Page 74 of The Lyon Whisperer
She herself was having a delightful time at the Colliers’ ball—the most fun she’d had during a London season since her first, before she realized every ball and soiree meant entering another arena whereby she had to plot and scheme to avoid notice by every ancient, amoral nobleman in search of a bride.
For better or worse, that particular thorn in her side would never plague her again. She was well and truly married, and as such, off the marriage mart.
Thus, unlike Georgina, she was free to dance the night away without fearing finding herself potentially shackled to a prostitute-frequenting man like Lord Taylor, or one equally abhorrent such as Lord Hamilton who was blithely unconcerned with skirting Britain’s ban on the disgusting slave trade by conducting his business overseas.
No, she had somehow drawn the attention of Lord Chase Culver. By all appearances, a man of integrity and honor, and hadn’t Mrs. Dove-Lyon bestowed her stamp of approval on him?
Never mind her breath caught at the mere sight of him.
She wondered if he would soon come to claim the dance as he’d promised.
His prediction for how the night would unfold had certainly proved correct—at least to start with. Innumerable members of thetonhad made a point to visit her under the guise of offering felicitations on her recent wedding, only to ask probing questions in hopes of uncovering any and all sordid details explaining her and Chase’s hasty wedding.
Her small band of allies had managed the deluge nicely.
Yes,of course, Lady Duval and Lord Culver had known each other the better part of a year.
No, of course, they hadnotrecently made each other’s acquaintance.
Yes, indeed, their courtship commencedagesago.
No, the two hadnotmarried out of necessity, and shame on the person who suggested such a thing.
The one surprise had come in the shape ofincominggossip, namely the supposition on everyone’s lips as the night wore on that theirs was a love match. Amelia would have dearly loved to know who made up that nonsense.
Nonsense or not, the myth had spread like wildfire until the gossip mongers grew bored with the subject entirely.
After that, men came in droves to feast their eyes on the woman—one her father had lamented more than once in her hearing was in danger of being proclaimed a spinster thanks to two failed seasons and one she’d bypassed completely—who had captured the Iron Lion, the newly named Baron of Sidford and heir to the old and distinguished Everston Viscountcy.
She smiled as yet another man appeared before her. By his youth, statue-rigid posture, and stoic expression, Amelia took him for a soldier.
“G-good evening, ladies. I wanted to come by to offer my congratulations to Lord and Lady Culver.” He glanced around, and a hot flush stained his cheeks. “My apologies. I see that he is not about.”
The man was a stutterer and the more he stuttered, the more miserable he looked.
Amelia could never abide witnessing another person’s discomfort. “Do not trouble yourself, sir. I am happy to pass on any well-wishes to my husband. What is your name?”
“My n-name is Mr. Jason Defoe. I served in L-lord Culver’s regiment.”
His brown eyes glowed when he mentioned her husband, warming her to the man instantly.
“Mr. Defoe, I find myself quite parched. Would you mind escorting me to the refreshment room for a cold glass of lemonade?”
“I would be honored,” he said, and proffered his elbow.
Lady Harriet touched her arm. “Amelia, would you like Margaret and me to join the two of you?” Her eyes said clearly what her words had not. She still must proceed with caution.
But Amelia felt certain the danger had passed. She shook her head and lowered her voice for Lady Harriet’s ears only. “I believe Lady Georgina would prefer you to stay here with her to ward off any potential dance partners.”
They glanced at their friend, currently brandishing her fan like a shield as she somehow simultaneously jotted in a small notebook.
Georgina was a popular novelist who published under the pseudonym G.T. Arlington to keep her identity secret from all save her parents and the members of the LLS. It wouldn’t do for thetonto realize she wrote the licentious novels they lapped up like kittens feasting on cream.
Even so, Georgina tended to capture ideas as they struck her.
Amelia smiled at the young man at her side and resumed speaking in a normal octave. “I am in good hands with Mr. Defoe. He will see me safely there and back, will you not, sir?”
“On my honor, ma’am.”
