Page 182 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Viktor called? He seems at loose ends lately, as I haven’t the time to racket about with him,” Mal observed.
“The rotter,” Joseph added from the depths of his chair.
“Come now, don’t be bitter. You both share the honor of having been thrown over by Miss Pettigrew, which should make you friends,” Mal said. He swiped a missive off the salver, noting the return address of Eton. “Hugh wrote! I hope the food is getting better, he’s put that bully boy Southwood in his place, and he’s not already asking for money.”
He threw himself into a chair beside Amaranthe, already lost in the letter. Whatever Hugh needed, she knew Mal would send it at once without question. They’d gone together to deliver Hugh to Eton for the Michaelmas term, and it was clear that school was just what the boy needed to take his mind off his change in circumstances.
Mal had coached him at length about what to ignore and what to answer with his fists when he was insulted about his bastardy, and he had concluded the lessons with demonstrations of precisely where the fists should be placed. They had left Hugh eager to fit in but also ready for battle, and Amaranthe wonderedif a bit of scrapping to prove his worth wasn’t exactly what the lad needed to lift his spirits.
“Will you look at this,” Amaranthe said in surprise, picking up a creamy square of vellum. “The Duchess of Cumberland left a card. And the Duchess of Gloucester and Edinburgh as well. Good heavens! What do they want with me?”
“You’re the newest duchess in town,” Mal answered, without looking up from Hugh’s letter. “Out to curry favor, I don’t doubt, especially since Queen Charlotte was so taken with you at your presentation.”
“If they’re in league with Sybil, I rather wonder if there’s some plan to humiliate me,” Amaranthe said. “Ought I call on them, do you think?”
“Might as well,” Mal answered. “I’m about to become rather unpopular. In our last session in Lords I voted to support the younger Hartley’s patent on fire protection—it’s something very clever, using iron plates—but I also endorsed the resolution he presented in the Commons, declaring that the slave trade is contrary to the laws of God and the rights of men.”
Amaranthe sorted through the large stack of calling cards. “Well, it is.”
“I know that, and you know that, and everyone in our household knows that. But an unpopular stance nevertheless among those making a great deal of money from slaving ships.”
“I support you, however far you wish to take it,” Amaranthe said. “Only think of what Mrs. Blackthorn and Mrs. Wheatley went through. And how many hundreds, no thousands of souls have it as bad or worse.”
Mal passed her Hugh’s letter with a fond smile. “That’s my duchess. Champion of lost causes. Collector of strays.”
“I don’t collect them, you daft man. They choose me. And that’s been my great fortune.”
“As you have been my fortune,” Mal returned. “No one can accuse me of ill luck any longer. Is that another letter from your dratted cousin Reuben? What is he after now, asking again for money? He didn’t even come to our wedding.”
Amaranthe passed him the letter. “Perhaps he’s wishing us well.”
Mal tossed the letter aside, unopened. “I chose you,” he said abruptly.
Amaranthe paused to smile at him. “You did not,” she said. “Oliver told you to marry and you cast your gaze about, and I happened to be convenient.”
Mal sat up in his chair. “Did you see me married to anyone before you?” he demanded. “Did you see me pay my addresses to anyone else? No. Ergo you are the woman I chose, the only woman for me, and that’s that.”
“Of course, my love,” Amaranthe said. She enjoyed teasing her husband about the way he had courted her, but in truth she was supremely happy with her lot. Marital relations had proved a joy beyond her wildest expectations, in every respect.
And with the conventional results. She put a hand to her belly, feeling a small movement inside. Gas, most likely. She would wait to say anything until she was quickening. Favella was her reminder of how terribly much could go wrong.
“Maria Walpole was illegitimate, wasn’t she?” Camilla looked up from Gibbon. “And now she’s the Duchess of Gloucester and Edinburgh.”
“Yes, dear. She married an earl, and then a royal prince,” Amaranthe answered. “So don’t fret about what your prospects might be when you come out.”
“I might decide not to marry,” Camilla said defiantly. “Derwa and I might decide to travel. Or take up a trade, like you.”
“Which sounds lovely,” Amaranthe agreed. “In fact, I may very well ask to accompany you if you travel. I haven’t beenfurther than Cornwall, you know.” She selected a small note with familiar handwriting from the salver beside her.
“The Duchess of Northumberland invites us to one of her assemblies Tuesday next,” she told Mal. “I’ll accept, shall I? I do adore her assemblies.”
“And she adores you.” Mal chuckled. “Hasn’t she promised to be one of the first patronesses of your shop, as soon as you open?”
“Which will be soon,” Amaranthe said, feeling a flutter in her belly that was all excitement. “We went over today, while you were in meetings, to put up another set of shelves. And Mr. Thorkelson dropped off the consignment he promised from one of his client’s estates. Mr. Karim will come Wednesday to help me catalogue and arrange them.”
“How eager Mr. Thorkelson has proven to please us,” Mal remarked. “I may keep our business with him after all, since he’s terrified to cross me.”
“The Duchess of Northumberland is a baroness in her own right, isn’t she?” Camilla put a finger in her book. “And she’s the one who made her husband a duke, when he started out a mere baronet.”
