But Amelia was saved from answering by Mrs. Smithson herself, who was looking displeased at Leith’s attention to her daughter’s companion. “I think Miss Snowe has had quite enough of town life, Mr. Leith. And with five seasons on the marriage mart, it’s no wonder.”
And just like that his hostess made it clear that Miss Snowe, for all that she looked and sounded like any other guest at the table, was not one of them. She was in the employ of the Smithsons, and as such, the lady of the house reminded her guests, she was not to be treated with the same courtesy as a lady of leisure.
Amelia, Quentin noticed, merely inclined her head in Mrs. Smithson’s direction.
“But Mama,” Miss Smithson protested. “Amelia says that town is wonderful. I cannot think that she is so tired of it that she’d never wish to return. Is that not so, Amelia?”
“I do enjoy town from time to time, Harriet. Thank you for asking. But just now I am content to be wherever it is that your family needs me. Whether that be here in the countryside or in town.”
Quentin felt a moment of admiration for her carefully controlled response. The Amelia of his youth would have let fly with a hotheaded remark and damn the consequences. Clearly she’d learned in the intervening years to control the temper that once got her into such trouble.
Turning the attention of the assembled company back to her daughter, Mrs. Smithson said, “That is very admirable of you, Miss Snowe. Your … er … town’s loss is our gain.”
For a moment, Quentin found himself hating the thin little woman.
But if Amelia felt the sting of her employer’s words she did not reveal as much. She simply took another bite of turbot and smiled quietly at some bon mot from the gentleman to her right. Just as self-possessed as she ever was, he noted wryly. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. If anything her years in town had probably made her even more controlled. She’d certainly been calculating enough when she threw his marriage proposal back in his face all those years ago.
The rest of the meal passed without incident, and once the gentlemen had separated from the ladies for their obligatory time with cigars and port, the guests assembled in the drawing room again for quiet conversation and after-dinner tea.
Once again, Quentin was jarred to see Amelia not at the center of things, but tucked away in a corner with a bag of darning that seemed to keep her quite occupied. It simply seemed unnatural for her to be on the fringes of things.
Excusing himself from a tedious conversation with Mr. Jonas Mayberry about the current cost of coal, he made his way toward her and sat down in the chair across from her. She swallowed but said nothing, he noticed as he stretched his legs out before him. But then, what could she do? She could hardly tell him to take himself off with her employers standing just feet away.
As she remained silent, he decided to make the first conversational volley. What he meant to say was some variation on the classic “what a surprise to see you here,” but what came out was: “Can this really be the same young lady who set Cornish society on its ear by dancing three times with me at the hunt ball?”
But if his question discomfited her, she didn’t show it. “You are a boor to remind me of it,” she said primly. “I was treated to a towering scold from Mama for that recklessness. Though if I recall correctly, you were scolded as well.”
“If you wish to call having my allowance cut off for the next fortnight a scolding,” he said with a grimace. “Your punishment was over in a quarter hour. I had to live with mine when I got back to Oxford and was unable to keep myself in the manner to which I’d become accustomed.”
“I did apologize at the time,” she reminded him, working the needle into and out of the fine linen handkerchief she was sewing. “Not that it did much good. You were always a stubborn one.”
“I got over it eventually,” he said, leaving unspoken the reminder that he’d proposed to her when he returned from Oxford that spring. He caught a flare of something—remorse?—in her eyes before she looked down again.
“How have you been keeping yourself, Amelia?” he asked. “I cannot say I was expecting to see you here of all places.”
She looked up then, and he was taken aback by the clear blue of her eyes as she surveyed him.
“I don’t know that I expected to find myself here either. But I am here nonetheless.”
“What happened?”
She did them both the favor of not misunderstanding the question.
“I went to London as I’d planned, but it did not turn out to be as successful a venture as I’d hoped.” Her lips twisted in self-disgust. He was surprised to find that far from feeling vindicated by the expression, he instead disliked the look intensely.
“I was a fool, Quent,” she said, invoking the childhood nickname she’d had for him. “Is that what you wished to hear from me? It is certainly how I view the matter. Of course the realization came many years too late.”
He shook his head. “I wished no such thing from you,” he said softly. “Perhaps in those first several months when the sting of rejection was still burning in my belly,” he admitted. “But we had not been separated for very long before I realized that we were both of us incredibly young.”
“And incredibly foolish,” Amelia added. “Do not forget that.”
He laughed. “No, of course, I cannot forget that. It is a wonder we were able to walk about upright and not tumble headfirst down hills every time we set foot outdoors.”
She smiled, and he was reminded of how lovely her face was when she was enjoying some bit of amusement. “I don’t think we were quite that bad. But close. Very close.”
They shared a moment of convivial silence.
“You truly could find no one in London who would suit you?” he asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
Again the rueful smile. “I think it was less about them suiting me, than me suiting them,” she admitted. “I thought it would be easy enough to find some titled gentleman who was willing to trade his title for my beauty. More fool me.”
Though he felt a certain amount of commiseration for her situation, Quentin could not help but feel a relief too that she’d not found anyone. He wasn’t quite willing to contemplate what that might mean, however.
“Enough about me,” she said, cutting into his thoughts. “What of you? I admit that I’d heard about your marriage and felt a certain sense of … disappointment.”
“A dog in the manger, eh?” he asked with a wicked twinkle in his eye.
She blushed. “A bit, I suppose. But I didn’t wish her dead, Quentin. What happened?”
At the question he was suddenly assailed by a wave of grief for his loss. He’d not been in love with Mariah. Certainly he’d not felt anything like the heady passion he’d shared with Amelia in his youth. But she’d been a gentle woman. And she’d done her best to make him happy. He’d been happy enough to contemplate a lifetime of tranquility with her at his side. But it hadn’t been possible.
“She succumbed to a fever,” he said tersely. “It was over in a matter of days. I almost didn’t make it back to her side for the last.” There had been a great deal of guilt on his part. Guilt at not having loved her as she deserved to be loved. Guilt at being away on business when she’d contracted the fever. But he’d conquered much of it simply through hard work. He’d thrown himself into his travels and into the investigation and improvements of the cotton mills he’d acquired along the way. The result was a solid collection of business investments that were run in a way he could be proud of. And if he still had a pang of remorse when he thought of Mariah and how she’d died, he was able to assuage it with the knowledge that he’d done well by the child.
Perhaps seeing how affected he was by the memories of his wife, Amelia reached out, almost as if she were going to grasp his hand in hers. But, at the very last minute, she must have remembered that they were not alone. Far from it. Dropping her hand back into her lap, she instead said, “I am so sorry, my lord. Truly.”
Wishing he could fee
l her hand in his, Quentin gave a small smile and hoped that his eyes conveyed what his touch could not. “Thank you. Truly.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs.
“Did you…?” she began, then swallowing, she began again, “that is, were there any children?”
“Not of ours,” he said with a shrug. “But Mariah was widowed when I married her and she brought a little girl with her into the marriage. And since she had no other relatives, I’ve retained guardianship of her.”
“Oh.” Amelia smiled. “That is kind of you. What’s the child’s name?”
“Grace,” he said simply. “She’s eight years old. Very inquisitive. Actually she reminds me a bit of you at that age.”
Amelia laughed and it was such a pure sound that he found himself smiling widely. “Poor girl,” she said with a shake of her head. “I cannot wish that number of scraped knees and torn pinafores on anyone.”
“Well, she doesn’t scrape her knees quite as often as you did,” he said with a grin. “But she’s quite good at climbing trees. Even better than you, I daresay.”
“Then you certainly have your hands full,” she said with a smile.
A silence fell, and it was surprising to Quentin how comfortable it felt. As if they were simply two friends reminiscing, without the misunderstandings of the past between them.
“My hands have also been rather full with something much more scandalous,” he said finally. “I feel sure Mrs. Smithson would not be best pleased.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Amelia said with a laugh. “You could probably commit murder in the middle of her drawing room and she would find some way of excusing you for it. She is quite impressed with your title, I’m afraid.”
“Well, this is hardly as dire as that,” he said, grinning. “I’ve simply become involved in trade.” His pronunciation of the word in a stage whisper made Amelia laugh again.
“Oh that,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I don’t think that would diminish you in her eyes. Though for my own sake, I’m curious to know what sort of trade. Surely you haven’t set up shop somewhere.”
“No, I’ve been investigating some mills in the north which Mr. Smithson owns, and considering a few purchases. I am a younger son, after all, and can’t simply rely on the proceeds from the home farms to keep myself in boots and cravats.”
Amelia was curious. “How does one even begin with such a thing?”
“My wife’s father was an industrialist in America so I learned a great deal of it from him. And I’ve spent much of my time since returning to England investigating the possibilities here.”
She would have asked him more, but they were interrupted by Mrs. Smithson. Irritated to see her daughter’s companion monopolizing the only titled gentleman at their gathering, she drifted forward, like a ship coasting into port.
“Miss Snowe, I believe Harriet requires you to fetch her shawl from her bedchamber,” the pinch-faced woman said, her ostrich feather bobbing up and down as she emphasized her words. “My apologies for neglecting you, my lord,” she said to Quentin, linking her arm in his and pulling him across the room. He tried to catch Amelia’s eye before Mrs. Smithson hurried him away, but Amelia was, unfortunately, once again in companion mode and did not look up before she disappeared from the room.
“Some people simply do not know their place,” Mrs. Smithson said with pursed lips. “I assure you that we are not in the habit of encouraging the hired help to mix with our guests. But the numbers were off and, well, I suppose you understand.”
Since he was the one who’d upset Mrs. Smithson’s numbers, Quentin certainly did understand. But he could not help but dislike the woman for her attitude toward Amelia. It was clear the woman gloried in the fact that she could criticize the great ton beauty with impunity. He might, at his most morose, have wished Amelia might be put in her place, but he now found that seeing it up close was not to his liking at all. He wanted to rescue her from the bloody woman.
Realizing what he’d just thought, he gave himself a mental shake. What he and Amelia had shared had been years ago. And even then she’d rejected him outright. It would hardly be prudent to set himself up as her rescuer now when they hadn’t even seen one another in years. They were veritable strangers for all that it felt like days since they’d parted. And he had been wronged by her, he reminded himself. If he knew Amelia, she was unfazed by Mrs. Smithson’s ill manners, and he should keep well out of it else he’d find himself in the same place as before—madly in love with nothing to show for it but a broken heart.
His composure restored, he allowed Mrs. Smithson to guide him through the drawing room, taking especial care to be charming to all the other ladies of the party. It would do Amelia no harm to see that he was well and truly over her.
Chapter Two
Amelia avoided speaking any further with Quentin when she returned to the drawing room with Harriet’s shawl. She’d known the errand had been a pretext for Mrs. Smithson to warn her noble guest off further conversation with Amelia. And she was fine with that. Or at least she told herself to be fine with it. Her situation now was far more precarious than she’d ever experienced. And though nostalgia and a lingering sense of the friendship they’d once shared might urge her to spend more time with him, her need to remain employed to keep a roof over her head urged her to stay away.
Thus it was when the next morning found the assembled party gathered in the drawing room at the behest of Mrs. Smithson, Amelia seated herself in a chair in the corner and bent studiously over her darning, not daring to so much as glance Quentin’s way.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Smithson trilled. “I do hope that you will give me your attention for just a moment,” she went on, her rather protuberant eyes falling on Mr. Carstairs and Miss Delaford who were whispering furtively on the settee. “I need all of your attention, please,” she said sharply to the malefactors, who looked sheepish and ceased their conversation. “Excellent,” Mrs. Smithson said with a nod. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we will be indulging in any number of amusements this week, including a trip to our local ruin, and a trip into the village for some shopping.”
Though only months ago she’d have found the prospect of a shopping trip in the village of Thwaite to be a dead bore, Amelia had been cooped up long enough with the Smithsons to think it sounded like heaven.
“Before we embark on these excitements, however,” Mrs. Smithson continued, “I must first introduce you to the main entertainment with which you shall occupy yourself over the course of the week.”
She paused, and surveyed the assembled guests, including her daughter and Amelia and the late-arrived Lord Quentin, with the benign eye of an indulgent queen watching her subjects. “We are to have a scavenger hunt!” she announced, and even had the temerity to clap her hands, which Amelia thought was a bit much even for one such as Mrs. Smithson.
But Amelia had perhaps misjudged the jaded nature of the house party guests, for the ladies and, even to a lesser degree, the gentlemen seemed to exhibit a gratifying degree of excitement at the idea. For the veriest moment, she allowed herself to steal a glance at Lord Quentin who was seated alone in the corner opposite Amelia’s. To her surprise he was looking her way, one brow raised and a quirk in his lips that echoed her own amusement at the collective enthusiasm. Before she could get pulled into his orbit, Amelia looked back down at her mending. But the quick tattoo of her heart reminded her of just how exciting and dangerous it was to be the recipient of such a gaze.
“I have here,” the hostess said, holding up a very heavy crystal bowl, “written on a bit of foolscap, the name of each lady assembled here. Excluding of course, myself, for I am far too old for such frivolity. And because dear Lord Fortescue’s arrival played havoc with my numbers, I have been forced to add Harriet’s companion, Miss Snowe, to the bowl. My apologies, but it could not be helped.”
Could the woman be any ruder? Amelia wondered, noticing with sympathy Harriet’s flushed cheeks at her mother’s ill-m
anners. She had to admit that the continual slights stung, but it was nothing worse than she herself had done to countless other girls during her time in London. If her former victims were to see her now, she felt sure they’d applaud.
Except for the former Ugly Ducklings, of course. Cecily, Juliet, and Maddie were far too good natured to rejoice in someone else’s suffering. And thanks to their generosity, she could now count them as friends. Which was more than she’d ever be able to say about Mrs. Smithson.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Smithson said, “I will ask each of you to choose a paper from this bowl and whichever lady you draw will be your partner in the scavenger hunt.”
“If you have any questions about the writing,” Harriet said, with a simper, “just ask me. For I’m the one who wrote them all out.”
“So, gentlemen,” Mrs. Smithson added, “pass the bowl among yourselves.”
Within minutes the couples were paired off. Only Lord Quentin and Amelia were left remaining.
“My apologies for the lack of a suitable partner for you, my lord,” Mrs. Smithson said to him with what Amelia knew was genuine unhappiness over the slight. “If only my husband had told me you were coming…” She hovered unhappily next to him as he removed the last slip of paper—which had Amelia’s name scrawled upon it—from the crystal bowl.
“Do not trouble yourself over the matter, Mrs. Smithson, I pray you,” Quentin said, nodding to Amelia as she stepped forward. “I feel sure that Miss Snowe and I will work well together. Will we not, Miss Snowe?”
Noting the glint of amusement in his eyes, Amelia found herself smiling and nodded. It did feel rather good to be setting Mrs. Smithson’s nose out of joint so spectacularly. She was quite sure that the hostess had preselected which couples would work together for the duration of the hunt.
“Indeed, my lord,” she said, careful to keep her expression cool and detached lest the other woman realize just how much Amelia was enjoying her discomfiture. “We shall rub along well enough, I think.”
The Perks of Being a Beauty Page 2
