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Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

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Chapter Three
As it happened, Mr. Ratchins must have had second thoughts, for there was no distinguishing visit from him all morning, despite Amaryllis forcing herself to wear her newest muslin, adorned with rosebuds and a sash of the softest flamingo pink.
Her mama, when she had seen her thus attired, had raised her brows and inquired whether Amaryllis was expecting any visitors that day.
“No, Mama.”
“Well, I wish you were, for you are in excellent good looks, my dear, and I feel certain that if only Mr. Darrow or even, yes, I shall dare to look so high—the Earl of Devonport—should set eyes on you thus . . .”
“Oh, Mama! Let us not speak of such things! There is not the remotest chance that either of those gentleman will show the smallest interest in me . . .”
“No? I heard you waltzed with a certain earl last night. I could have kicked myself for missing the spectacle, but I was engaged in the most riveting game of piquet . . .”
“It was nothing, Mama.”
“Nothing? When it was the talk of the ballroom? Now, my dear, do not look so coy, I am very pleased with you and if only we can put our heads together to think of a way . . . I know! We can invite a select circle to a picnic at your uncle's country seat. It will be unexceptional at this time of year, and I feel sure I can include Lord Redding, for after all, his mama and I were once close acquaintances . . .”
“Mama!”
“What?”
“I forbid you to think of such a thing! Oh, it is embarrassing and so horribly transparent . . .”
“But, my dear, how do you expect his lordship to become better acquainted with you if you don't make the slightest push to meet him?”
“I don't expect it! Mama, fixing one's eye on Lord Redding is like expecting to make a match with Czar Alexander himself! It is . . . it is . . . romantic nonsense.”
“Then you like him?” Lady Hastings regarded her daughter keenly.
“Yes. Yes. Of course I do.” A delicate pink suffused Amaryllis's cheeks. “But what is that to the purpose?”
“The purpose is that his lordship distinguished you last night with a waltz.”
“Yes, and Martha Caddington and Lila Trewellyn . . .”
“Only a quadrille and Martha is of no account. There is a reason she has had three Seasons already. She is the most spiteful widgeon alive and I cannot think his lordship will be cajoled by her forward manner.”
“I cannot think he will be cajoled by my insipid one!”
“Amaryllis Hastings, I should wash your mouth out for such nonsense! You are not insipid, you are charming.”
“Mama, I am a wallflower! I have not taken, and you know it! You cannot think how thankful I am when I manage to get my card half full . . .”
Lady Hastings blinked back a tear. Amaryllis spoke the truth, though she could not think why, for her daughter had character and a generosity of spirit that was rare for her age.
How stupid gentlemen are when they come to look for a bride! How tiresome not to recognize her daughter's sterling qualities! Oh, if only Amaryllis would consent to wearing the latest, low-cut necklines! With her slender figure and rounded curves . . . oh, it was a shame she was so modest, for she hid her greatest attributes—her face and her figure—behind potted plants. It was nothing but a matter of shyness, if she could develop a more flirtatious manner . . .
“Mama, I know what you are thinking! I am not going to bat my eyelashes for Mr. Darrow, I should look a quiz!”
“It is not Mr. Darrow I was thinking of, Amaryllis!”
But Amaryllis would not be baited. With a flush high upon her cheeks, she announced there was no point continuing on with such a tedious discussion. She had work in the herbarium, for Lady Atholl had advised her of a new way of propagating lemon grass and she was anxious to try it out.
The next few days Amaryllis threw herself into her work. She enjoyed gardening very much indeed and Lady Hasting's London residence benefited much from her expertise. She found it impossible to stitch, or do needlework or any of the indoor activities she usually found solace in, for whenever she had a spare moment she found herself thinking uncomfortably of Lord Redding's arms upon her, and his deep, hazel green eyes regarding her with more seriousness than she was used to and oh, her tingling nerves as he smiled....
Then she would think what a ninnyhammer she was being, and of Martha's spiteful remark, which, whilst mean-spirited, was nevertheless unfortunately true. She had been no more than Lord Redding's token wallflower. She must not lose herself in nonsensical contemplation.
She did her very best not to, for she rode vigorously every day and reveled in her discovery of the upper stacks at the Temple of the Muses. She was accompanied to Albany, of course, by her maid and very often by Lila Trewellyn, who was also a bookworm and delighted in finding some of the cheaper bargains above stairs.
Somehow, though, her thoughts were not on Shakespeare—whom she admired enormously and had obtained a collection of his first editions at a lucky price. No, they were more in the way of a
Midsummer Night's Dream
and she had to keep pinching herself to remember that she was in a bookstore, not a certain earl's residence in Mayfair.
Unfortunately, her thoughts, when they were contained, kept straying to Clementine and Vicky, and she could not help but wonder if they had enjoyed their repast undiscovered, and whether a new deportment master had ever been appointed.
“Amaryllis, I could swear you are in a dream world of your own!” Lila's voice had a slight edge to it, for she had been quoting Addington and Steele to her friend for nearly a minute without so much as a chuckle in response.
“I am sorry, Lila, I am such a scatterbrain lately! Shall we get out of here?”
Lila agreed, though she regarded her friend sharply and nearly said something teasing, then determined to hold her peace. It was perfectly obvious to her that Amaryllis was suffering the first pangs of love, and she had a very compassionate idea that they could not be comfortable when there was no hope of reciprocation.
Even as they wended their way down the winding stairs, past the various lounging rooms until they were at last at the huge circular counter that was almost as famous as the shop itself, Amaryllis seemed to be casting anxious glances at the gentlemen lounging behind newspapers and
Morning Gazettes
. But if she hoped to see a certain Lord Stephen Redding, Earl of Devonport, she was doomed most utterly to disappointment.
 
 
Lord Redding was not in so sorry a state himself. He was carefully perusing a list that had been placed in his elegant hands by his mama, the dowager countess Devonport. He adored his mama, who had been very kind indeed to him as a child, though she herself had lost her heart to his father and been treated rather offhandedly in return.
He was determined not to cause any woman that pain, nor himself be subjected to the type of agonies his mother had been. His marriage, he was certain, would be warm, but not tender, respectful but not dependent.
More and more, he was yearning not just for an heir—which naturally was his duty to provide—but a child of his heart. Perhaps he was being fanciful, but the time he had spent with his nieces had been so warm and uplifting, so funny and tender that he'd been moved to contemplate the notion of becoming a father himself.
Vicky and Clem were like tonics, but there was always that nagging feeling that they were not his—they belonged, in truth, to his sister, and the moments he had with them, though precious, were ephemeral. He wanted to lavish love on someone who was entirely his own, the product of his dreams and hopes and love. Somewhere vaguely in the background he acknowledged the role of the mother in all of this, but it was an odd and misty notion. All his focus was on fatherhood, and the joys he might bring to a small person, boy or girl.
But heirs did not materialize without suitable mothers. He was not impractical! Indeed, he was pragmatism himself, for he had enlisted his own mother's aid to sort the suitable from the unsuitable, the wheat from the chaff.
Certain names on the list had been circled, others had had neat deletions penned through them with short comments in indigo in the margins. These were often edifying, for the countess had a sharp wit—and my lord smiled as he read.
He himself held a quill and every so often appended his own comments and deletions. Miss Martha Caddington had already been deleted by the countess, but her bosom bow, Miss Camilla Ingles, had not. His lordship, his memory fresh from the tedious quadrille, now corrected this obvious omission with a firm deletion of his own. He could tolerate hauteur, but not archness. Miss Ingles, he felt certain, was not only arch, she was mean.
At one name, however, he stopped, and his hazel eyes grew slightly softer. When the girls crept up on him, his hand was just hovering to append a question mark to the crisp margins.
“What are you doing, Uncle?”
“Gracious, girls, I think I have told you a dozen times not to creep up on me like that!”
“Sorry!” But from certain merry giggles my lord inferred they were not very sorry at all. He smiled.
“Are you satisfied with your new deportment master?”
“He is perfect.”
“Good. I shall await with interest your evolution from a parcel of monkeys to two elegant young ladies.”
Vicky grinned. “Won't Mama and Papa be surprised? They shall hardly recognize us when they return from Rome, so decorous we shall be!”
My lord smiled. “I am not placing my trust in miracles. Mr. Darrington may be handsome, but I don't think he is omnipotent! So long as you girls behave just a
fraction
more becomingly, I shall be well pleased.”
Clem looked indignant. “You wrong us, sir! We have been perfect angels ever since the unfortunate ink incident.”
“The . . . er . . . unfortunate ink incident, as you put it, has cost me a small fortune. I was obliged to pay Mr. Petersham a term's fees and replace his confounded hat besides. Do you know he uses Renfrew and Grogan hatters? It was no small expense, I assure you.”
“Tsha! I'll bet he never set foot in their premises in his life. Renfrew and Grogan indeed! You were hoodwinked, Uncle.”
“Again? Dear, dear. I thought once might be enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you little scamps, that you did not suffer your due punishment for that particular crime. I noticed a certain Miss Amaryllis Hastings coming to your rescue.”
The girls stared at one another guiltily.
“Oh, Uncle,
pray
do not be displeased! Punish us again, if you like, only don't, don't delete Miss Hastings from your list.”
“My list? By thunder, I should take my whip to you girls! Do you mean you have been reading my correspondence?”
“Only that one, Uncle, it was on your desk and we could not help but notice . . . have you danced with Miss Hastings? She really has the prettiest of ankles. We noticed, for she nearly tripped over our spy glasses . . .”
“Out! Both of you out before I lose my temper!”
Clementine held her ground. “Uncle, please, please consider Miss Hastings! Miss Ingles is a simpleton and Lady Wimberley is patronizing and Miss Caddington is nothing but a witch in woman's clothing . . .”
“Out!”
There was no denying that tone of voice. The girls withdrew at once, but not before catching a glimpse, once more, of his lordship's piece of parchment. It was entitled, rather crisply, “Suitable brides.”
 
 
Miss Hastings attended a number of soirées and balls in the following few weeks. They were all bittersweet, for though she glowed with anticipation, and was the prettier for it, she could not help but notice that his lordship paid her precious little attention at all, and that the prized offer of the waltz that she cherished so deeply in her memory was not repeated.
Lady Hastings, her mama, tried not to show her disappointment at this, but pushed Amaryllis even harder to find partners for every set. To Amaryllis's extreme discomfort she gave up even her cards to do so, so now there was simply no respite and dozens of young gentlemen were forced by common civility to make their bows.
Amaryllis found this process excruciating and withdrew more than ever into her shyness. As a result, any suitors she might have had soon gave up, and only Mr. Ratchins kept making sly remarks about matrimony and the “honor he might imminently bestow a certain young lady.”
Amaryllis had now ceased to hope that the earl might call, and lived in constant dread that Mr. Ratchins might live up to his promises and do so instead. As far as possible she hid in the herbarium, and what comfort she got was in the delicious scents of lemongrass that pervaded the area, for the propagation had taken very well indeed, and the transformation of rose petals to essences was worth the effort.
BOOK: An Imperfect Proposal
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