Chapter One
January 1820
Amelia Banbrook peered into the
dimly lit corridor, thankful that for once, Lord Weatherby's servants were being
frugal with the candles. Or perhaps
they were more interested in setting the mood for the house party. Either way, it did not matter. She simply did not want anyone to see her as
she attempted to skulk off to her room for the rest of the evening, especially
as the parlor games were still well underway.
As the daughter of the Earl of
Hollinworth and an invited guest, she was expected to fully participate in the
silly, childish games that marked the penultimate evening of the Twelfth Night
celebration at Weatherby Hall. Except
that she could not tolerate parlor games and had thought Lord Weatherby - or
David as she privately referred to him - could not, either.
Then again, as the host of their
party, he could not precisely say no to the repeated requests from his
assembled guests for evenings filled with fun and frivolity, either.
Though he could have said no
to the rather overt attentions of Lady Lydia Parham, daughter of the Viscount
Colebrooke, who clung to David like a leach to skin. That, she was certain, he could have said no to at least in some
fashion.
No, that was mean, Amelia chided
herself as she scurried into the hall, praying that no one had noticed her
departure from the ballroom. It was not
David's fault that the chit was empty-headed and simpering. If anything, it was her parents' fault for
too often indulging their overly spoilt offspring in her every whim and
desire. Not that Lady Colebrooke would
ever view her daughter in such a disparaging way, of course. After all, Lady Lydia had been raised from
the cradle to be a peer's wife, a countess or perhaps even a duchess. At the moment, however, given the way she
was attached to David's side as a burr might be to a saddle, she seemed
perfectly content to aspire to the title of countess.
That aspiration made Amelia's head
throb and her heart ache.
Not that she truly had any reason
to feel thus, of course.
After all, it wasn't as if Amelia
herself had any claim over David. Not
specifically anyway. She also most
certainly should not be thinking of the Earl of Weatherby by his Christian
name, despite the fact that he had known her since she was a babe and he not
much out of leading strings. That was
far too familiar a thing for their current positions in life.
No, Amelia did not have that
right. No one did. But she wanted to. Very much so. More than
she had wanted anything in a very long time.
For at some undetermined point over
the previous season, Lady Amelia Banbrook had done the one thing a shy,
unremarkable bluestocking of a spinster with an occasional sharp tongue should
never even contemplate. She had
stupidly - foolishly even - gone and fallen in love with one of the most
handsome, eligible and sought-after men of the ton . None other than her childhood friend and
country neighbor, Lord David Rutledge, the Earl of Weatherby.
Even though he most decidedly did
not love her in return.
Not that his lack of romantic
affection for her should come as a surprise to Amelia. After all, she was already five and twenty,
well past the prime marriageable age of a debutante, and she had never made
much of an impression on the marriage mart, let alone Society in general. Much like her person, her seasons had all
been remarkably unremarkable.
Neither hideous nor beautiful,
Amelia was somewhere in the middle of the debutantes with nothing much to
commend her except her family's fortune, her rather overly large dowry, and her
childhood connection to the Earl of Weatherby, which, to her surprise, opened
far more doors to her than she would have anticipated.
Well, her connection to Weatherby
helped, certainly. However, she was
also wise enough to know that her father's country estate, Fallstaff Grange,
bordered not just one but two estates owned by rather
January 1820
Amelia Banbrook peered into the
dimly lit corridor, thankful that for once, Lord Weatherby's servants were being
frugal with the candles. Or perhaps
they were more interested in setting the mood for the house party. Either way, it did not matter. She simply did not want anyone to see her as
she attempted to skulk off to her room for the rest of the evening, especially
as the parlor games were still well underway.
As the daughter of the Earl of
Hollinworth and an invited guest, she was expected to fully participate in the
silly, childish games that marked the penultimate evening of the Twelfth Night
celebration at Weatherby Hall. Except
that she could not tolerate parlor games and had thought Lord Weatherby - or
David as she privately referred to him - could not, either.
Then again, as the host of their
party, he could not precisely say no to the repeated requests from his
assembled guests for evenings filled with fun and frivolity, either.
Though he could have said no
to the rather overt attentions of Lady Lydia Parham, daughter of the Viscount
Colebrooke, who clung to David like a leach to skin. That, she was certain, he could have said no to at least in some
fashion.
No, that was mean, Amelia chided
herself as she scurried into the hall, praying that no one had noticed her
departure from the ballroom. It was not
David's fault that the chit was empty-headed and simpering. If anything, it was her parents' fault for
too often indulging their overly spoilt offspring in her every whim and
desire. Not that Lady Colebrooke would
ever view her daughter in such a disparaging way, of course. After all, Lady Lydia had been raised from
the cradle to be a peer's wife, a countess or perhaps even a duchess. At the moment, however, given the way she
was attached to David's side as a burr might be to a saddle, she seemed
perfectly content to aspire to the title of countess.
That aspiration made Amelia's head
throb and her heart ache.
Not that she truly had any reason
to feel thus, of course.
After all, it wasn't as if Amelia
herself had any claim over David. Not
specifically anyway. She also most
certainly should not be thinking of the Earl of Weatherby by his Christian
name, despite the fact that he had known her since she was a babe and he not
much out of leading strings. That was
far too familiar a thing for their current positions in life.
No, Amelia did not have that
right. No one did. But she wanted to. Very much so. More than
she had wanted anything in a very long time.
For at some undetermined point over
the previous season, Lady Amelia Banbrook had done the one thing a shy,
unremarkable bluestocking of a spinster with an occasional sharp tongue should
never even contemplate. She had
stupidly - foolishly even - gone and fallen in love with one of the most
handsome, eligible and sought-after men of the ton . None other than her childhood friend and
country neighbor, Lord David Rutledge, the Earl of Weatherby.
Even though he most decidedly did
not love her in return.
Not that his lack of romantic
affection for her should come as a surprise to Amelia. After all, she was already five and twenty,
well past the prime marriageable age of a debutante, and she had never made
much of an impression on the marriage mart, let alone Society in general. Much like her person, her seasons had all
been remarkably unremarkable.
Neither hideous nor beautiful,
Amelia was somewhere in the middle of the debutantes with nothing much to
commend her except her family's fortune, her rather overly large dowry, and her
childhood connection to the Earl of Weatherby, which, to her surprise, opened
far more doors to her than she would have anticipated.
Well, her connection to Weatherby
helped, certainly. However, she was
also wise enough to know that her father's country estate, Fallstaff Grange,
bordered not just one but two estates owned by rather
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