The Duke’s Daughter - Lady Amelia Atherton: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 3)

by Isabella Thorne

  “Samuel,” Percy said. “You are being rude.”

  “Can you not simply write the excuse tomorrow when you are feeling better?”

  “No, Samuel, I cannot.”

  Samuel sighed and stowed his empty glass in a nearby planter. “I will call the carriage.”

  Percival’s look of disappointment made Samuel’s stomach turn with guilt. Well, it was not the first time he had disappointed his brother, and it would not be the last.

  ~.~

  Chapter Three

  The day was a bleak one. Lady Amelia had woken to a stone grey sky and by the time she had dressed, the rain had begun. It beat against the windows, but she was tucked inside, warm and dry and safe from its touch. Patience and Charity sat on the sofa, sipping tea and nibbling delicate cakes, while Amelia played a meandering tune on the piano.

  “Is that a new song?” asked Patience. “I have not heard that one before.”

  “It is not a song really, not yet. But yes, it is something I am working on,” Amelia replied, as she began the tune again. She would not tell them it was inspired by the man she had danced with, a love song to the sea. Why was she thinking of him?

  “Is your father home?” Charity glanced around the room as if he might be hiding behind a curtain there.

  “No, he is at Westminster today.”

  “A shame. He is such an interesting man,” said Charity.

  Amelia’s fingers stuttered over the keys. She shot Charity a glare over her shoulder, then went back to playing. “He is. And he is not interested in you.”

  The idea of her father not only remarrying, but remarrying Charity was too horrible to contemplate. She was certain Charity teased her with the idea because she knew how it nettled Amelia, and not because of any real interest.

  “But he must be looking for a wife,” Charity persisted, as if Amelia’s annoyance had not been clear enough. “He has no male heir and he is not growing younger. It has been four years since your mother died. Most men would not have waited so long.”

  Patience whispered something to Charity, words Amelia could not make out over the sound of her playing. Amelia’s mother had died giving birth. She had been pregnant three times before that, and each had ended in tragedy. This fourth had been full of promise, until she had gone into labor. Neither she, nor the baby boy, had survived. A little brother Amelia would never know.

  “Would I call you mother, then?” Amelia’s tone was ice, but she doubted Charity would pick up on that. The girl knew nothing of subtlety.

  “I hope this weather will not hold out,” Patience chimed in, her voice strained. “It would put a damper on our trip to Bond Street and I am in desperate need of a new hat. Nothing in my collection goes with the new yellow silk I purchased. My brother was eager to chaperone us, though he insists we be away by four. I told him we would be finished long before then, so we might walk in the park before sunset.” She ended with a nervous laugh.

  Yellow silk with her pale skin and, that shade of red hair? Amelia grimaced, but she appreciated Patience’s effort to steer the conversation toward brighter territory. She was about to suggest perhaps a green instead, but Charity was not to be deterred.

  “Unless you marry soon, Amelia. If you were to have a son, it would solve the problem of an heir; though not as neatly,” said Charity, around what sounded like a mouthful of cake. She would take soft and plump too far, if she were not careful Amelia thought uncharitably, although she would not say so out loud

  “I am in no hurry to marry.” She replied instead

  Charity laughed. “Everyone knows that. What, do you dream of spinsterhood? Living alone in an apartment with your piano? You would die of boredom. There would be no one left to admire you.”

  “The sooner you marry, the sooner you must provide children. It would be no great thing to you, I imagine, to lose your figure, but it would be a dreadful thing for me,” said Amelia, not needing to look to see the indignant hurt on Charity’s face. She could say as many terrible things as she liked, but the moment she received one back she would fall apart.

  There was a minute of poignant silence, Amelia’s hands hovering over the piano keys. She had lost the strand of the music in her mind, the weaving of chords she had been building. With a sigh, she picked up a familiar tune, one of the first she had learned as a child.

  “But if you fell in love you would marry, would you not?” Patience asked pleasantly, seeming oblivious to the barbs Charity and Amelia had flung at each other. No doubt Patience was thinking of the man she had shared a smile with at the ball.

  Amelia envied the girl her easy heart, and said a silent prayer that she never lose it.

  “Falling in love is beneath our dear, lovely Lady Amelia,” said Charity still with a hint of acid.

  “Do not be silly. Of course I will marry, as is expected of me. If I wish to postpone it for a while, who can blame me? There is more to the world than a husband, but once you have one, that is all you will get. Best choose a good one.”

  Charity tutted. “You are frightening Patience. Do not be dissuaded by her bitterness, Patience. A husband and a house are just the beginning. Did you discover anything about the gentleman from the ball?”

  Amelia set the cover down on her piano and rose. She paced to the window and drew back the curtain. Still raining. What did one do when it rained at sea she wondered? There was only so much room below decks, she imagined, so did they stand out in the rain, becoming drenched? No, that was silly; they would catch their deaths from cold and fever.

  “I have not found out anything yet,” Amelia admitted. “But I have plans to meet my Aunt Ebba for tea. She knows everyone, even better than I do. I will take your description to her and then we can tell everyone who the lucky man is.”

  Patience blanched, and Amelia laughed.

  The sounds of a carriage pulling up outside the townhouse had all three girls up on their feet, craning their necks at the window.

  “Father is home,” said Amelia.

  The Duke of Ely stepped out of the carriage beneath a servant’s umbrella and marched to the front door, the servant scurrying to keep up. Amelia, Charity, and Patience hurried out to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, handing his over coat off. His face was worn and weary. Each time he returned from a session of Parliament, Amelia felt he had aged five years. She feared for him of late. He would never talk about his worries with her, would never unburden himself. “I am not here for long. Just a change of clothes and I am off again. Business to be done, and all that. Did I interrupt your fun?”

  “Of course not, Your Grace. This is your home, you can never interrupt,” said Charity, edging her way closer to Amelia’s father. “I did hope you would join us, your company would be like sunshine on this rainy day.”

  Amelia caught her father’s eye. Charity was truly laying it on thick, and with all of her usual subtlety.

  “Thank you for the kind offer, but I am afraid I do not have the time. Perhaps another day. Now, please excuse me,” said the Duke of Ely, practically fleeing for the staircase.

  Once he had gone, Amelia rounded on Charity. “Pray do not harass my father in his own home. Could he have been more clear? He has no desire for your company. Really Charity, you embarrass yourself, and me.”

  Charity had the nerve to look offended, her nostrils flaring. “I was being friendly Amelia, perhaps you ought to try it sometime. I am beginning to believe you do not turn suitors away at all, but rather they flee upon realizing what a cruel girl you are beneath the lovely veneer.”

  Amelia recoiled. Charity may as well have slapped her in the face. “Why are you being so hateful? Are you jealous of me?”

  It was the wrong to say. Charity turned on her heel and stomped her way back to the parlor where they had been sitting. Amelia and Patience followed, watching her snatch up her shawl from the sofa and fling about her neck. She jabbed a finger at Amelia.

  “You think you are so much better than every
one. But a pretty face and the latest fashions do not hide that you are cold, and distant, and you look down your nose at people because you are afraid to let them get to know you. It is pathetic, and weak and no one will ever love you because you will not let them. Now go on, I know what you are thinking, that I am too emotional, too forward, but at least I have emotions! I have passions!” Charity had worked herself into a state, advancing on Amelia until she had backed her up against the sofa.

  “Passions,” Amelia said. “Lud, Charity.”

  “Do you know what they say about you, Amelia? They say you are as beautiful as a diamond, and as warm as one. Men want to possess you, because you are the shiniest gem, but they do not want to know you. Someday one of them will propose marriage, but you will still be a bauble on the shelf.”

  With that, Charity left. She did not wait for a servant to bring her an umbrella or to call her carriage; she let herself out of the house, slamming the door so violently the windows rattled. Patience had a hand cupped over her mouth, eyes wide. Amelia sat down on the sofa. Her legs would not hold another moment. She should have said something. What had she done to deserve such hatred from her friend, and how long had it been simmering beneath the surface?

  “You do not need to stay, Patience. I know you must believe those things as well,” said Amelia softly.

  Patience did not go, however. She sat down beside Amelia, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wrapped her arm around Amelia’s shoulders. Amelia’s father came down the stairs a minute later and poked his head into the parlor.

  “What the devil was all that ruckus about?” he asked. He stepped inside the room when he caught sight of Amelia. “Are you all right darling? What is the matter?”

  Amelia took a shuddering breath. Just as her father would not unburden himself on her, she would not unburden herself on him.

  “Nothing, father. Just a misunderstanding between friends,” she said, standing to kiss his weathered cheek. “Please do not be late,” she said.

  “I cannot promise,” The Duke said, “After what happened at the ball last night. I fear …” He broke off and Amelia asked “What happened father?”

  Her father smiled wanly, but it did not reach his eyes. “Nothing you need worry about. I will take care of it.” He patted Amelia atop her head as if she were a child. “I will not be home for dinner, but perhaps I will see you at breakfast. Buck up, darling, troubles only linger if you let them.”

  She reached up to straighten her chignon, but his words chilled her. What troubles did he speak of? What did her father fear?

  Then he was gone with as much speed but with far less noise than Charity. Amelia sat back down beside Patience. She was creasing her dress in her hands.

  “You will ruin your dress if you keep that up,” said Amelia.

  Patience sniffed.

  The patter of rain on the windows rose and ebbed as the wind caught hold of it. Amelia looked out of the window and saw the carriage being brought around. She was glad Charity was not out in the storm and had gone straight home, which for all her drama was just a few doors down. Patience sniffed again.

  “What is it?” Amelia asked. “You only make that noise when you have something to say and do not know how to say it.”

  “I just… well, there was some truth, maybe, in what Charity said. You are hurt, or at least upset by the things she said but instead of talking about it you remind me not to crease my dress,” said Patience, still not looking up. She had switched to wringing her hands, but was at least leaving her dress out of it. “I do not think you are cold, but… you do not hold much respect for emotions.”

  Amelia tried to be reasonable and think about what Patience was saying before dismissing it. “That is not true. I feel… things. I just do not believe that everything I feel needs to be gratuitously expressed. Is that so awful? Am I a terrible friend because I do not weep or stomp about?”

  “Of course not. I do not think you are a terrible friend at all,” said Patience, turning to face Amelia. “I think you are a wonderful friend. Charity was quite mean to say the things she did.”

  Amelia felt a peculiar ringing in her ears. “But you do not think she was wrong. Do you think I will die a spinster too? Alone but for my piano, as she said?”

  It was not fair for Amelia to punish Patience with Charity’s words, but she could not stop herself. Once she felt this detached, cold anger, there was no staying it. She expected Patience to quail as she normally did, to look away or to leave, but the girl took a deep breath.

  “I think you are frightened because of how your mother died, but I do not think it is an unreasonable fear. You are not the first woman to fear it. But I…” Patience winced, but kept on. “I think you use it as an excuse not to get close. If you do not like anyone, you do not need to marry anyone, and so you will not need to go through that ordeal.”

  Amelia did not want to hear any more. Emotions were threatening her, welling up almost past the point of managing, and she did not want anyone around when they broke through. She stood up, rolled her shoulders back, and fixed a smile on her face.

  “Thank you for your honesty Patience. It seems the rain will not be letting up, and so we will not be able to go shopping, nor to the park. What a shame,” said Amelia.

  Patience looked about to cry, blue eyes watery and big. “I understand. But I will see you soon, Amelia. I will not let you avoid me.”

  The girl’s resolve, newfound and tremulous, filled Amelia with warm affection despite herself. She saw Patience to the door, with an umbrella and a carriage to hurry into, and waved farewell. Then, alone again, she sat down at the piano. The wood was smooth beneath her fingers, the metal knobs cold as she lifted the cover. Every emotion she did not want to feel, she poured into her playing. At first the music was loud, chaotic, but the longer she played the more it mellowed, soothing her, until she was again playing the beginnings of her ode to the sea. Likely it would never be properly finished. She had a habit of picking things up and fiddling with them until, frustrated that they would not work quite right, she put them back down and forgot about them.

  A talented player, her teacher had told her father, but she will never be a composer. To create, you have to make mistakes, to begin again over and over until it is perfect. She does not have the tolerance for it, the passion. Was it true? Did she lack passion?

  Do not take it the wrong way, he had cajoled Amelia, there is nothing wrong with sticking to what you know; it is frightening to put yourself into the music, to see what you are made of. Amelia’s cheeks had burned at the criticism and she had never attempted to compose again. Until now.

  ~.~

  Chapter Four

  Percival’s health did not improve. He complained of a burning in his mouth and stomach. By the time they got home, his stomach pain was truly terrible and Samuel had only once seen a sailor in similar pain. He had died from a poisoning from bad fish. Afterwards the doctor had said, if he had purged himself at once with a cup of sea water, he may have cast up the offending matter and lived. When Samuel suggested such a thing to Percival, his brother had said he had been trying not to retch the whole ride home.

  Still Samuel fetched him a glass of warm water with salt in it. A single swallow was all Percival needed to rid himself of last night’s dinner. Once he started, it seemed he couldn’t stop. He woke several times during the night. By early morning, he woke feeling feverish, still complaining of stomach pains, and Samuel had ordered him to stay in bed until the doctor arrived. Samuel had sat at his bedside, speaking of nothing, until Percy fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Their father, the Earl of Blackburn, had entered the room mid morning.

  “How are you feeling, Samuel?” his father asked. “You two ate the same things last night, did you not? And yet Percival is the one who has fallen ill, while you are hale as ever.”

  It almost sounded as if their father blamed Samuel for being healthy. Almost.

  “I feel fine, Father, but I do not know all Percy ate l
ast night. We did not spend every moment together,” said Samuel, getting to his feet. He had been sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, while Percival slept. “I thought it would put a damper on his wife-finding attempts, dragging his younger brother around.”

  His father laid a hand on Percy’s forehead. There was a fondness there, a tenderness, that had never been between Samuel and his father. They were too different. Or too alike.

  “Well, the doctor will be here soon. You should not be sulking about when he does, he will need room to work, said Lord Blackburn.

  “Wonderful. I will take my sulking elsewhere.” Samuel paused in the doorway. “Where is mother, by the way? Still at Stanherd?”

  Stanherd Residence was his mother’s retreat, a renovated country home with an expansive garden. Lady Blackburn had gone to live there last summer, ostensibly for her health, but had not returned home. It was a sore point for Father, so Samuel enjoyed reminding him of it whenever he had the opportunity.

  “No. She is visiting her sister in Bath,” his father replied. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

  Samuel raised his eyebrows and left the room. He missed his mother. She was the steadying influence in the house, the thing that kept the three men from being at each other’s throats. He could not blame her from growing tired of the job. Still, he would have been happier to be home if she had been there to talk to. Crossing the hall, he went to his room. It was sparse, and the only personal touch was the painting on the wall, an oil painting done by his mother of a ship caught in a storm. She had captured it perfectly despite having never been aboard a ship, the forlorn feeling, as if there were nothing in the world but the ocean, the storm, and the vessel itself. The way the ship carried on, despite the waves crashing into it, the rain that deluged the decks and the enormity of the ocean.

  He had only been caught in two such storms. The memories were as clear as if they had happened just yesterday, gilded by fear and the rush of joy precipitated by coming out alive. What could compare to that feeling? His brother, his father, they would never understand it. Nor would a wife. Though the Lady Amelia Atherton seemed a tempestuous thing, but he had no doubt there was a placid wife beneath the fire. He would be bored within a week. It was unfair both to her and to him to consider her at all. Why, then, was he thinking of her again?