Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

A melia sat rigid in the chair, eyes so wide and unblinking that they began to sting, every impulse telling her to get up and run. At the very least, to say everything she had held back for years; all the ways in which he had suffocated her.

“I beg your pardon?” Valery spoke where Amelia could not, rising up out of her chair. “You have mentioned nothing of this to your sister! You cannot just march over here and tell Amelia that she is to be married.”

Martin glowered at her. “As you said, she is my sister. She knows her duties. She understands expectations, and she shall do what is required of her. She is two-and-twenty, for pity’s sake—it is high time.” He took a breath, straightening out the front of his waistcoat. “Nor is it any of your concern.”

“But it is… rather a shock,” Amelia gasped, desperately trying to bring a greater protest to her lips. “You said… nothing of this. I deserved to be… warned.”

“Sister, you will come with me,” Martin instructed sourly. “The Baron awaits his formal introduction.”

Amelia still could not move, panic freezing her limbs, her heart somehow beating too slow and too fast at the same time. Her stomach twisted into knots while her mind struggled to fathom what she was hearing. Surely, this had to be a bad dream.

“No,” she whispered. “I am… not prepared. I… I cannot. Let me have tonight. I…”

Martin was not listening, holding out his arm impatiently. “Hurry yourself!”

“Valery,” Amelia urged, neglecting to add, I need you to speak for me.

Valery nodded and took a step, as if she meant to put herself between Martin and Amelia. “You just asked Amelia why she was not dancing. That suggests to me that you are in no great hurry to take her to this… Baron. Arrange to have tea tomorrow with the man; do not take her from my side tonight. Do as she wishes, and let her have tonight.”

“And allow you to whisper doubts in her ear? I do not think so. Besides, my wishes are her wishes and she will do as she is told.” Martin stretched out his arm, waiting for Amelia to take it.

If I do not stand up now, it will be worse. Get up, Amelia! Get up! It took all of the willpower she possessed to rise from her chair on shaky legs, her lungs fighting for air. And when she glanced at Valery’s horrified, heartbroken face, it was almost enough to make her sit back down and refuse to budge.

Almost.

“Do not embarrass me,” Martin hissed. “People are watching.”

Which people? Amelia’s eyes flitted toward that shadowy corner once more, but the gentleman with the spectacles had gone.

Sighing quietly, she took hold of her brother’s arm and offered an apologetic look to her dearest friend, wishing she had even a morsel of Valery’s courage. But it was impossible to break the habits of two decades in an instant, and though she hated her brother’s controlling nature, hated how small he made her feel, she could no sooner defy him than she could take to the stage and sing an operetta.

No matter what his command was, she had to obey. That was who she was, and who she had been raised to be. Besides, if she disobeyed her brother, she would only receive a worse barrage from her father, and the outcome would remain the same: she would do what she did not want to, behaving as the dutiful, docile lady she was supposed to be.

Moll Flanders would not suffer this… Then again, Amelia would not have wanted to be Moll Flanders.

With her chin down as always, staring at the front of her shoes as they peeked out in turns from the hem of her skirts, she allowed Martin to lead her through the opulent Assembly Rooms.

As they walked, she heard more chatter about the enigmatic Earl of Westyork. Valery had been right; it was anyone seemed capable of talking about, to the point where she almost pitied the Earl his sudden explosion of fame.

“He must have decided to make a grand entrance,” someone said confidently.

“Or he has fooled us all and will not attend at all,” another replied.

“At the first ball of the Season? Balderdash! Of course, he will be here. If it is a bride he seeks, then there is no better place. He could have his pick of the debutantes. Oh, I do wonder who the lucky girl shall be,” concluded the first with a wistful sigh.

To Amelia’s surprise, her brother did not lead her to one of the rooms where guests could go when they had tired of dancing, or had no interest in watching. They passed the refreshment room, the tea room, the music room and, for an awful moment, she wondered if her brother was going to knock on the door of the smoking room and make her wait for her ‘betrothed’ to emerge, brandy-soaked and stinking of cigars.

But they passed that too, until there was nowhere left to go but out.

“You will be nice,” Martin warned, turning to face her as they reached the double doors that led out into a flagstone courtyard. “You will be polite and courteous, and you will compliment him and show your enthusiasm for the match. Am I understood?”

Amelia swallowed thickly. “Yes, Brother.”

“Good. The sooner you are married to this man and away from the influences of that… awful woman you call a friend, the better,” Martin grumbled. “At least that other friend of yours is well-stationed now. The Baron will be delighted to hear that you are acquainted with a Duke and Duchess. Now, be silent unless you are spoken to.”

He pushed open the door and ushered her through, the tap of his shoes on the flagstones like the beat of an executioner’s drum, as he led her toward what was, apparently, to be her fate.

Nothing could have prepared her.

“Ah, Thorne! I wondered when you would hunt me down!” a slurring voice crowed from across the courtyard. A figure stood there in the light of a torch, puffing on a cigar though there were several ladies out there, taking in some fresh air.

Martin fixed a smile to his face. “Lord Hervey, I have brought my dear, sweet sister to meet you.”

Dear, sweet sister? Amelia might have snorted if she was not so terrified, trembling all the way down to the marrow of her bones. Why was it that Martin only spoke nicely about her when he was pretending to be a pleasant brother?

“This is the little dove, is it?” The figure lumbered out of the hazy torchlight, blowing out a plume of acrid, bluish smoke that struck Amelia directly in the face.

Her throat tightened, eyes watering as she tried to swallow the urge to cough.

“Indeed, here is your future bride,” Martin replied, giving Amelia a slight shove forward.

The Baron’s eyes wandered all the way from her shoes to the top of her head, his mild smile becoming a leer as he surveyed his prize. He rolled his tongue across his teeth, and pinched his cigar between them, before sucking in a mouthful of the smoke and blowing it into her face for a second time.

As daintily as she could, she coughed into her hand. “Apologies, My Lord,” she said quietly, uncertain of who she detested more: this man or her brother.

“That is quite all right,” the Baron replied. “I expect a woman to have delicate sensibilities. And you are… very delicate indeed. Your brother said I would not be disappointed but, I must admit, I had my doubts.”

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips, where his kiss lingered far too long on the silk of her gloves. “I am pleased to say that all of my doubts have been allayed.” He smirked. “You will do very nicely indeed.”

As he finally let go of her hand, she stole a discreet breath of relief, and proceeded to stand there before him, having no notion of what to say. Martin had told her to be silent unless spoken to, after all, and she was nothing if not spitefully compliant.

“I bet you must have dreamed of your wedding day since you were a girl,” the Baron said, his eyes glinting like hot coals in the dark.

When Amelia did not immediately respond, Martin jabbed her in the back.

“As often as any girl does,” she replied, attempting to smile. “Have you imagined your wedding day, My Lord?”

He must have been close to fifty, his hair gray but still thick, with far too much oil in it. Amelia imagined one could fry several eggs with it if one were to wring out the strands. Perhaps he had been handsome once, but the years of indulgence were marked upon his face: in the purple bulbosity of his nose, the sallowness of his complexion, the jowls around his mouth, and the glassiness of his eyes.

I cannot marry this man. The words were a scream in Amelia’s head as she did her best to hold her nerve.

“Heavens, no,” the Baron replied, snorting. “Never thought I would marry, truth be told, but I am certainly glad I changed my mind. How nervous and innocent you are, Lady Amelia. I cannot decide if want to scare you or embrace you. Utterly… thrilling.”

Amelia fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist, her skin crawling beneath that awful man’s admiring gaze. “Do you like to read, My Lord?”

“Not if I can help it.” He pulled a face. “Do not tell me you are one of those bluestockings?”

Martin intervened swiftly. “She reads but little, Lord Hervey. Why, she would rather embroider or take tea with her acquaintances than read. Did I mention that her dearest friend is the Duchess of Davenport?”

“Davenport, eh?” The Baron nodded, seemingly pleased. “Excellent grounds for hunting, I hear. Well, that is something at least. You will have to see me invited when it is time for fox hunting, Lady Amelia.”

I shall do no such thing. Amelia forced herself to smile and bob her head graciously, knowing with all certainty that she and this man had nothing in common, and if she was to marry him, her future would be bleak indeed.

Her books had been her only source of happiness for most of her life, and she suspected that the Baron would have no library to at least soften the blow of such a terrible marriage. Nor would he be likely to let her have one.

“Ah, blast it!” The Baron dropped the end of his cigar to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot, sparks puffing out and dying on the stone. “I shall have to fetch another. Thorne, let us have brandy tomorrow—we can discuss the details then, but I am content to proceed.”

He made one last, leering view of Amelia, and sauntered off across the courtyard, disappearing back into the Assembly Rooms.

The moment he was gone, Amelia whirled around, hands clasped as she begged, “Brother, please do not make me marry that terrible man.” She kept her voice low, so as not to be overheard. “You must end this betrothal at once, before anything can be announced. I cannot marry him. I will not. And if you have ever cared a jot for me, you will not force me to.”

“How dare you speak to me like that,” Martin replied tersely, his eyes narrowing. “You will do as you are told, and you will be grateful for the match that Father and I have made for you.”

Amelia shook her head. “Please, no. I beg of you. I will do anything, Brother.” She grasped for his hands. “I will find my own match within the month, if you would but grant me those four weeks. I promise, I shall do it. I shall not falter or delay. Please, Brother!”

He wrenched his hands out of her grip, his fierce breath pluming like that wretched cigar smoke in the cold air. “You had that opportunity, and you frittered it away. Amelia, you no longer have a choice in this matter. It has been decided. Indeed, you will be married to the Baron of Hervey before Christmastide, and you will be happy about it.”

“Brother…” she wheezed, willing him to be decent, willing him to be a real brother to her just once.

But she could see in his cold stare that he would not be swayed, and if she tried to make the same plea to her father, it would do no good. They were cut from the same cloth, as suffocating and unfeeling as each other. She had no one within her family who would fight in her corner, and her friends could only do so much to help her.

“Brother, I am begging you,” she gasped, her hand clasped to her chest as a great weight sank slowly into the pit of her stomach.

“No, you are behaving in an unseemly manner,” he replied curtly. “It is very unbecoming, and I am glad that the Baron is not still here to witness it. I shall grant you a moment to gather yourself, and then you will return inside and you will stay at my side, and if the Baron should look for you again, you will be civil. What you will not do is whine and whimper.”

He straightened his posture, turned around, and headed back through the doors to the Assembly Rooms. Through the square panes of the French doors, she could see him watching and waiting. A distant chaperone.

There were a few others still outside, but they paid Amelia no mind.

Concentrating on the chilly wind nipping at her cheeks and the wavering flames of the torch in front of her, Amelia sucked in breath after frantic breath. But it was as if her lungs were half stuffed with wool, making her feel faint.

Come on, Amelia! she scolded herself. You have read thousands of books. You have read of heroes and heroines escaping worse than this. You cannot give up now.

Like a candle being lit in the depths of an abandoned dungeon, a thought suddenly ignited, dispelling the shadows of utter horror that had begun to encroach.

She was no courageous heroine, sword in hand, striding out to fight dragons and monsters, but perhaps she could be the sort of heroine who stood her ground when all hope was lost. Her brother and father had driven her to it, for a lady—even the quietest of them—could only bear so much before she snapped.

If you will not give me a month to find myself a husband, then I shall find one before the sun rises on tomorrow… She took a breath and felt her lungs allow a little more air to enter, the anxious grip of her fear easing ever so slightly.

And I know precisely where I must go.

For there was one gentleman of the ton who had made it clear that he desired a convenient bride, and she had nothing left to lose.