The Duke’s Cursed Heart (Deals of Marriage #6)

CHAPTER ONE

“You have nothing to worry about, milady. You look perfect. A diamond in your own crown.”

The voice of Miss Hawthorne’s lady’s maid, Lily, was comforting but the words did little to soothe her anxieties.

“I hardly am a diamond,” Amelia murmured, smoothing over her dress skirts even after Lily had fussed over them.

“You are a diamond to me, milady.”

Amelia had to allow a small smile for that. “You are very kind, Lily.”

Her thoughts trailed off after that, and she was only left to regard her reflection.

Her lip was caught between her teeth as she directed her attention over the pale silver gown she wore, the skirt that fell straight down her legs, and the bodice of a deeper silver that caught the light above when she moved.

Silk white gloves adorned her arms, and a pearl drop necklace decorated her neck. Did she look too plain?

We shall have you dazzling from every corner of the room, visible to all, her mother had insisted with a kind smile as she’d cupped Amelia’s face only hours earlier before sending her to be prepared for the ball that night.

Her face was something she winced at. All the jewels and glitter in the world could not cover up her plain face. She was not pretty—at least she did not think so. Her hair hung in their usual loose waves that framed her pale face. The rest of it was artfully pinned back into a low, wide bun.

“Are you nervous, milady?” Lily asked.

“As always,” she sighed, tugging at the fingers of her gloves, her usual nervous habit that her mother tried to soothe out of her. “It is my third season. I cannot disappoint my parents any further. I fear their patience for me to find a match runs thin already.”

The weight of expectation nestled inside her chest, as it often did before any social event. With the Season in full swing, Amelia knew this would likely be her last chance to secure a match. She would not let her family down again, as she had ever since her debut two years ago.

“I am sure you will find a very suitable husband, milady.” Lily gave her a soft, kind smile, and Amelia tried to return it but she could feel how forced hers was. It is not the men that is the problem but me, she thought.

Inhaling deeply, she swept her hand down the bodice and adjusted the sash on the dress nervously. Beneath her hand, her stomach churned, and she wondered if she might fall ill tonight. Perhaps even before she left for the townhouse of Lady Victoria Smith, the host of that night’s ball.

Tonight, all she imagined doing was watching other ladies laugh and flirt, giggling, as they were pulled onto the dance floor, promise glimmering in the suitors’ eyes.

All of the ladies—but Amelia. It had happened for every ball since her debut.

Back then, she had been excited, her stomach churning for far different reasons.

She had excitedly shared thoughts with her mother about the different suitors they knew would be in attendance.

The two of them had imagined who might ask Amelia to dance.

She had wanted to dance, had practiced for hours before she debuted.

Her dance tutor had been most impressed with her.

She recalled attending the modiste for her first ball gown, and how she’d giggled upon entry into that very first ball.

Her memories lingered on how the candle lights had glimmered above her in the ballroom of the Hartleys’ townhouse.

By the end of her Season, not engaged or courted, Amelia had been dubbed The Ton’s Wallflower, for she had realized, as weeks passed, that she was not noticed.

Amelia was known for her modestly inclined head as reading was her favourite pastime, and her quiet voice for she did not speak a great deal at balls.

No matter how much she envisioned her plucking up the courage to speak to the other ladies, she had always grown too reserved.

The flirtatious ladies that had caught the attention of the gentlemen had far set Amelia apart, and she was lost to the background, all but melting into the wall.

Her second Season had passed similarly.

Amelia had little hopes that her third Season would be any different but it had to be.

“There,” Lily said, standing up properly and stepping back. “Are you satisfied? I think you are worthy of being a diamond.”

“I am a wallflower,” Amelia said, her voice hard with sadness and bitterness, though not aimed at her lady’s maid.

“Then perhaps it is time you stepped into the sunlight and blossomed.”

Amelia turned at her mother’s voice. Her brows raised, embarrassed at being overheard with her insecure thoughts.

Lily curtsied and left the room, allowing Lady Bernadette Hawthorne to enter and have a moment with Amelia.

With her dark hair styled meticulously, and her dress framing her shoulders and folded to accentuate her figure elegantly, she was every inch a baroness, the very example of one.

Her chin was high, her eyes kind but assessing, as she regarded Amelia.

“You look beautiful,” the baroness said, giving her a small smile. “As any future baroness or countess should be. Perhaps a duchess, hm?”

Amelia flushed. “We must exercise restraint in our fervour.”

“I believe that is where your problem starts, my darling.” Bernadette fretted over Amelia’s obstinate tresses that never quite appeared to remain in their confining pins.

“You must envision yourself as a lady of importance, and then you must carry that mindset to the ballroom. Carry it with you through every interaction. You must use it to… well, start the interaction in the first place.”

She winced, smiling tightly. They both knew Amelia was not the most forthcoming conversationalist.

“I shall try my best, indeed.”

“I am sure.” Her voice rang with resignation, as if already preparing for Amelia’s doubtless disappointment, yet there was still a touch of hope. As if she thought Amelia might, for once, defy her own odds.

Amelia nodded in acknowledgement once more before turning back to the mirror.

Should I add another hair adornment? Tiredly, she thought it was best not to, for if she added too many baubles then it would clearly be seen as the attempt to distract from her personality, which it was.

So she left it. She did not desire to be regarded as a mere beacon, rather, she longed to be appreciated for her tranquil demeanour and to be cherished for it.

“This is your third Season, dearest,” her mother gently reminded her, as if she needed it.

Amelia tensed, nodding again. “You are my eldest daughter, and I am proud of you, no matter what. However, you must try a little harder to secure a husband this time around. Men are not as scary as you think.”

It wasn’t fear that kept her from speaking with gentlemen, though. Amelia merely did not wish to. A husband was required but when all they wanted was to look at the other women who were more forward, more daring with their gestures and movements, Amelia paled horrifically in comparison.

Her throat tightened as she nodded, wishing her mother would stop.

“We shall not let this Season pass like the others,” Bernadette said cheerfully, and although the words were likely meant to comfort Amelia, they sounded somewhat like a threat. However, her focus was quickly thwarted by her sisters entering in a flurry of movement.

“Sister!” Clara Hawthorne cried, her grin wide as she ran to Amelia’s side, hands already reaching to brush over her dress.

“Oh, your gown is positively beautiful! I am sure any man in attendance tonight will be most admiring of you in it!” Her eyes sparkled with romantic notion, as they always did.

Clara, it seemed, was impervious to Amelia’s disappointment each year, her faith in Amelia’s prospects never, ever wavering.

She still believed in romantic fairy tales, at only ten and five, and Amelia wished fiercely that she had retained such young innocence.

In comparison, her even younger sister, Elizabeth, merely looked over Amelia with a tiny smile. “People notice wallflowers for their quietness, not for their beauty.”

“Elizabeth!” Clara admonished. “Do not say something so blunt!”

“She is right,” Bernadette sighed, as Amelia flushed in embarrassment. “Elizabeth, you should not say such things, whether they are true or not.”

With a cool look that did not belong on the face of a ten and two year old girl, Elizabeth lifted up the latest scandal sheet. “It says right here, though. I am merely quoting.”

“Whatever gossipers wish to say about our sister should not matter to you,” Clara told her, putting her hands on her hips. “We must wish her well, for next it shall be our turn.”

“And let us hope we do not follow by example,” Elizabeth muttered, lifting the sheet once more to indicate that the gossip mentioned as much.

Amelia’s heart fell as she smiled at her sisters.

Elizabeth did not mean anything nasty by her comments.

Over the years, her search for endless knowledge—from a love of books, led by Amelia’s own love of them—had turned her into quite a remarkably smart young girl who saw a lot of things.

She had not reached the age, however, of learning that not everything needed an honest commentary.

“You shall be the center of every gossipping circle,” Clara huffed. “And I shall be the diamond of my own Season.”

“I have no doubt,” Amelia said, grateful for the distraction her sisters provided. If anything, it also took her mother’s attention off her for a moment. “You shall both do excellently and far better than I have done so far.”

At that, Bernadette turned back to her. “You merely need to have confidence in yourself, Amelia. You are beautiful.”

“Truly so!” Clara sighed. “I wonder if Lord Kingsley shall ask you for a dance tonight. I have heard he shall be in attendance!”

“Mayhap,” Amelia said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Perchance you should strike up conversation,” Bernadette told her.

“Mayhap.”