by Rose Pearson
There was such a hope in Mrs. Peters’ eyes, such a resolution in her voice and expression, that Amelia could find nothing to say. She did not want to state that she found the ideas expressed to be a little far-fetched, nor that she thought they would come to naught. Instead, she smiled, nodded, and tried to accept that what Mrs. Peters said was true. No hope entered her heart, however. All she could recall was last season, when she had seen the eyes watching her limp across the room and heard the whispers coming from behind opened fans. The ton was a cruel creature indeed, and Amelia did not want to return to it.
And yet you must, said a small voice within her, as the door opened to reveal a maid carrying a tea tray, which Amelia knew would have a few of her favorite cakes on it also. The staff was always kind to her, and for that, she was more than grateful.
“We shall eat and then take the carriage into town,” Mrs. Peters said decisively as the maid set down the tray. “We must find you a few new gowns—at least, that is what your uncle has demanded—and so we shall do precisely that.” She smiled brightly at Amelia, who did not feel any of the same hope nor happiness Mrs. Peters seemed to exude. “And you shall be more than beautiful, Amelia. Of that, I am quite certain.”
“I thank you,” Amelia murmured, reaching forward to pour the tea so she would not have to continue the conversation. If she were to say anything, it would be to remind Mrs. Peters that it did not matter what she looked like; the ton would immediately remember her from the previous season, and it would not be because of how she looked. It would be due to her leg and her limp. That was all. The beau monde had a long memory, it seemed, and would cling to its cruelty for as long as it could.
Her heart sank all the more as Mrs. Peters began to express delight at returning to Lord Marston’s ball this evening. She reminded Amelia of their foray into society last season, which had begun with the very same ball. Amelia could feel nothing but dread as she considered returning there, feeling her anxiety begin to swirl through her, chasing away any desire for honey cakes or the like that the cook had sent up. This evening was, Amelia was quite sure, bound to go very badly indeed. Even if she kept her chin lifted and her resolve determined, there would be nothing but mockery waiting for her, even if it was kept as silent as could be. The ton would not welcome her. Gentlemen would not consider her. Most likely, she would end up as nothing more than a spinster. Given what had happened to her father, Amelia had come to town a few years later than most debutantes and now time was slipping away from her. Her future was as dark as Amelia had ever seen it, leaving her with no hope whatsoever. Even with Mrs. Peters’ plans and her good intentions, it seemed there was nothing but sorrow and mortification ahead of her.
Amelia was quite certain she would end up alone, no matter what was attempted. She would fail entirely, and it was, she knew, all her fault.
Chapter Two
“And just how many conquests are you going to make this year?”
Oliver raised one eyebrow, grinning at his friend. “I do not think I shall divulge any of my intentions to you,” he said as Lord Marston began to chuckle loudly. “For I know very well what you shall do with them.”
Lord Marston grinned, still chuckling as he shook his head. “I do not know what you mean.”
“You do indeed!” Oliver retorted with a broad grin. “I am quite certain this ball has been paid for entirely with the money you made betting on me last season.”
Lord Marston shrugged, his face still alight with smiles. “But that should bring you contentment, should it not?” he asked, nudging Oliver with his elbow. “I am your friend, am I not? Therefore, it is quite right that I should make money from you.”
Oliver let out a bark of laughter, thinking his friend was just as ridiculous as ever. “I think there would be a good deal of mutterings if you were to make as much money this season, given you betted solely on my achieving certain things,” he replied, his grin growing all the more. “Although I will not say I did not enjoy fulfilling certain…expectations.”
“Indeed, I should think you did,” Lord Marston replied, looking speculatively at Oliver. “Are you certain you cannot give me even a hint of which ladies you are regarding this season?”
“No,” Oliver replied firmly, his smile beginning to fade. “I shall not.” The truth was, as much as Oliver had found some humor in last season’s betting, he did not want such a thing to continue. There was a twinge of humiliation about it as though everything he did and everything he said was being watched by the gentlemen of the ton, who would then go on to place a bet in Whites’ betting book about whether or not he would be able to seduce a particular lady into giving him her affections. Not that he took any of the debutantes to bed, for he would not ruin them in that sense—but he would not pretend he had not stolen a kiss or two. The rich young widows were quite another thing, of course, but even that had not been safe from the betting book. No, Oliver was quite determined his name would not even enter the book this season. Either he would have to behave impeccably, which was something he did not wish to do at all, or he would have to ensure he did not achieve any of the bets placed within the book itself. That, he hoped, would stop gentlemen from watching his every move so that they might place a wager. He did not want to continue to be nothing more than entertainment.
“I do hope you are not a little out of sorts this evening,” Lord Marston said mildly, as Oliver’s hand gripped his glass a little tighter. “You know very well it is all in jest, Montague.”
Oliver let out a slow breath, hoping his friend did not see him do so. Some of his tension began to uncoil, his shoulders slumping just a little. “Of course,” he said, a little less frustrated now. “It is just that I feel as though my life is nothing more than entertainment for those who insist upon watching me.”
Lord Marston shrugged as though he did not think this was a particularly difficult concern.
“I do not like being sport,” Oliver said firmly. “That is all. I do hope you are understanding, Marston.”
Lord Marston, who had been friends with Oliver for a good many years, nodded, smiled, and shrugged. "But of course,” he said calmly. “But if you do decide to do something worth betting on, you will inform me, will you not?”
Oliver sighed inwardly but nodded. “Of course.”
“Capital!” Lord Marston boomed, turning back towards the other guests, watching them with a sharp eye. “Although this does make me wonder whether or not you are considering matrimony?”
Before he could prevent himself, a harsh bark of laughter ripped from Oliver’s throat, making Lord Marston chuckle.
“No, indeed not!” Oliver spluttered, thinking even the idea itself was frightening. “No, I have no intention of marrying, Lord Marston. I cannot think of anything worse!”
Lord Marston chuckled, lifting his glass of whisky in a half toast. “I quite agree,” he answered, gesturing to the filled ballroom with his other hand. “For then one would not be free to dance with, converse with, and acquaint oneself with the many lovely creatures here this evening.” He bowed his head as a young lady drew near him. “If you will excuse me. I believe I am engaged for this dance.” Handing a nearby footman his glass, Lord Marston stepped away from Oliver and took the arm of the young lady, who blushed furiously at his attention. Rolling his eyes and thinking Lord Marston himself was more than able to capture the attention of any lady he desired, Oliver retreated a few steps further back, hiding himself away in the shadows.
This was not his usual haunt, of course, but he found himself wanting to retreat from society for a short time before throwing himself headlong into it once more. Last season had been enjoyable, of course, but he had not liked being the center of attention. It had made certain ladies a little wary of him, making them unwilling to draw near to him when he had made his intentions towards them quite clear. That had taken away some of his enjoyment and marred his experience a little. He did not want the same this season.
“Marriage, indeed!” he muttered
to himself, throwing back the rest of his whisky and setting the glass down onto a nearby table. The idea was preposterous! Being the Earl of Montague meant he was, of course, both wealthy and very well titled, and it was expected he would find a wife and produce the heir very soon—but one thing Oliver liked to do was to defy social expectation. Besides which, he had a very sensible younger brother who had married already and had produced two very healthy children in the space of two years. If the worst happened, then the title would go to someone who was, Oliver considered, a good deal more worthy of it than he. Therefore, he was quite determined he would not marry in the near future, for he more than enjoyed his life just as it was. It was unnecessary to complicate it with courtship, engagement, and marriage at this present time, even if Oliver fully intended to live as he pleased whether he took a wife or not! It was nothing more than a social obligation, which he would fulfill at some point, of course, but for the time being, there was no requirement to do so.
Sighing heavily, Oliver leaned back against the wall and took in the scene before him. Lord Marston’s ball was one of the very first of the season every year and was certainly a very grand affair. In fact, this year seemed to be especially ambitious, given the decorations and the fact that Lord Marston was not serving cheap ratafia but what appeared to be quite excellent wine and champagne—as well as whisky and brandy for the gentlemen in the card room where Oliver had been only a few minutes earlier. Lord Marston might only be a viscount, but he had a wealth Oliver knew was equal to his own. The rest of society knew that also, which was why they always seemed so eager to have Lord Marston in their acquaintance. No doubt the gentleman would have many young ladies pressed towards him this evening, which he would take great pleasure in. Oliver allowed himself a wry smile. In that, at least, both he and Lord Marston were very similar indeed. They both appreciated the sweetness of a lady’s company without having any intention of furthering the acquaintance into something more substantial. Neither of them wished to marry, and so, neither of them would even consider it at the present time. There was far too much to be enjoyed.
“Oh, Lord Montague!”
He felt someone fall into him and immediately drew himself up, pushing himself away from the wall and feeling heat climb into his face.
“I did not see you there,” the lady continued, betraying herself by the fact that she had addressed him by his correct title. “I must ask what it is you are doing hiding yourself in the shadows when the ball is already underway! Surely it cannot be that you are not dancing this evening?”
Oliver cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Ah, Lady Dalton,” he murmured, recognizing the lady from last season and knowing full well she had not one, but two daughters who were as yet unmarried. “You find me in a moment of reflection, that is all.”
The lady’s eyes lit up and, as if they knew this was their moment to step forward, both of Lady Dalton’s daughters appeared beside her. They were tall and somewhat gangly, with large eyes and overly long mouths. They were not twins but were less than a year apart in age, with an appearance very similar to each other. Neither was particularly beautiful but nor were they plain. Oliver still had no interest in either, despite the eagerness in Lady Dalton’s eyes.
“Then I must hope your moment of reflection is past and you are able now to step forward into what is certain to be a most enjoyable evening,” Lady Dalton said briskly, gesturing to her daughters. “Both Sarah and Isabella have a space or two on their dance card.”
Sighing inwardly, Oliver gave both young ladies a smile—which they both returned at once. There was no easy way to extricate himself from this particular situation, it seemed, for Lady Dalton was quite determined, and he certainly could not refuse to dance with her daughters given he had every intention of doing precisely that with other, more beautiful young ladies that might capture his interest.
“But of course,” he murmured, stepping forward and seeing the first young lady hand him her dance card. The steely look in her eyes matched that of her mother, but Oliver could not tell nor recall whether this one was Isabella or Sarah. Quickly, he wrote his name down for the cotillion for one and then the country dance for the other. Smiling briefly, he nodded to them both, trying desperately to remember how they were addressed.
“I thank you both,” he murmured, inclining his head. “I look forward to our dances, Miss…”
Lady Dalton blinked, her brows lowering. “Miss Isabella Riley and Miss Sarah Riley,” she said sharply, making him flush with embarrassment. “I know you have a great many acquaintances, Lord Montague, but I had hoped there would be some young ladies that you might remember.”
He bowed quickly in an attempt to cover his embarrassment and to fumble around for some excuse. The last thing he wanted was for Lady Dalton to speak badly about him to her friends, for rumors of that kind were not at all welcome. “I think you will recall, Lady Dalton, I was having a moment of contemplation when you first found me. That fog of contemplation has not quite lifted from my mind as yet, I fear.” This, accompanied with a somewhat apologetic looking smile, seemed to loosen the lines of irritation on Lady Dalton’s face, for she sighed quietly, lifted her chin and then, eventually, gave him a small smile.
“I quite understand,” she said, putting a hand on his arm that Oliver immediately wanted to shake off. “The return to society can be a difficult one, but I am quite certain there are many here who will be glad to see you.”
He nodded and forced himself to smile. “You are very kind and most understanding,” he told her, making her smile all the more. “I thank you, Lady Dalton.” Excusing himself, Oliver stepped away and continued quickly into the fray, wanting to escape from Lady Dalton’s clutches just as quickly as he could. That was very frustrating indeed. His behavior, it seemed, did not matter to the beau monde. He might seduce as many rich widows as he wanted, might steal kisses from otherwise innocent debutantes, but still, mothers would approach him in an attempt to push their daughters forward.
It was, of course, because they knew he would have to marry someday, and each seemed to hope their daughter would be the one to catch his eye and make him turn from his ways. Besides which, anyone could turn a blind eye to a rich and titled gentleman’s foibles, given they would have the accolade of having their daughter tied to his name!
It was, he considered, all rather sordid. He would much prefer a lady keep her daughters well away from him, rejecting his wealth and title entirely, given what they knew of his character. To have so many young ladies pushed towards him made him think their mothers did not truly care about their daughters in any way whatsoever.
“Oh, do excuse me!”
He had not looked where he was going, he realized and had now walked directly into a young lady who was standing by another lady, who had immediately narrowed her gaze towards him.
“I apologize,” he said at once, reaching out to take the lady’s arm in case she was to stumble. Had he stood on her toes? Or merely knocked into her? “I was not looking where I was going.”
“No, indeed you were not!” said the fair-haired lady, who was older than the first and was, apparently, either her mother or her companion—although given the difference in their appearance, he would think it was her companion. “Striding forward like that when there are a good many others milling about! You are much too—”
“I am quite certain it was an accident only,” came the voice of the first lady, soft and quiet, in stark contrast to the sharp, angry tones of the second. “Do excuse me, my lord.” Inclining her head, she made to turn away from him, forcing Oliver to let go of her arm.
He watched her for a moment or two, horrified to see she was now limping rather badly. Clearly, he had hurt her a good deal more than she was willing to say! He was a rogue, yes, and certainly a bit of a rascal, but he was not about to let a young lady walk away from him without assistance, especially not if he had been the one to hurt her so.
“I have pained you, I can see,” he st
ammered, hurrying forward and catching the lady’s arm. “Here, please do allow me to lead you to a chair where you might rest and recover.”
Much to his surprise, the young lady did not immediately smile and thank him for his help. Nor did she admit that, yes, he had pained her in some way or another. Instead, she merely looked up at him for a time, her green eyes shifting from one part of his face to another as though she were trying to work out what to say to him. Her lips pressed hard together, her dark tresses pulled back from her face save from a few spiraling curls by her temples. Had Oliver not been so confused by the strange reaction to his offer of help, he would have allowed himself to consider her in a much more promising light.
“If you would let go of my arm, my lord, I would be most grateful.”
Taken aback by this request, Oliver hesitated for a moment, only to let go of her arm, which dropped back to her side at once.
“Might I inquire as to your name?” she asked, her chin lifting as she looked up into his eyes. “We are not acquainted, as you might already be aware.”
Clearing his throat, Oliver inclined his head, feeling a sense of embarrassment climb up his spine, although he did not know as to why. “But of course. I am the Earl of Montague,” he said, looking curiously back at this young lady and wondering why she had refused his offer of help when almost every other lady of his acquaintance would not even have considered refusing it. “And you?”
Not even a flicker of a smile crossed the young lady’s face. She said nothing, glancing towards her companion, who gave a tiny nod.
“This is Lady Amelia,” the fair-haired lady said, gesturing towards the young lady, who did not move nor smile. “Only daughter to the late Earl of Stockbridge and now under the care of her uncle, who has taken on the title.”