CHAPTER TWO
Lady Victoria had decorated Smith Manor in lavish colors of lavender and cream, the theme spilling out from flowers in vases, through petals lining the staircase to the house, to the emblem of the Smith name painted on the stone floor in the entrance hall.
Through the hallway, more decorated Grecian columns led the way down another hallway, to the open ballroom doors. Music spilled out, a gentle symphony of violins and cellos, and a lively flute that coaxed Amelia’s attention despite her nerves.
Stood atop the entry dais, Amelia looked down into the ballroom, her mother beside her.
“I am nervous,” she whispered to her father, Edward, Baron of Hawthorne.
“Do not show it, and you shall be fine.” His voice was firm yet comforting.
But Amelia had already spotted a secluded corner in the far right of the ballroom, not too far from the open doors that led onto a terrace, and the garden beyond.
The room came alive in swirls of color, for guests were not obliged to honor the theme.
Lady Victoria’s balls were notorious for rule-breaking.
Amelia was in silver, yet blended in easily.
It was not that she did not want to be noticed; it was more that she was never quite noticed, not in the face of other prettier, louder, more forward ladies.
So to attempt to sway attention from them to herself was rather laughable. She did not want to look foolish.
Yet, as she descended her way into the ballroom, she thought that there had to be one quiet gentleman who would stand with her in any corner of a ball, not wanting the attention of the ton on them at all moments.
Her eyes were wide. Lady Victoria had truly outdone herself for tonight’s ball.
“It seems that every time Lady Victoria hosts, she goes all out and exceeds expectations,” her father observed, as if reading her thoughts.
Yet he, too, looked around, admiring their surroundings.
Behind them, Bernadette walked, no doubt thinking of how she might include some of their opulent surroundings into her next ball.
“It seems so,” Amelia answered. She knew her father was giving her a chance to find small talk to discuss with suitors.
He did this every time. He picked one topic, and Amelia knew it was a helping hand of what to use to incite conversation.
It was clever but unnecessary. Amelia continued to disappoint.
Around her, prominent members of the ton danced, drank, gossiped, and watched others with keen, narrowed gazes.
Nobody looked at Amelia herself yet she felt the weight of the impending stares as people passed her when she cowered away, as if questioning why.
It was strange—they questioned why she hid but nobody ever welcomed her closer.
“Amelia,” her father murmured, as she tightened her grip on his arm, “I know it has been… difficult for you to find a match. However, this is your third Season. I do hope you are planning to find new, impressive ways to secure a husband.”
“Yes, Father,” she answered, not because she was but because he needed to hear that.
“I love you dearly but you understand what I might be forced to do should you fail to secure a
match by the end of summer.”
“I understand.” The thought of her father having no choice but to marry her off to an older gentleman who was too old to be a desired flavor of husband, yet wealthy enough to secure a desperate lady’s future, speared Amelia through painfully.
Her chest tightened as they moved deeper into the ballroom.
Finally, the eyes flicked her way, and the whispers picked up.
“I wonder what wall dear Miss Hawthorne shall plaster herself to this time,” one lady giggled, a young daughter of an earl. Amelia fought the urge to scowl at her.
“Perhaps she might find a way to climb the walls and escape into the ceiling for true concealment,” her friend muttered, both of them gasping as if they shocked each other for the audacity.
“Mayhap neither of you shall find husbands with such ugly speech in your mouths,” Baron Hawthorne countered, surprising Amelia. “If you can manage to stop gossiping, you may find extra time to secure a dance partner.”
Both ladies could not close their mouths enough. Amelia’s father pulled her away quickly.
“Father, you shall now become the subject of their gossip,” Amelia said, surprised.
“As long as they leave my daughter alone, I am content.”
His voice was firm.
Soon, they were among those waiting to be chosen for dance partners or watching the fortunate girls who had already been picked for the current song. Amelia’s dance card hung on her wrist, a weight that dragged her down, as empty as it would remain for the night.
“Darling,” Bernadette murmured, coming up to Edward’s side. “How about you and I get a refreshment? We shall leave Amelia to be approached.”
Her eyes shone with hope as she glanced at Amelia, who only averted her gaze.
Her father nodded, leading Bernadette away with one last glance at Amelia.
She forced a smile, determined to be confident as she stood alone in a sea of pretty, confident ladies.
This was a place she did not fit in yet she tried hard to mold her pieces to do so.
Society had given her a space she was out of shape to fit into—she had tried to force herself into such a thing but she was still endeavoring.
However, as much as she knew she should be confident alone, she felt a wave of relief wash over her when she spied her best friend, Lady Eleanor Fairfax.
The two had been inseparable since childhood, and she could not help herself from rushing over to her.
Although friends, Eleanor loved dancing, and often found a way to fill up her dance card.
However, whenever she attempted to get the suitors’ friends to dance with Amelia as well, they politely avoided her and excused themselves.
“Eleanor,” she greeted, sighing with relief. “It is good to see you.”
“Where there is a dance floor there shall be a lady named Eleanor.” A grin flashed on her face. “At least that is what my cousin wrote several years ago. It remains true, I suppose.”
“Indeed, it does. You belong on a floor to dance the night away on.”
“As do you.” Eleanor looked at her knowingly. “Have you seen the Countess of Eastward tonight? She has… well, one can only describe it as a monstrosity on her head. It is like a peacock and a swan, all in one. You cannot miss her.”
Amelia laughed, her gaze sweeping the floor. She ought to be the last lady giving in to gossip but Lady Eastward was a miserable old lady who often chided the younger ladies over absolutely nothing.
Soon, she found her, and stifled a giggle.
“She wishes to be noticed, of course,” Eleanor said, ever aware of the ton’s shifting perceptions. “For she wishes to host the next ball, so she must have everybody looking at her, wondering what her own home will be like when decorated.”
“I can only imagine,” Amelia muttered. Her nerves eased as she lightened up, laughing with her friend, despite the press of the crowd around her, and the announcer calling for the next dance. She lingered where she was, not daring to even look up in hope that she might be noticed.
“I have heard that many young lords are entering the marriage mart tonight. New faces, new names to learn. It is exciting. I can only hope I have the honour of one asking me to dance.”
“Many ask you to dance,” Amelia countered. “They learn of your proficiency and wish to know for themselves.”
“You honour me,” Eleanor laughed. “I will only dance if you are also invited by one of their friends.”
“You attempt such tactics every time, dear friend. You cannot keep trying to win a hopeless fight.”
“I shall never stop.” The promise warmed Amelia’s heart, knowing that at least one person was not on the verge of assuming disappointment from her, or giving up on her.
As Eleanor began to tell her the names of the usual lords in attendance, Amelia couldn’t help noticing two ladies that lingered several feet away, fans snapped out to cover their mouths.
Lady Cassandra Kensington, and Lady Beatrice Ashworth, two of the most gossiping young ladies of the ton.
To Amelia, they were the worst ladies when it came to her own gossip—the very ladies that caught the eye of a suitor first, sending Amelia further into the background.
“I have heard rumours that the Duke of Blackthorn shall be in attendance tonight,” Cassandra said, her voice low behind her fan. “It is not such a common occurrence for him to be here.”
“I do wonder how he shall dress,” Beatrice gushed. “Do you think he will keep to his aunt’s theme?”
“Heavens knows. He barely abides to anything the ton expects of him. However, I will change that upon making a good first impression. When I am Duchess of Blackthorn, I shall reacquaint him properly with the ton and its expectations.”
Beatrice gasped. “Cassandra, you must not speak so! You cannot get involved with him in such ways. There is a reason he stays away from society.”
“I am well aware.”
“He is beastly, the ton says. Why would you, as beautiful as you are, subject yourself to such a thing?”
“Because as beastly as he is, he is wealthy,” Cassandra replied smugly. Her fan waved frantically. “It is all about status and wealth, is it not? And I will have my duchy.”
Beatrice gazed at her as if in awe of the ambition she spoke of. Cassandra looked pleased with herself, her smile almost a smirk, as she looked around the room.
“The only duchess Cassandra will be is the Duchess of Downright Snobbery,” Eleanor whispered, glaring at the other girl. She sighed, but Amelia couldn’t help looking towards the direction Cassandra had suddenly focused on.
The Duke of Blackthorn entered the ballroom, and all eyes swung to him.