An Imperfect Proposal

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Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

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An Imperfect Proposal
H
AYLEY
A
NN
S
OLOMON
eKENSINGTON
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Chapter One
“Amaryllis, dear, do come and meet Captain Fredericks of the Third Hussars! Captain Fredericks, this is my daughter, Lady Amaryllis Hastings and do not feel afraid to ask her for a dance, for I declare she is an obliging child and would not disappoint you for the world.”
Amaryllis, thus summoned, felt her heart sink into the very toes of her fashionable slippers. Oh, how mortifying to be paraded thus! Poor Captain Fredericks would be bullied into offering to dance with her, and though it would be very pleasant to take up the set, it was humiliating in such circumstances.
Why could her mama not leave her be? She was perfectly satisfied with her dance card which was a respectable half full. There was no need to be thrust forward like this.
But her mama seemed to think there was every need, for after Captain Fredericks it was the Earl of Cathbrook, then Mr. Fry, who was rumored to be a nabob, then Lord Patterson—the list went on and each time Amaryllis felt worse. She was a pretty wisp of a girl—far too thin, in her own opinion—but her shyness in company made her awkward, and the delicious lights of laughter that sprung from her inner depths never seemed to surface at functions such as these.
Small wonder when she was laced and corseted and had had dressers fussing over her all evening, shaking their heads over her pale coloring—wan, they called it—and her golden locks that refused to curl and were gentle in tone rather than the ravishing guinea gold that was all the rage.
Her redeeming features were her eyes, which were a magnetic midnight blue, framed in lashes that were dark and thick and wondrously long. But even these came in for criticism, for her dresser was certain that no one would believe that artifice had not been employed in the darkening of those brows and lashes. She was in a positive quake that one of the patronesses would accuse Amaryllis of using paint and unfortunately passed those qualms on to Amaryllis, who felt shier than ever.
Suffice it to say, then, that whilst Amaryllis never precisely lacked for a partner, she was also never as sought after as Miss Lila Trewellyn, her dearest friend, or Miss Martha Caddington, the lady she least liked of her acquaintance.
Both of these damsels were currently engaged in the waltz, Miss Caddington catching her eye with infuriating sympathy (or was it triumph?), and Miss Trewellyn winking merrily as she twirled past, feigning ecstasy, for she was in the arms of a particularly dashing partner, and she was certain Amaryllis would agree.
Amaryllis did agree, for it was hard to ignore Lord Redding's very fine physique, or the elegant cut of his dark, tailored frock coat, which sparkled, a little, with diamonds. Nor could one exactly miss the muscled thighs that defied even the clocked stockings to disguise their perfection of form. As for the velvet knee breeches, well, they were positively indecent, so fitted as they were! Amaryllis was glad, for once, she was not waltzing, for she was flushing like a schoolgirl and would have been rendered speechless had her hand been solicited by such a paragon.
She need not have worried, for it wasn't, though she did think, for a fraction of an instant, that she had caught a reassuring smile in those handsome hazel eyes. But how foolish! Lord Stephen Redding, the Earl of Devonport, was as likely to notice her as he was to offer for the local costermonger's daughter. She ignored the flush on her cheeks and dropped her eyes down to her fan, berating herself for such foolishness.
Lila was curtsying politely at the cessation of the waltz and edging her way round the potted palms to her side. Suddenly, for some unknown, urgent reason, Amaryllis wanted to fly. She wanted to escape the glittering, jeweled hall, festooned with bright silks and decorated in the Spanish style in memory of Salamanca.
She wanted to flee the sympathetic sighs of the dowagers who caught her eye and shook their heads; she wanted to creep past her mama, engaged in conversation with Lord Sedgebrooke (doubtless telling him how delightful a partner she would be) and find some fresh air somewhere. She was engaged, after the quadrille and the bourrée to Mr. Ratchins. It was to be the waltz, at last, which lifted her spirits, somewhat, for there was nothing so fabulously exhilarating as the waltz, especially when the gentleman encircling your waist was altogether too attractive for one's own good.
Not that Mr. Ratchins fitted that category precisely, but one could be generous when one was waltzing, and overlook such small matters as protruding teeth and a collar starched far too stiffly for comfort. If it had only been the Earl of Devonport—that would be another matter entirely. Amaryllis suddenly knew why she was avoiding Lila. She did not want to hear her animadversions on this paragon. It was enough, surely, that she'd had to watch from the sidelines?
Miss Trewellyn's progress was stopped by Miss Baskerville, so Amaryllis breathed a little sigh and took her opportunity to escape. She gathered up her skirts and disappeared into the anteroom just off the main ballroom, then frowned as she saw Miss Caddington's form silhouetted on the adjacent balcony. If Martha were to corner her here, she would delight in saying something catty and hurtful, and Amaryllis was in no mood for such sport. She therefore edged her way out of the antechamber and found herself in a dark suite of rooms that were obviously not intended for the use of the ball, for no tapers had been lit and only the firelight in the hearth lent a rosy glow to the vacant room.
She sank back thankfully, though a little guiltily, into one of the winged chairs and listened, for a moment, to the first strains of the quadrille as the orchestra tuned up. It was uncustomary for her to be so sunk in gloom, for normally—when she was not being paraded like a prize pig on the marriage mart—she was cheerfulness itself. Her sunny nature and kind heart did not permit of a fit of the dismals, so busy was she in decocting potions, writing snippets for her diary—a wonderfully eclectic notebook of all matters ranging from Miss Marsham's receipt for a head cold to the proper way of pressing flowers to the innermost yearnings of her heart. She also rode almost every day if it was fine, read feverishly from Hookham's and Hatchard's, and could often be found ascending the stacks at the Temple of the Muses, Finsbury Square, in search of bargains.
This, indeed, was how she had met Lila, for Lila, too, was an avid reader and delighted in spending a comfortable day in front of the fire armed with a pile of books ranging from the Gothic to the most up-to-the-minute serials like
The Athenaeum Weekly Review
.
Now, however, Amaryllis found it hard not to choke back her tears. Everyone was being perfectly kind, but she could hardly help being disheartened. Her family expected her to marry and had expended a fortune on two Seasons and a court appearance, and there was not the remotest prospect of anyone—not even stiff-necked Mr. Ratchins—obliging her with an offer.
The strain was enormous. Every time her mama went to so much trouble to secure her a partner and her papa refused to relocate to their country seat—where she knew he would be happier—she felt responsible. Though not a word of reproach had been leveled at her, sometimes she felt her mother's encouragement was a little hearty, and her dresser's attempts at ringlets a smidgen desperate. Even dear, kind Papa's face was a trifle too anxious as he asked whether she had met anyone interesting that day.
Amaryllis, when she dreamed of growing up and marriage, had never thought out what this might mean, how burdensome would be the task of finding a husband for herself. It had never occurred to her that she might not like the man she was to marry. She'd always imagined herself with someone who was ravishingly handsome and had a smile that lit up his countenance and a humor that exactly matched her own. She had stupidly not even dreamed that she would have difficulty finding this paragon, or that filling up a dance card would become a daily trial of nerves, or that, worse, someone hideous would offer for her and she would have no choice but to accept.
These thoughts oppressed her dreadfully. She reached into her beaded reticule, stitched handsomely with little rhinestones that glittered elegantly in the firelight, and hunted for a handkerchief. Of course, she had forgotten, in her agitation, to put one in, so she was forced to close the reticule with a sigh and brush her hands across her lashes as she did. She was just feeling more depressed than ever when a slight rustle from the brocade sofa on the left caught her attention.
There was probably a mouse, and it was probably terrified, poor thing, what with the noise and the unexpectedness of her entry into this darkened room . . . she stood up and peered over the edge of the sofa. Not a mouse, by George, but two children, wedged behind the chair and regarding her with horrified eyes.
“Hello!”
Amaryllis smiled in the friendliest way she could, her own troubles set aside for the moment. There was a silence as the girls—for such they were—stared at her for a moment.
“I am Amaryllis. Are you also hiding from the ball?”
Her tone was so sweet and confiding that the children, after a speaking glance at one another, decided it was safe to emerge.
“Are you hiding?” they asked in surprise, for they had never encountered a grown-up who hid. Amaryllis, in her glittering gown of rose sarcanet embroidered with gold fichu trim looked very grown-up indeed.
She laughed. “Yes, I am, but don't tell anyone if you please. It is very bad of me.”
The children promised solemnly, for there was nothing—as they told Amaryllis—that they liked less than a sneak.
“So what are you doing out of your nursery? Enjoying the music?”
“No, for we can't hear much over the buzz of conversation.”
“Peeking at the dancers?”
“Yes, for they are all very elegant, only we have seen heaps of balls before so it was not so much that as . . .”
“Yes?” Amaryllis prompted.
The girls looked at each other. They must have decided Amaryllis was perfectly acceptable, for they both started simultaneously speaking. Amaryllis was forced to laugh and stop up her ears and tell them to talk one at a time.
“Well, you see, we are hungry!”
“What, is no supper sent up to your nursery?”
“Only bread and butter and jam and two glasses of cold tea.”
“But that is outrageous!”
“No, it isn't, really, for it is a punishment. Usually we have all the tidbits Cook is preparing for the ball, and some of the sweetmeats, and the little pink sugar fairies . . .”
“But how inconvenient to be punished on such a day!”
“Yes, if we had thought about the matter we would have tipped ink into Mr. Petersham's hat tomorrow, after the ball, but we were so angry we really couldn't think properly.”
Amaryllis's eyes danced. “No, indeed,” she agreed gravely. “And who, if I might inquire, is Mr. Petersham? I feel certain he must be positively odious!”
“Oh, he is! He teaches us deportment, which is a trial enough without him having to report poor Evans, our governess, for improper conduct. Simply because she happened to doze off in one of his classes!”
“Sounds like he deserved ink in his hat.”
“Oh, indeed, and it was splendid sport to see his face as it trickled down his ears! Unfortunately we giggled at the wrong moment which caused him to march us off to our uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes, the Earl of Devonport—he is our guardian, you know, whilst our parents are excavating in Italy.”
Amaryllis ignored the leap of her heart at the mention of this illustrious name. But curiosity overcame her. “What did he say, your uncle?”
“Oh, he threatened all manner of dire consequences which personally we don't believe, for he is a thundering good sport when he is not called upon to punish us and I cannot believe he would ever lay a hand upon us, never mind a birch rod, which is what he threatened.”
“He threatened to birch you?”
“Yes, the next time we take to pouring ink into hats or even shoes, which he added as an afterthought and I must say I wish we'd had the idea ourselves! But he sent us off to bed without any dinner. It is really very vexing when we can smell all the smells from the kitchens and Cook has baked a simply sumptuous frosted cake and like as not everyone will eat it and there will not be a scrap of it left for us in the morning.”
“How horribly unfair!” Amaryllis's lips twitched.
“Isn't it? But we do have one consolation!”
“Which is?”
“Uncle dismissed Mr. Petersham! He said he did not much care for talebearers and since Mr. Petersham obviously objected to the governess he had selected, it was wiser all round if he found employment elsewhere.”
“Bravo! What did Mr. Petersham say?”
“He was as mad as tacks but there was not a thing he could do save deplore our deportment and lack of any redeeming qualities.”
“What an odious, odious man!”
“Indeed, for we would not have taken such drastic measures were he not!”
“So you came downstairs because you are hungry?”

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