the guards to bring a medieval axe after I’d dropped my scone on the carpet.”
“My mother had informed Her Majesty of my anxious fantasy before we arrived!” He continued with another smile.
His smile broadened when her mother laughed, softening his harsh features.
“ We , Your Grace?” Amanda touched his sleeve, inviting more confidences.
“My elder brother,” He replied tersely, his expression drawing closed.
She returned her hand to her lap, feeling unreasonably foolish for the pang of hurt she experienced with his withdrawal. Her skin prickled at the nape of her neck; she looked over to find Douglas Warfield, windblown and glassy eyed from the sun, advancing across the room with Blanche Oelrichs and some of the other members of their golfing group. Her eyes widened when he diverted his path away from the table Miss Oelrichs and her friends claimed and started towards their table. He came to an abrupt halt beside her, forcing her to introduce him to her mother and to the duke.
The duke eyed Mr. Warfield warily as he stood to shake hands. Her mother on the other hand, was visibly delighted by her golf partner’s courtly manners as he lifted her slim, gloved hand to his lips in Continental fashion. Amanda grimaced when, without an explicit invitation, Mr. Warfield took the vacant seat on her other side, settling between she and her mother. One of the attendants, trained to anticipate the guests every need, had already added another tea cup and matching saucer to the table, and still another arrived to replenish their supply of thin, crustless sandwiches and cakes.
“I’ve never met a duke,” Mr. Warfield stated, bristling with nervous energy. “How long do you intend to remain in Newport? Perhaps we could get a party up for a clambake at Easton’s Point if you are still around.”
“I have no definite plans, as my visit to America is rather open-ended,” The duke replied neutrally. “But I would enjoy a clambake if Miss Vandewater and I find the time to accept your invitation.”
Amanda gasped softly. This was the first inkling the duke made of his intentions towards her, and judging by the blanching of Mr. Warfield’s complexion, he too understood the implications of such a public declaration. She didn’t know how she felt about this, even though she knew he had accepted her mother’s impulsive invitation to visit them in Newport. Her mother’s smile faltered a bit, for though she did like the duke, she was chary of transatlantic marriages, but Amanda knew her father would be thrilled by the news, and would not hesitate to run roughshod over anyone’s objection or obstruction—including that posed by the persistent figure of Douglas Warfield.
* * *
Amanda was present at the Long Wharf when the Fall River Line steamer pulled into its berth and released the scores of New York businessmen who traveled every weekend between their Manhattan offices and Newport. She squeezed the horn attached to the hood of the apple red Packard Model F she’d wheedled from the chauffeur, and grinned at father when he glanced at her, and then glanced back with a dumbfounded expression on his face. He was, until now, unaware she knew how to drive an automobile (lessons had also been wheedled from the chauffeur), and she grasped the steering wheel with a stubborn tilt to her chin as he approached. His amazement had mellowed to disgruntled amusement. She ignored this and waved at her father’s longtime valet, Jonah White, who followed behind her father, carrying their luggage.
“Hello Papa, White,” She gestured towards the rear of the motor. “I’ve got my foot on the
“My mother had informed Her Majesty of my anxious fantasy before we arrived!” He continued with another smile.
His smile broadened when her mother laughed, softening his harsh features.
“ We , Your Grace?” Amanda touched his sleeve, inviting more confidences.
“My elder brother,” He replied tersely, his expression drawing closed.
She returned her hand to her lap, feeling unreasonably foolish for the pang of hurt she experienced with his withdrawal. Her skin prickled at the nape of her neck; she looked over to find Douglas Warfield, windblown and glassy eyed from the sun, advancing across the room with Blanche Oelrichs and some of the other members of their golfing group. Her eyes widened when he diverted his path away from the table Miss Oelrichs and her friends claimed and started towards their table. He came to an abrupt halt beside her, forcing her to introduce him to her mother and to the duke.
The duke eyed Mr. Warfield warily as he stood to shake hands. Her mother on the other hand, was visibly delighted by her golf partner’s courtly manners as he lifted her slim, gloved hand to his lips in Continental fashion. Amanda grimaced when, without an explicit invitation, Mr. Warfield took the vacant seat on her other side, settling between she and her mother. One of the attendants, trained to anticipate the guests every need, had already added another tea cup and matching saucer to the table, and still another arrived to replenish their supply of thin, crustless sandwiches and cakes.
“I’ve never met a duke,” Mr. Warfield stated, bristling with nervous energy. “How long do you intend to remain in Newport? Perhaps we could get a party up for a clambake at Easton’s Point if you are still around.”
“I have no definite plans, as my visit to America is rather open-ended,” The duke replied neutrally. “But I would enjoy a clambake if Miss Vandewater and I find the time to accept your invitation.”
Amanda gasped softly. This was the first inkling the duke made of his intentions towards her, and judging by the blanching of Mr. Warfield’s complexion, he too understood the implications of such a public declaration. She didn’t know how she felt about this, even though she knew he had accepted her mother’s impulsive invitation to visit them in Newport. Her mother’s smile faltered a bit, for though she did like the duke, she was chary of transatlantic marriages, but Amanda knew her father would be thrilled by the news, and would not hesitate to run roughshod over anyone’s objection or obstruction—including that posed by the persistent figure of Douglas Warfield.
* * *
Amanda was present at the Long Wharf when the Fall River Line steamer pulled into its berth and released the scores of New York businessmen who traveled every weekend between their Manhattan offices and Newport. She squeezed the horn attached to the hood of the apple red Packard Model F she’d wheedled from the chauffeur, and grinned at father when he glanced at her, and then glanced back with a dumbfounded expression on his face. He was, until now, unaware she knew how to drive an automobile (lessons had also been wheedled from the chauffeur), and she grasped the steering wheel with a stubborn tilt to her chin as he approached. His amazement had mellowed to disgruntled amusement. She ignored this and waved at her father’s longtime valet, Jonah White, who followed behind her father, carrying their luggage.
“Hello Papa, White,” She gestured towards the rear of the motor. “I’ve got my foot on the
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