanted. You.”
Amelia frowned. No one had ever asked her this. And to make matters worse, the question was loaded for another reason. Because what she wanted… she could never have.
“I want...” Her throat closed around the words. “I want my son’s future secure. That’s all.”
The lie tasted like ash. And from Clara’s knowing look, they both recognized it for exactly what it was.
“Of course,” her cousin said softly. “Henry’s future. How very practical.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the ticking of the mantle clock and the distant sounds of London traffic filtering through the windows. Clara picked up her teacup again, studying Amelia over its rim with eyes that saw far too much.
“You know,” she said at last, her tone deliberately light, “Lord Ashbourne seems quite taken with you. Excellent family, impeccable reputation, all those grown children scattered about. He’d make a very good match.”
“Yes. I suppose he would.”
“How was the promenade in Hyde Park?”
In truth, Amelia thought, it was perfectly boring. There was nothing wrong with the Lord. He was perfectly kind and a gentleman. But she could not help but notice that he reminded her far more of Edward than Tobias did.
He was… she supposed proper.
“It was… perfectly adequate. He would… indeed be a suitable match.”
“Suitable.” Clara’s smile turned slightly sad. “What a perfectly bloodless word. Though I suppose that’s what we’re all meant to aspire to, isn’t it? Suitable matches with suitable gentlemen who inspire suitably tepid feelings.”
“Clara—”
“I’m not criticizing, darling. Truly.” She set down her cup and rose, gathering her gloves and reticule with practiced efficiency.
“I should go before I say something even more outrageous and scandalize you completely. Though before I do...” She paused, one hand resting lightly on Amelia’s shoulder.
“Remember that you’ve already been suitable once.
You’ve already done your duty, married the appropriate gentleman, produced the required heir.
Perhaps... perhaps this time you might consider what would make you happy rather than what would make society comfortable. ”
She pressed a kiss to Amelia’s cheek and departed in a swirl of silk and subtle perfume, leaving Amelia alone in the suddenly quiet drawing room.
Her thoughts were a muddled mess. The Ton was gossiping about her protective brother-in-law, about her return to society, about everything…
She ought to allow Lord Ashbourne to court her, she decided. If she destroyed Tobias’s reputation… he could lose everything. Even if he weren’t looking at her in the manner Clara insinuated—and she was sure he did not. People were cruel.
The sooner she allowed a respectable gentleman to court her, the better. For her, for him… and most of all, for Henry.