by Claudia Dain
Life was so ridiculously unfair.
“How do you know Amelia snores?” Eleanor said as Hawks ambled over to a chair by the fire and slouched into it.
“Coach to Scotland,” he drawled. “She snored for six days straight. I’ll never forget the sound of it, thought at first the wheel was working itself off the hub. But it was only Amelia.”
“I was ill!” Amelia said, sitting up perfectly straight and all thoughts of dukes and marriage momentarily forgotten.
“And then there was the time—”
“Oh, shut it, Hawks!” Amelia burst out. Eleanor chuckled, her dark blue eyes shining in delight. Eleanor was such an unusual girl. When Amelia wasn’t busy wondering exactly which duke would propose to her, she wondered how Eleanor would ever make a proper match at all. “I’m quite certain I sleep perfectly beautifully.”
Which, she knew full well, was a completely ridiculous statement to make, but Hawks brought out the absolute worst in her. She was, truly, such a nice, normal, respectable sort of girl. It was perfectly obvious that she’d make such a lovely duchess.
“Actually, Hawks,” Eleanor said, sitting up fully and leaning forward toward him. He did not return the gesture, as it would clearly require too much effort. “Perhaps you could give us your opinion on an important matter, something Amelia and I were just discussing.”
“That would have to be which duke she hopes to marry?” he replied, checking his fingernails distractedly.
As Amelia was drawing breath to insult him, Eleanor answered, “Yes and no. I have been urging Amelia to seek out Lady Dalby for assistance. Certainly no other woman in Town would be … that is, could know …” Eleanor’s voice trailed off, because how to say it? It was one thing to discuss these things as women, but with a man present, even such a man as Hawksworth happened to be, it was somewhat off-putting.
“How to snare a man into an inescapable net of matrimony? ” Hawks offered cordially.
“Yes, something like that,” Eleanor said. “What do you think, Hawks? Do you think the idea has merit?”
“What have you got to lose, Amelia?” he said.
“My dignity? My respectability?” Amelia shot back, bolting off the sofa and beginning to pace the room.
“If you want to ensnare a duke, you’ll likely lose those anyway, Amy,” he said, using the name he had called her when they had lived out their days in the nursery. It stopped Amelia cold. “You’ve been respectable and above reproach, why not try another tack to get what you want? Within reason, assuredly.”
Perhaps there was some small morsel of truth in his observation. Forming an attachment should have been so simple, if one approached marriage logically and with clear goals. Which she did and she would. No mere man would be allowed to make a tangle of her plans.
“I had expected things to proceed along an entirely different course,” she said calmly. “A course bound by amiable civility and a manner above reproach. Yet another course might be necessary. Certainly a different course does not necessarily mean anything dire.”
“If you want things to be different, I’d trust the Countess of Dalby for that,” Eleanor said. “She appears to excel at it, and things do seem ever to fall her way.”
“That’s true enough,” Hawks said, shifting deeper into the upholstered chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire. “You have my approval, Amelia. You may speak to Lady Dalby.”
“Blast it, Hawks! I wasn’t asking your permission!” Amelia snapped.
Eleanor, that imp, giggled.
Two
BEING a woman of composure and fortitude, not to mention some urgency, Amelia left Aldreth House as soon as she had harangued Hawks on general principle for a good five minutes, sought out Aunt Mary without much enthusiasm, changed into a lovely afternoon dress of ivory muslin sprigged in green silk thread, swallowed her annoyance to ask Hawksworth to chaperone her to Lady Dalby’s as Aunt Mary was not to be found, and then was made to wait while Hawks changed his linen before visiting as compelling a woman as Sophia Dalby.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they got to Dalby House. Amelia, showing the singleness of purpose and strength of character that she hoped she was known for, insisted that Hawksworth remain outside. She was not going to allow him to listen to what was certain to be a most uncomfortable and unusual conversation. She was also not going to allow the call to degenerate into a polite seduction of and by Sophia, which it was certain to do. It appeared to happen any time any man was within ten feet of Sophia. Amelia, in most instances, found it fascinating. Today, however, it would have been singularly inconvenient.
Hawks, because he was too lazy to even fight with vigor, passed her over to the Dalby House butler, and then promised to walk up and down Upper Brook Street until she should come back out.
It was raining, but lightly now. Amelia didn’t feel one bit sorry for him. Perhaps the rain would wake him up.
Amelia was shown into Sophia’s famous white salon, famous because it was rumored to contain a piece of rare porcelain that had been a gift from either King George of England or King Louis of France, the rumors being rather more lurid than substantial. In fact, there was an exquisite vase of green Chinese porcelain prominently displayed in the white room, which added to the confusion more than cleared it as Amelia was almost completely certain that the porcelain was supposed to have been white, hence the name of the salon.
Where Sophia was concerned, rumor ruled the day more than Amelia found convenient. If she had not seen with her own eyes what Sophia had managed for Louisa in attaining a completely proper husband in a matter of days, she would discount everything, the vase included.
But there was the vase, and Louisa was most definitely married.
Amelia and Sophia made their curtseys to each other, took seats facing each other on matching sofas upholstered in milk blue damask, and Amelia was left with trying to determine how to communicate politely what she wanted of Sophia. It was not going to be simple.
“How lovely of you to come and see me today, Lady Amelia. You have brightened my day considerably. But, where is your chaperone, Lady Jordan?” Sophia said.
The first lapse in what she was certain was a perfect record of proper behavior. She was here, out, without her chaperone. Of all the places to be without a chaperone, Sophia’s white salon was almost certainly the worst.
“I,” she said slowly, “I am not quite certain, Lady Dalby. She was out and I suppose, in my eagerness, I left before she returned.”
“Eagerness? How flattering,” Sophia said. “I was the source of your eagerness?”
“Lady Dalby,” Amelia said, determined to say what she had come to say without dithering about, “please excuse me for being forward, but I … I was most impressed, that is to say, actually I found myself astonished by the chain of events surrounding Louisa’s marriage to Lord Henry Blakesley. She is, even more astonishing, quite completely content in the marriage, and I … I, well, you may not know it, but we had our come out together and attended most functions together, with Lady Jordan, of course.”
“Of course,” Sophia said politely, her lips poised over her cup.
She was dithering. She could hear herself dithering and she couldn’t determine how best to stop it while still appearing as innocent and virtuous as possible. Because she must appear so. She absolutely must. It was, she had determined, the best way of attaining Sophia’s aid. If she were innocent, hopelessly so, Sophia might take some sort of interest in her situation and find it amusing to arrange a duke for her. Surely, Sophia Dalby was capable of procuring a duke. She had to be. It was almost certainly true that Amelia was not. After two years, certainly some duke or other should have stumbled into her arms by now.
“And now, now,” Amelia continued, not at all reassured by the speculative gleam in Sophia’s dark eyes, “I suppose that I don’t know what’s to become of me now. I am at a loss, Lady Dalby, and I could not but wonder if you would be so kind as to … help me.”
&n
bsp; There. She had said it. What more was there to say? Now, certainly, all that was left was for Sophia, if she agreed, to work her seductive will upon the currently available dukes of the ton and deliver a proper husband into Amelia’s arms.
“Help you do what, Lady Amelia?” Sophia asked. “I am afraid I do not quite comprehend you.”
Of course, Amelia did not believe that for a moment, but she had gone this far and there was little point in getting squeamish about it now. She was here for a purpose and she was determined to achieve her purpose. Surely, of all women, Sophia would appreciate that.
“Lady Dalby,” Amelia said, feeling her cheeks flush with mortification at what she was about to say and ruthlessly ignoring it. “Lady Dalby,” she repeated with slightly more force, “I would very much like to marry … to marry …”
Oh, this was most, most disagreeable. What a woman had to endure to snare a man. It was quite uncomfortable.
“Yes, darling, you would very much like to marry. Of course you would. Perfectly natural,” Sophia said politely.
Amelia knew enough of the world to know very well that when a woman was that polite it was nothing but cruelty dressed in lace. She didn’t care. There simply was no one else who could manage things of this nature as well as Sophia Dalby.
“I mean to say,” Amelia continued, raising her voice slightly and stiffening her spine, “what I mean, Lady Dalby, is that I would very much like to marry a duke and I would very much like your help in acquiring one.”
There. She had said it as plainly as it could be said. Let Sophia try and pretend ignorance now.
“Why, darling,” Sophia said, leaning forward and taking Amelia by the hand, “that sounds positively riveting. I’m quite sure that, between the two of us, we can manage to snare one duke, don’t you agree?”
“You truly think so?” Amelia said, her breath escaping her in a rush of pure relief, nay, exultation. Here was the answer to all her problems in attracting a duke. She should have come to Sophia two years ago.
“I have no doubt of it whatsoever,” Sophia said, patting her hand and leaning back in her chair, her dark eyes considering Amelia with a scrutiny that was blatant and unsettling. “If I may speak plainly?”
“Of course,” Amelia said, not at all certain that speaking plainly was ever desirable, but what choice did she have?
“You are, as I am quite certain you know, a very beautiful woman in the precise style of beauty that is so fashionable at the moment.”
Amelia wasn’t entirely certain that Sophia’s observation ranked as a compliment, but not knowing what else to say, she said, “Thank you, Lady Dalby.”
Lady Dalby smiled and said, “Lady Amelia, if you will allow? ”
Amelia had no idea what Sophia was asking permission to do, but she nodded her assent. What could she do? Had she not just this moment asked for Sophia’s help?
“You must never thank someone for complimenting you, particularly when the compliment is merely a statement of the obvious. And most particularly when dealing with dukes.”
“I must not?”
“You absolutely must not,” Sophia said. “You accept the compliment as your due and see where that leads. You must know your worth first before you can require anyone else to recommend you for it.”
“Require?” Amelia said, well aware that she was repeating, but what was she to do? She found every word out of Sophia’s mouth to be singularly strange and unique and, she hated to admit it, useless. Of what possible use could this odd advice on the receipt of the most ordinary of compliments be in the pursuit of a man?
“Yes, of course require,” Sophia said on a sigh of frustration. “Naturally, I am aware that your mother died many years past, perhaps at the most crucial stage of your training, and you, through no fault of your own, have certain gaps in your knowledge of … things.”
Things. That meant men. Ridiculous. She understood men very well.
“I am quite certain I understand things as well as any woman of my station,” Amelia said a bit stiffly.
“I have no doubt that’s true,” Sophia said, smiling in what could only be termed a calculated fashion. “However, when a woman wants a duke for a husband, a bit more is required. You are quite certain you want a duke?”
“Completely certain,” Amelia said.
“Naturally, your reasons are your own,” Sophia said silkily, “and you are very fortunate that there are two dukes who are without wife this Season. You have met them, I suppose?”
“The Dukes Edenham and Calbourne?” Amelia said. “I have been introduced to the Duke of Calbourne only. I have not been formally introduced to the Duke of Edenham, though I know of him, naturally.”
“You know the rumors of him, you mean to say,” Sophia said, taking a sip from her cup. “Just because a man has had three wives die under him is no reason to think he is at fault. Some women are not entirely … sturdy,” Sophia said thoughtfully.
Sturdy. Oh, dear. She did not see any need to discuss that.
“You do not mention the Duke of Hyde’s heir apparent, the Marquis Iveston, Lady Dalby?”
“Oh, are you as broad-minded as to consider heir apparents? I do applaud you for your foresight. Hyde may well live for years, and naturally I do hope he does as I am quite fond of him, but he could die tomorrow of a fever and then there you are, a duchess overnight. Of course, that’s assuming you’ve married Iveston.”
Sophia smiled sweetly, as if she had not just said the most tawdry and obvious thing, even if Amelia and every other marriageable girl had been thinking it for years. One did not go about saying outright what one was ashamed to have thought. Unless one were keeping company with the Countess of Dalby. In her company, all rules of deportment had to be … readjusted.
“I do think he should be …” Amelia had no idea how to say it.
“On your list?” Sophia clearly knew exactly how to say it.
“Yes, if we’re to call it that.”
“Darling, what else should we call it?”
Amelia kept her tongue behind her teeth and waited for Sophia to speak. There was simply no point in engaging in a verbal battle with her only ally in this effort over a mere choice of words. Amelia had always had and would continue to have her goals clearly before her, and nothing and no one would distract her from achieving them.
“So,” Sophia continued, “our list encompasses Iveston, Edenham, and Calbourne. They are, collectively, of a nice age, agreeable visage, and sufficiently wealthy. I have spent a delightful November at Edenham’s Sutton Hall and you would find no fault with it, I assure you. As to Calbourne’s estate, I shall have to ask Lord Ashdon; as they are quite close, he’s sure to have seen it and will give an accurate report.”
Amelia squirmed on her very pretty chair. She could not help it. It sounded entirely mercenary and unattractive to discuss her dukes this way, even if she had wondered about their estates and the state of their accounts. She certainly did not want to marry a man in need of a fortune, did she? Of course, she had her own fortune to contribute to their marriage, but would not find it at all attractive if her future husband were actually in dire need of it.
Very complicated business, this marrying for status and profit.
“That would be most kind of him,” Amelia said, trying to keep her squirming to a minimum.
“Now, tell me,” Sophia said, “do you have a preference or will one do as well as any other?”
There was simply no polite response to that. None.
“Come, come,” Sophia said with a cool smile, “now is not the time for timidity. We must have it out clearly between us so that we may acquire the best man for you. That’s what you desire, is it not? The best husband from the lot of them? I can assure you that I will think no less of you for being forthright; indeed, I will likely think the better of you. It is so delightful to meet a woman who knows exactly what she wants and pursues it with vigor. Yes, vigor is too often lacking in the young women of your generation.”
In all her life, no one had ever accused Amelia of displaying vigor. She thought it was quite the nicest compliment she’d ever received, not that she’d ever received a surfeit of compliments.
“I must confess to you, Lady Dalby,” Amelia said, leaning forward slightly, “that I do not know any of them well enough to have formed a preference.”
“Nothing at all?”
“There was,” Amelia said slowly, “the tiniest thought that it might be unwise to wed Lord Iveston. He is so very blond, you see, and I …” Amelia waved a hand in the direction of her own blond head.
“And you were nervous about the exact shading of your offspring,” Sophia finished. “Entirely right of you, darling. While blond hair and a generally fair coloration is quite appealing in the right degree, it is positively revolting when taken to extremes.”
“Exactly,” Amelia said, relaxing her shoulders. Perhaps she had been more than wise in coming to Sophia. Sophia did seem to grasp every nuance with exact precision and a minimal amount of tedious explanation. “But I am also afraid, I do confess, of the possible consequences of a union with the Duke of Edenham. Given his history, I do have some slight fears for my future.”
“But, darling, when one aims for a duke, there are always risks,” Sophia said. “You simply cannot allow the fragility and plain bad luck of his previous wives to hinder you. Where is that stunning vigor I remarked upon? Surely not an illusion? And, having relegated Iveston to the third position, can you afford to remove Edenham? There are only so many dukes in any Season and that there are as many as three …” Sophia shrugged delicately. “I do think it is somewhat risky to put all your matrimonial eggs in Calbourne’s basket. He’s a charming man, as I’m certain you know, but he is possibly the least tamed of the three. Naturally, it is your decision entirely.”
The least tamed. There was a phrase to send tremors down a virgin’s spine. Calbourne was nearly a giant in size; though the fact that his clothes were perfectly tailored reduced the impact, nothing could hide the fact that he was always the tallest man in any room by a head, at the very least. Plain speaking was one thing, but she was not going to admit to Sophia that she was more than a little afraid that she couldn’t accommodate Calbourne in the precise way that men so needed to be accommodated. It wouldn’t do at all to have the marriage annulled for a failure of that sort.
