She left the grooms to cool the lathered horse as she stomped up to her room. She quickly ordered a bath and, refusing Mary’s help, scrubbed herself until she was pink and pruny. No matter how her maid coaxed her, she would not revealed the source of her grievance. Instead she only bore her ablutions in silence and came down for an early dinner. Her father was indisposed and none of those invited guest could expect their host to keep a late hour.

They sat twelve at the table that night: Amelia, Lord Windon, her father and several neighbors. She was even tempered and allowed the easy conversation to flow around her, managing the occasional comment when a question was directed at her. She had mellowed after her outburst during the disastrous ride with Lord Windon. He sat at her father’s right hand, where he ought to as their honored guest. At the table was the florid country squire, his equally portly wife and their trio of milksop daughters.

Amelia glared at their obvious coy manners in trying to catch Robert’s attention. She was most pleased when their boldest flirtation was met with a bland smile and a prompt change of the topic of discussion. The thin smile, nothing like they shared, was a balm even if she was unwilling to admit her jealousy, even to herself. In this very moment her thoughts were much too chaotic.

The silver was polished and glinted brightly in the abundance of candlelight. There were beautiful Wedgewood crystal cups shaped like tulips and edged with swirls of gold. The handles of all the silverware were beautifully crafted with the family crest. The tablecloths were pristine white and starched to the proper amount of stiffness. Course followed course, an extravagant display of wealth that could only be rivaled by the Robert’s own table.

The entire household was on its guard to impress Lord Windon, who would most probably be their lord if gossip was to be believed. They were eager to serve and did so like a well-oiled machine with the minimum of fuss.  And it was obvious they were properly trained, carrying out their duties without a single mishap and with a dedication that was exemplary. Lord Rochester was kind to his staff and his daughter in charge of the household accounts was very generous with their pay. And they did have a duke to impress.

Cook outdid herself and mouthwatering dishes were presented to the guests, who lavishly praised the culinary creations. That brought a bittersweet smile to Amelia’s lips, recollections of the last time such a thing occurred and how the evening had ended. A quick glance told her that Robert remembered too. The same smile was on his face.

She turned away from him and contemplated her cherry tartlet, appetite fading and confusion crowding in. She wondered why Lord Windon’s words had affected her until she had lost her temper and made a spectacle of herself.

So it was that she found herself among unknown guests, in the presence of a man that her father insisted she engage but whom she detested with all her heart. Even if she could not bring herself to stop stealing glances at him. The looks brought flutters to her stomach. Every time she looked she found him regarding her boldly, even when he was in the thick of conversation with others.

––––––––

She glowed. Sitting regally at the opposite end of the table. She had looked fetching in her riding habit and had been exquisitely gowned at the soiree of their introduction, but that paled to the picture she was now. And she did not acknowledge him with anything more than a brief inclination of her head but she smiled at the other men invited to dinner.

He suffered, as she bestowed them with smiles and turned a blank stare to him. It seemed the whole of London would find the favor of her smile, but he was not afforded the same luxury. She had the men on either side of her hanging on her every word, sharing that excellent wit with them no doubt. He had never struggled through a meal like he had at Lord Rochester’s table. She put the trio of trilling girls to shame with her poise. Her quite grace was nothing the matron in the room could ever hope to aspire. He stared boldly. He couldn’t pull his stare away even though it bordered on impolite. He tried to rein it in but he found himself behaving like a green lad. He was lost in the conversation but the callow girls only giggled at his awkward pauses and tried their best to bat their lashes at him.

The ladies retiring to the drawing room to drink tea, leaving the gentlemen to their harder liquors. The squire filled their drinking interlude with county laws to which he could contribute to tolerably well, affording him time to better hide his distraction.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies, one of the squire’s girls offered to play on the harpsichord with another singing. The guests enjoyed a clear tenor that lent a satisfactory air to the room and was complimented by all and sundry. Lord Rochester proposed they play whist and by a machination he partnered his daughter with Lord Windon. She almost demurred and tried to offer her place to the squire’s wife but her father was not in the mood for her false modesty. She curtsied quickly and sat at his side. Lord Windon accepted the proffered cards and started to shuffle them. She was suddenly engrossed with the play of light on his wrist, hidden by a froth of lace, and motion of his deft fingers with the single ring which bore his seal. The gold glinted against the lace and she wondered how they would feel against her own unadorned hands.

As soon as the thought came she blushed heavily, something her father did not miss. She ducked to find Lord Windon looking at her with a single card clasped between two fingers.  A subtle tension pervaded the small group as Lord Windon dealt the cards. Amelia made a show of assessing her card.

Lord Windon addressed his host. “I do not know the rules of your house. Do you prefer to play for stakes or forfeits?” He indicated the cards in his hands.

“I cannot abide gambling. It is the devil’s own game.” The vicar interjected from his position to the side with an apologetic but firmly stern stare.

“I confess I am averse to lining another’s pocket with my coin.” Lord Rochester himself confessed as he assessed his own cards and placed a card on the velvet covered table between them.

“Indeed. Forfeits are much more sporting.” The squire agreed in a gruff voice as the play turned to him. He squinted good naturedly at his cards and looked up.

“My lady?” Lady Amelia blinked once as the other players looked at her. Usually her opinion was not asked but Lord Windon had asked and the others graciously followed his lead. She did not think it was because she was in her own parlor.

“I believe the pleasure of the game is in the skill,” she answered diplomatically and the men nodded in agreement.

“And the company no doubt.” Her father added as a gracious afterthought, or so it would appear.

“But of course.” The rest of the table muttered while Amelia ducked her head again and played her hand. Her father was being blatantly obvious.

The squire and Lord Rochester played whist with a magical merging of wit. Although Lady Amelia barely acknowledged Lord Windon, still her presence so close wreaked havoc on his senses. He could not remember the cards.

They lost decisively, a show of skills and a fine merging of cards by their opponents. The squire was affable in his win and her father was amusing. Lord Windon drew a forfeit and looked dangerous instead of ridiculous following the instructions, ‘Lie on your back and stand up without using your hands.’ She was uncomfortably aware of the muscles in his back and torso he used to make such a fluid motion. She had seen that forfeit once before, a callow youth who had flopped on the floor like a fish before rolling over and standing like a yearling calf.

She drew a more daring forfeit. ‘Kiss the one you love and the best man or lady. They may not be the same person.’ She brushed a kiss on the vicar’s cheek and then marched up to her father and bussed the top of his head proudly. He laughed and hugged her tight. She blushed at this show of paternal affection.

The hour grew late and their guests begged to take their leave. Amelia was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that she sailed through the evening without collecting another kiss. After the last carriage had sailed down the drive, Amelia went to bed.