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  “What a lovely happenstance for us that you are receiving, Lord Fenton,” she said in that haunting voice, acknowledging that she and Fenton knew one another. She put out her hand, which was covered in a white satin glove. It matched the white satin gown that opened in the front, revealing the light green underdress that set off Miss Sterlington’s similarly green eyes to distraction.

  Fenton took her hand and bowed over it with an easy manner Thomas wished he himself possessed. “You look absolutely breathtaking tonight, Miss Sterlington,” he said. “Like a goddess brought to life.”

  “Oh pish,” Amber said, shaking her head as she returned her hand to her sister’s arm; Miss Darra was a beauty in her own right though Thomas doubted many people noticed. “It’s bad enough that Almack’s is such a sad crush week after week, but the requirement that debutantes may only wear pasty colors is not to be countenanced.” She waved toward him. “Is it not offensive to your sensibilities that you can appear in all manner of pattern and color, and all of us females are relegated to look like infantile dowds?” She pouted—such a pretty pout—and let out an equally pretty breath. “I tell you, it’s not fair, Lord Fenton. Not fair at all.”

  “Ah, but you look like an angel in white, my dear, and, for you particularly, white is quite the canvas for your hair and your eyes. I can’t fathom why you would be cross toward such regulations when they show you off to your very best light.”

  Amber smiled, her mood repaired by the compliment that, while true, was over the top of anything Thomas could say. Did it not embarrass Miss Sterlington to hear such outrageous flattery?

  As though to answer his unspoken question, Miss Sterlington reached up and fingered one of the long auburn ringlets draped over her shoulder while giving Fenton a coy look. The rest of her hair was piled on top of her head, a mass of curls into which small white flowers with diamond centers had been woven. The only other jewelry she wore was an oval pendant—amber, as her namesake—that hung just below her collarbone, drawing the eye, which then naturally looked over the rest of her.

  Where so many of the debutantes looked as though they were barely women at all, Amber Sterlington had a figure worthy of admiration. Her inquisitive green eyes—with gold flecks, Thomas noticed—smooth skin, and vibrant hair left him no doubt that the other young women could not hold a candle to her. So mesmerized was Thomas that he did not realize Fenton had introduced him until Thomas heard his name said out loud.

  Thomas felt his mouth go dry when Miss Sterlington’s gaze settled upon him. “I’m very p-pleased to meet you, Miss Starringt—I mean, Miss Sterlington.” He gave a quick bow nowhere near as elegant or graceful as Fenton’s had been.

  “Likewise,” she said, but she looked back to Fenton before she’d even finished her polite reply. “Now, I escaped the crush of the ballroom in order to have a private word with my dear sister. Would you two gentlemen excuse us for a moment? I fear that once my absence is noted, I shan’t get another moment’s peace. I must insist on a bit of privacy, and this is perhaps the only vestibule available. Do you mind?” She offered another pout, and this time Thomas and Fenton equally fumbled for words as they assured her they were not the least bit put out by her need of a private corner.

  “Good grief, is she not a diamond of the first water?” Fenton said, somewhat breathless from their quick retreat back to the crowd of the ballroom. Thomas was surprised that Fenton was so undone by the woman; he had dealt with her quite calmly up until the end of their exchange. Thomas felt even lower as he acknowledged that only a man of Fenton’s station had a chance of gaining Amber Sterlington’s attentions.

  Thomas pulled at his collar. The awkward exchange had left his heart racing and he was beginning to sweat. “She must think I’m an absolute nitwit,” he said under his breath as he and Fenton moved toward the refreshment table. The more distance he put between himself and the girl who rendered him such an idiot, the more his irritation increased. “Why could I not react like a grown man?”

  “Don’t be so severe upon yourself,” Fenton said, patting Thomas’s arm as he picked up a cup of ratafia with his other hand. He took a drink and made a face—ratafia was a mild drink and obviously not what Fenton was hoping to encounter. “There’s not a man in London who can keep his head around such a woman as Amber Sterlington. The breeding of a wife and the appeal of a mistress.”

  It did not make Thomas feel better to be reminded he was as besotted as every other man. Nor did it improve his mood when he realized he had missed the beginning of the quadrille promised to Miss Morton. With a groan, he excused himself of Fenton and soon found Miss Morton blinking back tears near the balustrade. Miss Morton did not deserve such treatment, and he felt badly for causing her distress.

  It was too late to join the dance so Thomas spent the duration of it coaxing Miss Morton from her mood through compliments of her appearance—she did look lovely in her light blue gown—and a humorous account of a gentleman being chased by a dog through Hyde Park the day before yesterday. By the time the next dance was announced, Miss Morton was giggling behind her hand. He asked her to stand up for this set and she gratefully accepted his invitation, giving him a chance to redeem himself, for which he was glad.

  It was after thanking Miss Morton for the dance some time later, and avoiding her mother’s approving eye as he departed her company, that Thomas saw Miss Sterlington again. She had likewise finished the set with a young man in full regimentals, and he was bowing over her hand in a simpering manner that left Thomas embarrassed for him.

  A moment later, however, a mad thought seized Thomas’s mind and before he knew it, he was standing in front of her at the exact moment she was quit of her former partner and had not yet accepted another.

  “Might I have this dance, Miss Sterlington?” Thomas heard himself say as though it were not him at all. He could feel the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beneath his collar as those beautiful green eyes looked him over, a bit more than he thought was warranted.

  “Sir,” she said, her eyebrows coming together. “We have not had a proper introduction, therefore I certainly could not dance with you.” Her tone was not as rich and playful as it had been when she’d bantered with Fenton.

  “Lord Fenton introduced me to you not half an hour ago, within one of the assembly rooms.” No sooner had he said it than he realized how pathetic he sounded, begging for her remembrance of something she hadn’t given enough attention to remember for herself.

  “I’m sure he did not,” she said sharply, lifting her chin and taking a step back. “Besides, Lord Norwin has asked that I reserve the waltz for him. . . . Ah, there he is.” She stepped to her right in time to lift her hand to a man wearing a blue superfine tailcoat and satin knee breeches.

  In a moment Miss Sterlington was gone, the sound of her laughter trickling back to him as she took her place with Lord Norwin on the dance floor. Thomas came to himself in time to see numerous attendees look away; the quickness of their diverted glances evidence that they had seen the set down he’d just received. From the looks on their faces, they were not sharing in his embarrassment; rather they were taking his measure just as Miss Sterlington had.

  Overwhelmed with embarrassment, Thomas turned to the staircase and quit Almack’s without a word to anyone, not even Fenton. It was unfashionable to leave the dance before supper but Thomas could not stay another minute.

  As he made his way back to his rented rooms in a less fashionable district of town, he brooded over all the things he had hated about London prior to this evening and how much more he despised them now.

  As the third son of a Baron—and a modest, Northern Baron who had little connection in London—without enough fortune to raise him above what he lacked, Thomas Richards knew his place among the aristocracy. He was acknowledged but not afforded, accepted but not sought after. That he was decent, generous, hardworking, and intelligent had always seemed to him a reckoning of sorts—a way of balancing what he did not have with those virtues h
e possessed. Until tonight, he had believed that he was, for the most part, equal to other men of higher rank in the ways that mattered most.

  Now, however, he felt sure he would never forget the look on Amber Sterlington’s face that had said, clear as church bells, that while he might consider himself an equal, she did not. Perhaps that would be enough to rescue him from the reaction he had each time he saw her. Regardless, he vowed never to put himself within reach of her opinion again.

  Chapter 2

  Amber Sterlington turned the page of the most recent edition of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum and spoke without looking up. “Make Darra attend, Mama,” she said, reviewing the renderings of the new fashion plates and finding them near enough the designs from the last periodical that they were barely worth her notice. “You know I don’t like to attend events alone.”

  “You won’t be attending alone,” her mother, Elsinore Sterlington, Viscountess of Marchent, said from the seat in front of her mirror as her lady’s maid, Nelson, put the finishing touches on the perfectly afforded chignon that set Lady Marchent’s auburn hair—a faded version of Amber’s own—to perfection. “I’ll be in attendance,” her mother said. “And you are never lacking for company.”

  “It would not countenance for me to have my mother hanging about me, and you shall want to visit with the other matrons.” Amber kept to herself that other than her younger sister, Darra, she did not have female acquaintances to shore up her confidence like so many young women found in each other. It was to be expected that the debutante who drew most of the attention would be at odds with her competitors, and having her sister at her side kept Amber from noticing how the other girls talked and laughed together so easily. “Darra gives me companionship, Mama, make her attend.”

  “As I’ve said, she is not feeling well. You would have me force her to go?”

  “Yes, I would,” Amber said without hesitation, though she did not meet her mother’s eyes in the mirror and felt a sting of conscience at the insistence. She turned another page and reviewed an array of half boots that looked like every other half boot she’d seen since coming to London nearly six weeks ago. “She is not ill, Mama. She is pouting over the obvious preference the gentlemen have of my company.”

  Lady Marchent didn’t comment, but turned her head side to side, inspecting herself in the mirror. “You may go, Nelson,” she said to her maid. “Mind you prepare my lavender morning dress as I will be receiving tomorrow.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” Nelson bobbed a quick curtsey then gathered up the linens left over from having helped Lady Marchent dress for the evening before she left the room as silently as she’d come.

  Lady Marchent’s expression was critical as she observed her reflection and patted the underside of her chin that was becoming fleshy as she approached her fortieth year. “Age is an odious taskmaster,” she said, frowning as she stood. The skirts of her gown rustled as she shook them out and then fixed Amber with a pointed look. “You would do well to remember that and procure yourself a husband before you tempt the fates by waiting any longer than you already have.”

  Amber put the periodical down on the empty portion of the cushioned bench and returned her mother’s look with a precocious one of her own. “I am barely nineteen, Mama. Hardly in need of such dire warnings.”

  Men of title and fortune—or both—had taken considerable note of her these past weeks, and once she clarified her choice of whichever gentleman she decided upon, she had no doubt an arrangement would be made. Once she married, the level of affection she enjoyed from numerous suitors would come to an end, and she would be left with only the regard of her husband, which would surely be far less exciting.

  She was not a romantic in pursuit of a love match—such an arrangement always seemed to involve one party settling below his or her station. Instead, she focused her ambitions on choosing a husband who would secure her a similar position in society that she’d always known and give her the foundation she needed to make a name for herself alongside him as her mother had done in her own marriage. To factor love, beyond a future potential of their match, into her consideration could obscure her goals.

  “I shall never understand why you chose to wait until now to have your season,” Lady Marchent continued, looking through the contents of her reticule she would take with her this evening. “I should not have allowed it.”

  “You truly do not know my motivation?” Amber asked, unwilling to believe her mother’s claims to ignorance. “It is your very example I have been following.”

  Her mother looked at her with an irritated expression, and Amber continued.

  “You were married at seventeen to a Viscount, Mama,” Amber reminded her. Though the Viscount of Marchent was her father, he rarely interacted with his daughters, reserving his attention for her younger brothers, his numerous estates, and his interest in parliament. He did not hold a seat himself but followed closely the enactments of the government and shared his opinions with his friends who had representation. “And, pray remember, Father was already in his title at the time of your arrangement. You know as well as I do that there are very few prospects already in possession of their title attending this season, and there were even fewer last season, which is why I chose to wait.”

  “There a handful of apparents who have made their affections for you known.”

  “Yes, but Daniel Greenley’s father is in his prime, and I shan’t be surprised if he doesn’t keep his seat for another score,” Amber said, singling out her most ardent suitor. He’d proposed to her half a dozen times at least and would post the banns by morning should she accept him. “David Harrington won’t inherit until his uncle passes and should his uncle marry and procure an heir of his own—I have seen the ridiculous man at any number of events around town eyeing the widows—Mr. Harrington has no recommendation at all. Mr. Morrison is nearly your own age, Mama, and I would be settling for only three thousand pounds—never mind that his estate is in Leeds. Lord Fenton is a shameless flirt whose intentions are unreliable at best, Bertram Welshire is in need of a fortune to repair the damage his younger brothers have made on the family coffers, and Lord Norwin is simply a bore—though he might be my best prospect as his father did not return to parliament this year due to an illness that has not yet been disclosed through the gossip lines. It’s rumored he has nearly ten thousand a year settled upon him, however, and his family is well connected.”

  While Amber did not have female friends, there were plenty of girls who would associate with her for connection, and Amber made use of them by procuring whatever on-dit they possessed. Amber never shared what she learned with anyone else but simply filed it away for her own purposes.

  Seeing the surprise on Lady Marchent’s face turn to admiration of her eldest daughter’s shrewdness, Amber finished her commentary. “I have heard, however, that the Earl of Sunther may be returning to London within a fortnight. With the title so new upon his shoulders, he’s most certainly mindful of the need to secure himself a wife and an heir.” Amber looked at her mother with a smile. “Do not think me a simpleton in my pursuits only because I have not shared with you the workings of my mind. I am the eldest daughter, Mama. I plan to make you and Father proud and ensure that my children are raised with the same level of distinction I have known.”

  “I regret to have doubted you,” her mother said with a complimentary smile. “I fear that with so many events demanding my attention I had forgotten to consider what a wise girl you are.” She crossed the space between them and took Amber’s hands in a rare display of affection. “I shan’t let my concerns interfere with my confidence in you.” She leaned in and pressed her cheek ever so quickly against her daughter’s.

  Amber inhaled the scent of her mother’s perfume and closed her eyes. Her mind turned to the times of her childhood when she’d so often pined for her mother’s return to Hampton Grove, the estate where Amber and her siblings—her younger sister, Darra, and her three brothers, two of whom were now at sch
ool—had spent their childhood. It seemed as though Mama was always away, and Amber had not yet lost the ache of wanting her mother’s attentions.

  Amber clearly remembered the day Mama had come home from a stay in Bath and looked upon her eldest daughter in surprise. “Why, you are becoming a woman,” she’d said to Amber, who was barely fifteen. “And a lovely one at that. We must attend to your education in the graces that will secure you the future a beauty such as you deserves. A woman gets one chance to secure herself any power in this life, you know, and we shall make certain you do your family credit.”

  For the first time Amber had a place in her mother’s life and had from then on kept a sharp eye toward the world in general in hopes of becoming everything her mother wished her to be. Tonight, Amber felt the validation of her efforts. She ignored the stirring within her that wished it had not taken so much accomplishment to earn Mama’s attention.

  Lady Marchent pulled back from the near-embrace and smiled. “I shall talk to Darra about tonight’s attendance,” she said. “I don’t want you to be out of sorts for the night’s assemblies. I shall also be sure to ask after Lord Norwin’s father at the dinner party. Mrs. Heyworth is sure to know the circumstance.”

  Amber nodded her approval. She’d known Mama would comply with her, and she enjoyed the internal victory she felt at having been correct in that expectation.

  Lady Marchent released Amber’s hands which were left cold from her withdrawal. “We leave in just over an hour, and I am sure your new abigail awaits you quite anxiously.”

  “Then perhaps she will be eager about my presentation,” Amber said, frowning at the memory of the difficulties she’d had with her prior maid, Helen, these last weeks.

  Amber quit her mother’s rooms and returned to her own bedchamber where the new maid was waiting with Mrs. Nitsweller, the housekeeper. Just as Lady Marchent had supposed, both women seemed anxious about the time left to prepare Amber for the dinner party.