He wondered, then, if his father hadn’t gone too far in picking someone to play with.
He turned his attention back to the two younger members of the group, as Lady Amelia and Lady Martha finished their piece. It was a sweet melody, and he found himself lost in the music, his eyes drifting once again to Lady Martha.
“That’s a lovely piece of music, sister,” Martha said as they finished the song.
“Thank you. You sang beautifully,” Amelia said.
When Martha went to sit down, Amelia carried on playing, a tune that was sweet and melodious and not too intrusive, so that the other guests might talk and converse over it. Nicholas almost envied her the fact that, while playing the piano, she didn’t need to look at anyone. Martha, too, was still engrossed in the song book, not looking up.
He, having no such reason to look elsewhere, was forced to make eye contact. There being only two people not busy in the room, he was left with either Lady Weston or his father to talk to. And talking was more comfortable than sitting staring at everyone else.
“That’s a fine instrument,” he said to Lady Weston, deciding she was still the lesser of two evils.
“Thank you. It’s from France. The Earl paid a small fortune for it, but you know how it is…one must indulge one’s daughters.”
She looked about as happy about that as she might look about a funeral, he reflected mildly. Was she jealous of Lady Amelia’s closeness to her father? He couldn’t fathom her reply.
“Yes,” he said mildly, not sure what else to say.
“Would you care for a drink?” Lady Weston asked him, turning away to head towards the table. “I had our housekeeper set out a bit of everything, since I was not sure what would take your fancy. I myself will have a cup of tea.”
“Thank you. I’d like that,” Nicholas agreed. He took a small cup from her, thankfully. He did feel more invigorated after sipping it, and took another sip of the refreshing liquid. He glanced over to where his father had taken a seat. He had his head tilted back, and he appeared to be enjoying the music.
Nicholas felt a bit annoyed. Was he the only one attempting to make conversation?
He found himself glancing at a portrait on the wall. He thought it was Lady Weston—the dark, haunting eyes were certainly like her, and the chiseled, severe face. He guessed she must have been about twenty-two in the portrait, and he wondered at it being here and not in the gallery.
“That’s a fine likeness,” he said to her, still trying to make light conversation. “The artist understood his subject well, I believe.”
“Possibly,” Lady Weston said thinly. She walked in front of him, deliberately obscuring his view of the picture. “Are you sure you won’t try any of these sweets? They’re rather helpful to the digestion.”
Nicholas felt a little offended. Why was it that every topic of conversation he suggested seemed to meet with such annoyance? When he glanced back at Lady Weston, he thought she looked more than just annoyed. Her back was straight and she looked visibly shaken.
Whatever is the matter with her?
He glanced at the portrait again, but Lady Weston was looking and he barely had a chance to cast an eye across it before he had to look away again.
“Very fine. Play us another one, do, Amelia. I think we would all like to sit and listen to the music.”
Thus subtly ordered, Nicholas found a chair at the back of the room and sat down, resting his arms on his knees as he listened. He looked at Lady Amelia as she played, and also at Lady Martha, who had somehow contrived to become invisible to her mother simply by reading a book.
She is so lovely, with her hair touching her delicate neck like that.
He longed to cover her neck with kisses, to let his lips leave a trail of kissing from her lips to where her low neckline met her chest. He looked away, knowing his thoughts were improper, yet knowing he could not fail to think them, either.
He looked at her again, and found his heart aching with a wistful, haunting feeling that he had never felt before. It wasn’t just her physical looks—which were pretty and sweet—that captivated him, but that impudent smile and those cheery eyes that seemed so ready to light up with good humor.
She is a truly lovely person.
He wished he could tell his father that, could defy him. But somehow he felt almost afraid to.
He looked sideways at his father, who was looking off into the distance as if he enjoyed the music. Nicholas was sure he was scheming away at something. He had never known his father to appreciate music or anything of the sort.
He wished he knew what his father’s designs were on the Weston household.
Later, when Lady Amelia had played four sonatas, he heard Lady Weston stand from her chair in the corner. “Would you like to take a rest?” she asked Amelia.
“Mother, I…” Amelia stammered. Nicholas stood, about to say something. It was clearly distressing Amelia to be put on the spot like that.
“I have an early meeting tomorrow,” his father said smoothly, standing up. “We should get back to our home. I thank you for a diverting evening.”
Nicholas looked at his father, wondering what on Earth he was about now. He had stepped in and saved Amelia from embarrassment, but why? And why did he want to leave now?
“Lord Calperton?” Lady Weston asked him. “You will visit us for tea on Tuesday morning?”
Nicholas looked around at his father, who was standing with his back to the room. He frowned, feeling awkward. “Yes, My Lady. I would be pleased to, of course.”
He saw his father’s shoulders relax. Lady Weston looked visibly pleased, too.
“I will remind the cook to make marmalade tarts,” Lady Martha said lightly. “I think we all like them.”
Her mother shot her a look, and Nicholas had to laugh. Lady Martha seemed not to care if she irritated people or not—in fact, he thought, she seemed to take a thinly-covered delight in doing so.
“I look forward to it,” he said to her. Her eyes held his.
“So do we,” she said.
Lord Calperton swallowed hard. She meant it, clearly. He was surprised his father and Lady Weston hadn’t burned them to cinders with a comment, but both their parents seemed oblivious to their exchange. At the pianoforte, Lady Amelia was standing by the bench, a dreamy, faraway look on her face.
“I must say farewell, then,” he said softly to Lady Martha. “I wish you goodnight.”
“I wish you goodnight,” she said softly.
Their eyes held and Nicholas thought his body might catch fire from his intense longing.
He heard Amelia walk out from around the pianoforte. His father and Lady Weston were already in the hallway. He bowed low to Lady Amelia and said his farewells.
Then he hurried out into the hall.
The carriage ride back was silent. His father seemed lost in thought, which suited Nicholas perfectly. He had no desire at all to speak, and was content to be able to recall the evening, again and again.
Sweet memories of Lady Martha were parceled together with disturbing ones of his father, and the things he had talked of.
He glanced sideways at the man, who had his eyes shut in repose, and wished once more that he knew what the Duke was up to.
Chapter 18
Martha stood on one side of the room, feeling nervous. She hated fittings at the best of times, but today she was feeling more nervous than ever.
It was her first fitting of the gown for the ball they’d host.
“What do you think?” Amelia asked her. Martha looked up. Amelia was going first, and she had to stare in wonderment.
“Amelia…you look really beautiful,” she said softly.
The gown Amelia was wearing was white and spangled again, only this gown had thin puffed sleeves, caught at the elbow with fine silvery thread. They shimmered in the candlelight and Amelia beamed.
“Thank you, Martha,” she said softly. “I think I like it.”
Martha smiled to herself. That was
so typical of Amelia—she was so beautiful, with her pale hair and her slender oval face—and she was also the least self-aware person Martha ever witnessed.
She was sure Amelia didn’t know how impossibly beautiful she looked, any more than she knew she played the pianoforte masterfully or drew like an artist. Her shy smile was so characteristic and loveable.
“There, now, My Lady,” the seamstress, Mrs. Paige, said quietly. “Now. Let’s get you out of that gown and into your proper clothes again, eh? The cubicle’s over here. Just let me undo these final pins…”
Martha watched as the seamstress made the adjustments, then led Martha over to the brightly-colored cloths that served as a shelter of sorts behind which one might change back into everyday clothing. Penitence was there, waiting to help Amelia dress.
As the seamstress shook out the almost-finished gown, Martha noticed the sleeves and recalled that her own gown would have long sleeves, albeit fine linen and caught at the wrist and elbow. She always had long sleeves, since her mother insisted on covering up the birthmark on her arm. She looked down at it now. It seemed an ugly thing to her—a brownish line that spread from two fingers’ width above her wrist, down to the middle of her elbow. Her mother had made her feel so self-conscious about it that she hated anyone to see it.
Mrs. Paige was busy putting the white gown away, and rummaging in her case for something else—Martha’s gown, presumably.
Then, Martha thought with a queasy tug in her stomach, it was her turn.
She was always awkward at fittings. She was mortally certain she was ugly, and in some ways, it had been almost easier to believe that. This strange, fluttering uncertainty inside her now, like a chrysalis unfurling deep in her soul, was altogether more disruptive.
Am I really beautiful? Lord Calperton seems to find me thus.
It made her redden just thinking it.
She pushed the thought away, almost irritated with it. Imagining she was beautiful tore at the fabric of her reality. How could she be, when everyone said the contrary?
“Now, Lady Martha. Won’t you try on your gown?” Mrs. Paige asked kindly, interrupting her thoughts.
Martha nodded. “Yes,” she mumbled nervously.
Penitence helped her undress, grinning at her all the while as if she felt excited about the new gown. Martha was sure it wouldn’t look right. She almost wished it wouldn’t.
“Lady Martha,” Mrs. Paige said as she stepped back, finishing the final pinning. “I say! That is stunning.”
Martha almost couldn’t bring herself to look. When she faced the mirror, she stared in surprise.
The gown was green, a pale pastel green that Martha had been unsure of initially. Amelia had prevailed, and she had chosen the silk despite her own misgivings. Now she stared at her reflection.
The pale green silk was made into a low-cut gown with an oval neck and high waist. It brought out the reddish warmth in her curls, and matched well with her pale skin. The most striking thing, though, was how it emphasized the green tones in her eyes. With the gown, her eyes seemed wide and haunting; two luminous pools framed with red lashes that seemed to gaze, bright and forthright, at the soul.
“Oh,” she murmured.
Mrs. Paige chuckled. “Is that what you reckon, then?” she said. “Stay still, My Lady, while I just adjust the waist a moment.”
Martha stood still while Mrs. Paige tightened a ribbon somewhere. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from her reflection.
Is that me?
She heard Amelia giggle. “Martha! You look so beautiful! Why, don’t you think so?”
Martha stammered. “I like it, Amelia. Thank you for helping me choose it.”
“Nonsense,” Amelia said firmly. “You’re a beautiful girl, Martha. Haven’t I always said so?”
Martha nodded briskly, close to tears now. Amelia was the one person in all the household who always insisted Martha was beautiful, despite their mother’s comments. Suddenly, for the first time, Martha had an inkling that perhaps Amelia wasn’t just being kind.
She felt a strange mix of confusion, joy, and anger.
Why did Mama lie to me all these years? Why did she insist I was ugly?
She had always accepted it, even started to laugh about her own plainness. Discovering that she was forced to lie to herself made her feel betrayed in a way she didn’t think she could heal from.
“What is it, Lady Martha?” the seamstress asked worriedly. “Would you have preferred something else?” She sounded concerned.
“No,” Martha said simply, turning to face her. “I like it. Thank you, Mrs. Paige.”
“Oh. Well, then,” Mrs. Paige said, looking uncomfortable. “Well, in that case, why don’t you ask Penitence to help you out of it? I just have to mark one seam, there…”
When she was back in her ordinary clothes again, Martha felt as if she’d been on a long journey. It had changed so much for her, seeing herself for an instant as beautiful. It had drained her, but left her feeling washed clean on the inside, as if so much she’d been missing finally made some sort of sense.
“Martha?” Amelia said, coming to walk beside her as they went downstairs together. “You seem upset. Are you feeling well?” she asked.
“I’m well, thank you, Amelia,” Martha said softly. She wished she could say something to Amelia, but she was sure her sister wouldn’t understand. Why would she, when, all her life, she had never felt ugly before?
That’s not fair—you know Mama belittles her, too, just in other ways.
Their mother never acknowledged Amelia’s true skill as a pianist. And she had forbidden Amelia to have riding lessons, naming them as dangerous for someone of her constitution.
“Amelia,” Martha said when they were alone in the hallway. “Why did I never know I was beautiful before?”
Her voice was raw and she was surprised how close she was to tears.
Amelia looked at her, face a picture of sadness. “Oh, Martha! I’m sorry…I always wondered if those silly comments of Mama’s had hurt you. I’m so sorry. I always tried to tell you…” she trailed off, tears in her eyes. “I wish I had told you more often how beautiful you are!”
“Amelia, shh,” Martha said, feeling her own heart ache with sadness as she wrapped her arms around her sister. “I didn’t mean it like that! I know you always told me.”
Amelia stopped crying, and Martha let her own breath out in a sigh. She looked up at her sister’s tear-streaked face.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I just need to think about a lot.”
Amelia nodded, her tears dry now. “I know,” she said gently. “Me, too. If you want to come and think with me, there’s room in my boudoir. And there are bonbons, too. I still have the ones Lady Arnott gave us.”
Martha had to chuckle. She wrapped her arms around her sister again in a fond embrace. Part of her wished she could sneak up to Amelia’s room, and sit in her mauve-papered boudoir, eating bonbons, and talk about funny, ordinary things with her. It was a safe place. It had always been a safe place, where she was the little sister and the world was small and ordinary. Part of her knew, though, that she needed time alone if she was going to understand any of this.
“Thank you, Amelia,” she said sincerely. “You’re the sweetest sister on Earth. But I want to rest awhile.”
“Of course,” Amelia said, taking her hand fondly. “But the door is always open. And I won’t run out of bonbons until June.”
They both laughed and Martha went up the stairs to her bedroom, feeling a little better.
Upstairs, she sat at her desk. She wanted to write, to try to express her feelings on paper where she could not express them any other way. Yet, she also knew, no words would come. She was too angry, and too upset.
Mama hates me. I never have understood why.
She leaned back, recalling all the incidents she could think of that supported that view. Her own celebrations had never been as grand as Amelia’s, her own ac
hievements always ignored. Her mother had quietly elbowed her aside in public gatherings, always ensuring people focused on Amelia and not her.
Amelia herself had hated it, trying her best to include Martha and make a fuss of her. She had shared gifts with her, taken her on outings, and always praised her more excessively than anyone.
And yet I have always felt deliberately shut out.
She knew her assessment was not quite accurate—their mother was disinterested in them both. Her treatment of Amelia was unfair, too. But she had always seemed proud of Amelia, however scary it was to be the focus of her pride. And she had always neglected Martha somewhat more.
In a Perfect Mess With the Marquess Page 14