Lady Amelia swallowed her disappointment and sat with a rigid back in the swaying carriage. Lord Rochester looked at his daughter and wondered what had imbalanced her humors. “Are you quite well?” Her father asked with a worried expression.

“Yes, I am, Papa.” She answered. The words were spoken softly and offered no hint as to what troubled her greatly. When they had arrived at the townhouse she had slipped off to her room where her maid waited sleepy-eyed.  Mary performed her duties in between yawns. She was most eager to help her mistress out of her ball gown, several petticoats and her stays before removing the pins from the complicated coiffure. She set aside the ornaments and flowers involved in the complicated toilette and she proceeded to gently brush Amelia’s hair with a soft brush. When it laid down her back and fairly shone Mary braided it into a simple plait. She ran the warming pan over the chilly sheets and bid her lady good night.

Mary was too sleepy to note the strain in her mistress eye. Tomorrow was soon enough for gossip. She enjoyed hearing the latest on the fashions, dashing gentlemen and perhaps the hints of scandals in the making—but for now she wanted nothing more than too see the warmth of her own pallet.

Amelia held on to her composure until her friend had slipped out. Then she was overcome by a wave of despair so strong it forced tears down her cheeks.  The night had been a test of her resolve. Making acquaintance of a gentleman in such a bold manner instead of with a proper introduction was frowned upon by Society at large, but Lord Windon, rather than being scandalized had matched wit with her. A merging of ideas and thoughts so seamlessly was prized. She had missed him on his brief delay in the gathering of gentlemen.

When he had returned, she found to her utmost delight that their moments had not been a fluke. She had been wary about the rare occurrence of finding a like mind in London after being the subject of a bet. It was pleasant to find one who genuinely did not sniff with disdain at her talk of horses and literature for hours on end.

Then the death knell had sounded. She had spoken out of turn and Lord Windon had no doubt taken offence of her over bold manners. Truth be told, it galled her that he had proved to be of the same ilk as several gentlemen who blindly followed the edicts of polite Society without a care for the people who were not in the upper ten thousand.

She could not, in good faith, fault him for inheriting in place of his sister. It was the law, and there was nothing he could have done to change it. The thought was bitter, nevertheless true. But she could and did detested the offhand manner in which he implied he had done his duty by his sister and was glad to be free if her. It brought her own demons too close to home.

If she did not make a good connection, her hope lay in a distantly related stranger who probably did not exist or, failing that, the estates and all the entailed wealth would revert to the Crown.  She would become another saleable asset, and any funds she was able to hold on to would pass directly to a husband chosen by the monarchy. She wiped her face and slipped in between the warm sheets. It was of little import that Lord Windon was unworthy and callous. If she cried, it was understandable that the harried search for a proposal did not suit her disposition in any manner.