Lady Gainsborough's dinner party was painfully contrived. London’s current fashion was for all things Oriental. Therefore her halls and walls were swatted strategically in yards of silk with the odd jade figurine or porcelain vase littering the view.

The crush of bodies raised the temperature of the room until Amelia feared a fainting spell. The air was pungent with the smell of unwashed bodies and the occasional whiff of perfume, heavy and cloying. The ton did not believe in having baths when they could make do with scents.

The Duke of Windon regarded the crush with a bland expression. The onlookers would describe it as full of ennui and not a little rakish delight. Far from it, he was amused at the massing of bodies. His title and the scars on his face ensured that no matter the crowd he always had an invisible circle of space. A glass of lemonade made a trip to his lips. The liquid glistened there lightly before he handed the cup to a hovering footman.

The glasses were small as their host was known to be notoriously stingy, but that mattered little. In but a moment, the gong would sound for supper and the crush of bodies would be herded into the dining room for at least 5 courses. No matter how stingy the host was she wouldn’t dare to give London the ammunition to judge her shabby.

Lord Windon continued in the same line of thought, nodding to a few acquaintances in passing. A sudden sigh drove his fascinated stare from the crowd to a knot of ladies near himself.

Amelia had escaped after another weary conversation on needlepoint when someone started to debate strongly the best matters of embroidery. Embroidery?

"All manners of things can be debated on, strongly if you must, but why should we discuss embroidery when the world is full of many more fascinating things?" The words were as startling as the presence. The Duke of Windon blinked at the unexpected, then he laughed. It was a low throaty hum that softened his forbidding visage and warmed Amelia.

Before he turned, he had expected the picture of the season ingénue complete with adoring, albeit vacuous, eyes. Probably a petite form topped with flowers woven into the intricate coiffures the ton seemed to favor this Season. Instead he saw a lady nearly as tall as himself with intelligent eyes and a fierce expression. The requisite flowers denoting an unmarried woman were woven into her hair, but not in the expected abundance. Her words returned to him again and he knew he had finally found a worthy acquaintance.

"Pray tell, on which matters may one debate strongly?" He asked in amusement. The crooked smile took the winds out of her sails. Battleship in full tilt, she floundered at the obvious amusement he had displayed. But her eyes were curious instead of filled with disgust when she noticed the jagged line through his eyebrow.

"If one is inclined, one may debate music. Opinions, I hear, differ on the Greek myths, and one can be moved strongly while discussing theories of science." Amelia knew she was ruining her chances. She consoled herself with the thought that she had probably done so with her opening salvo. Men liked women to dwell on topics within the home sphere. Her own passion for horses was one the fringes of acceptable topics for ladies. Anything further was unacceptable.

"I had not thought that women would be willing to debate strongly on all those offered points." He mused, shattering her hopes of finding one man unlike the others who were firmly entrenched in the tenets of what was considered polite.

"This woman would." The chin, no doubt raised in challenge, intrigued him. But truth be told she sounded as if she was learned, something he respected. He had sailed through Oxford with enough knowledge to pass finals and no more.

"I stand firmly chastised." He murmured with that small smile. "Might I trouble you to ask what your imports on philosophy are?"

Amelia wrinkled her nose. Society expectations aside, the conversation was getting infinitely better by the minute. "To seek advice from a dead man on how to live my life is a notion that will never enter my head. I would sooner jockey at the Royal Ascot."

The image of her slight figure perched on the thundering horses proved too fanciful an image. Lord Windon laughed out loud, egged on by the amused glint in her eyes. The crowd turned to them but he could be bothered less by propriety just then. "That would certainly draw crowds. You are a might tall for a jockey though."

“And do you arrange your life according the theories of Locke or Descartes?” she asked boldly. She was much unlike the ladies of his previous acquaintance who would never confess something as crass as knowledge of philosophy. She was a breath of fresh air and he wanted to tarry in that wind. She was more refreshing and bracing than several men of his acquaintance even.

“I prefer a dose of common sense to a dram of dry philosophy.” He had spent several years of his education avoiding Greek philosophers and all who came afterwards.

"Rather like a draught of hemlock,” she countered and fanned herself.

“Socrates.” He murmured it under his breath, but he was sure she caught it. She favored him with a brilliant smile, shiny as a naked blade. "Shall I fetch a glass for you?" He asked with arched eyebrow, noting her frantic attempt to stir the hot air with a sandalwood fan. Scintillating conversation aside, he had no idea what to do if she fainted.

"Of hemlock?" The words were not as startling as they should have been.

"I am aware you would consign all lovers of embroidery to hell, but I would not be embroiled in such a plot." How he finished the sentence in a deadpan without falling into laughter was beyond him. Her brows, aided by her glinting emerald eyes, proved to be potent temptation.

"I shall refrain, I assure you, from mass murder." She stated demurely even if her eyes danced with wicked thoughts. “And hope their embroidery needles prick them often enough for them to discover new pursuits."

"You’re a decidedly bloodthirsty female." He did not know what possessed him to say the words, but he meant it as a compliment and hoped she would receive it as such. Her response was lost in the sound of the gong. The crowd trooped towards the dining room.

He offered her his arm and she graciously accepted. The warmth of his body reached hers even through the layers of fabric. He enjoyed the short stroll and only when he had pushed a chair out and helped her into it did he sit beside her and introduce himself.

"Robert Marley, Duke of Windon, at your service."

She smiled at him knowingly.

"Your Grace, I am Lady Amelia St Clair." She stated without the coy airs or the arrogance of a titled heiress which he knew her to be.

"I dare say, Lady Amelia, I have not received such witticisms in all my stay in London. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance even if I provide no worthy riposte." He offered with a deprecatory smile that had her revising her earlier assumptions. He lacked the ingrained arrogance of several members of the ton.

"As I am, Your Grace, to make your acquaintance. And the conversation has been the best I have had in this Season."

He smiled at that, a full show that had her biting back a sigh.

The way she said it made him realise she had been out for more than one Season. She had not made a coy play for him and he liked her company. He refused to think further on it. “Then we are of an accord that London offers insipid conversation?"

"I am in complete agreement." She answered with one of those smiles that always seemed to draw one out of him. Their hostess rang the bell for the first course.

It started with a course of duck consommé which the host was rather proud of, having snagged a temperamental but talented cook. The guests allowed murmurs of approval when the meal was served. It no doubt causing the host to tremble in joy over her success that night.

The next was another contrived creation, sole baked in a beautiful pastry shell that looked like it could swim. It had the crowd in ecstasies and Lord Windon and Lady Amelia sat primly and discussed the predilection of the ton. The meal was by no means an unknown, but it the aspic displays were so original, a complete garden of little jelly molds, that they applauded the meal with more gusto than deserving. This reaction was greeted again by covert smiles by the couple at the crowd’s incredulity. The party went on, but each was riveted on the other.

“Pray tell," he asked deadpan with his eyes flashing his amusement, “what matters of the kitchen would be deemed worthy of being greeted with such enthusiasm?"

She held her laughter by staring into the glass of claret as if to heat the content by the ferocity of her gaze. "If you must praise food, I dare say it should be only by composing compliments to the hostess or chef." They both turned as one to regard the crowd and shared conspiratorial smiles.

The rest of the meal continued in the same vein. The two were engrossed in each other, unaware that they had a private audience who looked at the blossoming romance with approval. They murmured between themselves and engaged in light, bantering conversation with a bit of witticism that had them chuckling privately.

The meal finished with light fanfare. After it was done, the ladies stood up to leave the men to their port and spirits. Robert was loath to leave her invigorating presence for an hour of masculine boasting. He had barely been shown into the spacious study of their host when his cousin Lord Felton cornered him and commandeered his entire attention.

“Are you attending the Gingham hunt?” Lord Windon wondered if he had ever greeted the world with such puppy-like enthusiasm.

“You know I have no interest in idle pursuits,” he answered, knowing it would only fire the young lord. 

“Even you cannot confess an aversion to hunting,” came the sharp retort. “It is quite shabby, old man, to refuse me company. I shall never earn my place within the circle of notable Corinthians such as yourself."

“I have no intentions of cavorting with their likes, and I have no doubt I am not considered a Corinthian, notable worth or no,” he answered sedately.

“Because you would not share a cup with them no doubt. They have taken to calling you the Black Corinthian, no doubt for your manners and the thunder-like scowl on your brow.”

The Duke of Windon regarded his petulant relative with a look half curious and half amazed. “And no doubt for the manner in which I am attired." Lord Windon was known to favor solemn colors, among which black seemed his favorite.

“S’truth!” His cousin retorted with what was suspiciously like a pout. It looked very unmanly on him.

“By Jove. I cannot imagine, Felton, your fixation with those prancing bucks. What are they to you?”

“They are, I tell you, in the know and have among them only lords of landed worth and high society—which you and I, in all your black guard inclinations, are ourselves. And yet they exclude me! Lord Cheltenham laughed when I suggested a curricle race.”

“Perhaps because everyone knows you wreaked your curricle a month ago.” Felton opened his mouth to retort, and Windon hurried on. “I believe I saw Chuffy earlier. I shall behove myself to introduce you. Will that be satisfactory?”

He then, of course, introduced his cousin. Windon extolled Felton’s manner of handling horses and how he had an excellent eye for horseflesh. He even told the anecdote of the curricle crash, which was caused by appalling road conditions and stray sheep, not driver error. Felton himself had no need for another passport into Chuffy’s good graces as they were well matched in all things involving the handling of horses. Windon left them avidly discussing the advantages of a racing curricle over a phaeton. He circled the gathering to give the host his compliments on a fine evening.

The host, Lord Gainsborough, was pleased Lord Windon had deigned to attend and offered him a glass of very excellent port. The idle conversation rolled on with several men debating the odds on various bets on the books at White’s until the host deemed it time to return to the women in the drawing room.