CHAPTER EIGHT
While everybody else was playing various games—even Eleanor, who had spotted Lord Owen taking up a racquet—Amelia took the chance to escape Lord Ambrose and the malicious glare of Lady Cassandra.
Her chest was tight, having endured Lord Ambrose’s endless attempts to flirt with her through the tea party.
She could not find Graham but suddenly the garden felt so open, so expansive that she did not know where to hide until she spun, spotting the archway to the hedge maze. Amelia found herself wondering if she could purposefully get lost in there just to avoid eyes on her.
Slipping away, she tucked herself around the entrance to the maze, keeping her eyes forward, on the garden, until she was concealed around the corner. As she turned, she heard a cleared throat. Stumbling, Amelia squeaked in surprise.
The Duke of Blackthorn was already in the first corridor of the maze, leaning against a small, stone bird bath. He looked at her, his head cocked.
Silence enveloped them, and Amelia glanced back at the entrance, knowing she ought to slip back out, to pretend as though they had not seen each other, to pretend as though they might not be alone.
But she did not want to. Part of her wanted to press her luck, to be a wallflower and see where this particular wall might take her.
His Grace cleared his throat again. “If you are in here for the same reason as I then I shall assume you are not quite enjoying the party.”
Amelia hesitated, clasping her hands behind her back. “I… ah, I admit that large gatherings are not the most comfortable environment for me. I find them rather overwhelming.”
“I feel the same.” The duke’s confession was casual, almost a shrug, as he straightened up. “I prefer the solitude of my country estate to the whirlwind that is London. My study provides some peace. That is until my mother descends upon it with berating.”
Amelia laughed softly. “I do not see how anybody may berate you. You are a duke.”
“A duke with a mother who cares for the dukedom,” he countered. “I am sorry for my hesitation yesterday in Hyde Park. I do not know why my tongue escaped me and rendered me quite useless to speak with.”
“I imagine it is for a similar reason to mine,” Amelia offered. “We are not very well-versed in these situations. I am, as that terrible sheet claimed, a wallflower.”
“And I am a beastly duke who avoids every ball at every cost.”
“I do not think you are beastly,” Amelia said quietly. Her eyes flickered over his scar, not finding it at all hideous, as others did. If anything, she ached to touch it, to know if it was as smooth as it appeared.
“You might be the only one—aside from Owen, that is.”
“I imagine others are too shallow to venture any deeper.”
He crooked a smile at her. “Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires.”
It took Amelia a moment to place the line but she breathed, “Macbeth.”
He was surprised. “You are a reader of Shakespeare?”
“I am indeed. He spins lines ever so prettily. But do you have dark desires, Your Grace, that they must be hidden?”
“I believe it is myself that is hidden,” he admitted. “My desires are not so dark but the ton would imagine they are.” He glanced away, as if ashamed, but Amelia only stepped forward, beckoning his attention back.
“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt,” she quoted, smiling. “Another quote that is a favoured one of mine. It is one I often forget but wish I did not.”
“I am fond of that one. Do you have a favourite Shakespeare story?”
Amelia could not remember the last time she had spoken for so long with somebody that was not her family, or Eleanor.
She nodded. “I very much enjoy Macbeth. It is why I recognized your quote. I enjoy the tale that has quite dark undertones and mystical interpretation. I like the betrayal, even if it hurts. I like that a strong lady in the background is actually the driving force.” She paused, realizing she may have spoken too passionately.
“Heavens, I imagine that makes me sound true to what the column wrote about me.”
“It does not.”
His low, honest assurance made her tremble. She found herself even closer, and knew that she ought to step back, to put distance between herself for she could not risk any ruination for her third Season, but she could not bring her feet to move.
“Miss Hawthorne—”
The Duke of Blackthorn was cut off by a gasp that came from behind Amelia.
Lady Cassandra’s voice rang loud with an accusation. “Miss Hawthorne, you are alone with—with Lord Ambrose!”
***
Cassandra’s plan was in motion. It had occurred to her that she could use the very handsome but not so very bright Lord Ambrose to her full advantage.
It is simple, she had told Beatrice. We entangle Lord Ambrose and Miss Hawthorne together and have them be the focus of the scandal. This shall free His Grace to finally focus only on me.
She had switched the seating arrangements, slipping the servants a purse of coins to do it behind her parents’ back, who had originally placed Miss Hawthorne next to the Duke of Blackthorn. Discreetly, Cassandra had switched their name cards.
But now she chased down Lord Ambrose, catching up to him as he was about to pick up a racquet.
“Lord Ambrose,” she began sweetly. He turned around, his gaze already lowered and sultry, fixed on her. “I could not help but see you growing close to Miss Hawthorne over tea.”
“Indeed,” he answered. “The poor lady could not stop gazing at me. There were moments when I could have sworn her gaze went past me but as long as it did land on me—”
“Yes, yes,” Cassandra said impatiently. “I believe I saw her slipping into the hedge maze. It would be a shame if you did not speak with her while you now have the chance. At the balls, she shall be… let us say, a highly attractive dance partner, given her association with His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorn. Perhaps if you made your impression with her now you might have a better chance.”
“But I was about to play shuttlecock with—”
“Do not,” Cassandra said sharply but quickly faked a laugh. I only need them to be caught alone. “Go now, Lord Ambrose. You must take your chances!”
“Indeed you are right!” he agreed, dropping his racquet. “However, first, I must—”
“Do not prolong this any further!” she snapped, turning on her heel, en route to find Beatrice, giddy, for her plan happening perfectly. Rushing to Beatrice’s side, she could barely contain her glee.
“Gather the ladies,” Cassandra said, “for I have just sent Lord Ambrose into the hedge maze where Miss Hawthorne is.”
“We must hurry to catch them in the act!”
Giggling, the two girls gathered up their group, and altogether, they walked to the entrance of the hedge maze.
Cassandra gasped, smirking at Beatrice, as she loudly exclaimed, “Miss Hawthorne, you are alone with—with Lord Ambrose!” only to round the corner to find that it was not Lord Ambrose but the Duke of Blackthorn instead.
And she had ushered a considerable number of her guests to the improper display.
Her stomach dropped.
Miss Hawthorne spun around, her face white with shock, brows pulled in confusion.
“Lord Ambrose?” she asked. “What on Earth do you mean?”
But fast footsteps approached, and Lord Ambrose appeared, out of breath, too late to have gotten himself involved in the way Cassandra planned. Unable to shout at him as she wished, Cassandra held her tongue, her eyes flashing angrily. She yanked him aside.
“I thought I told you to go to the maze!” she hissed.
“I was about to but… well, Miss Angelica and I have not seen one another for some time, and I spotted her—”
Cassandra pushed him aside, whirling back to her group. Whispers were picking up among them, and more and more people were joining to see what the spectacle was about.
“Miss Hawthorne,” one lady called out, “what were you doing alone with His Grace, hidden away in here? You were standing awfully close.”
“Do you not hear what the scandal sheets call him, Miss Hawthorne?” Another asked.
Cassandra’s heart pounded as she realized just how much her plan had gone the wrong way.
Amelia appeared quite dismayed as she surveyed the crowd, likely coming to the unsettling realization of the predicament into which she had inadvertently thrust herself.
She spun, looking at the duke, who only swallowed, anger hardening his eyes as he looked at Cassandra.
Cassandra had aimed to ruin Miss Hawthorne; instead she only pushed her closer to the very man she herself wanted.
“Perhaps he is the true rake here!” another lady speculated, crying out the accusation.
Before anybody could say anything else, the Hawthornes pushed through the crowd.
***
“What is the meaning of this?” Amelia’s father shouted, his face full of shock.
Behind him, her mother was white with horror as she looked between Amelia and the duke. Stunned, she shook her head, a gloved hand clasped over her mouth.
Amelia’s stomach was utter stone while she fought for breath, as the hedges turned into a blur behind her. She did not know when the Duke of Blackthorn had moved to stand in front of her protectively but suddenly she was shielded from the onlookers, as if that would take away the situation.
She wished to press her forehead to his back but she could not make matters worse.
This is it, she thought, her tea rising in her throat. I am utterly ruined.
She began to tremble when she realized her father would now have no choice but to marry her off to another man old enough to be her grandfather, a man whom would expect an heir, a man who would leer at her and—
“Breathe.”
The murmur came quietly, the duke’s voice low.
“I have been on the receiving end of many rumours and they always settle. Just breathe, Miss Hawthorne.”
She tried to but his consoling only made her question if anybody else heard, if they saw how his head tilted towards her. She moved back, utterly afraid.
“Amelia, come with me.”