"To my daughter’s union." Lord Rochester proposed with an obvious cheer that was shown only by himself. The men raised their glasses and drained the contents. Lord Rochester merely wet his lips.
The butler was curious but held himself back. Lord Rochester noticed the gleaming curiosity and smiled now. “Lord Windon has signed the betrothal contract. Tell Cook there will be a banquet tonight to celebrate with the entire household. Break out the cask of summer ale in the cellar, Winthrop."
“Very well, your lordship." The butler greeted the news with a shudder of obvious relief that no one but Lord Windon caught. The butler exited, followed closely by Mister Smythe. Somehow Lord Windon knew the contents of the papers he had signed would be all over the estate by teatime.
"The matter of making things known to my daughter..." Lord Windon held his breath. "I believe I will leave that to you, as I have said earlier. But you must tell her before the dinner. It is only right."
Duty. Is that what would be left to him for the rest of his life? He was loath to spend the rest of his life doing what was right. He sighed softly. It would be shabby to expect Lord Rochester to break the news to his daughter. It was his own problems, and he had to deal with it by himself. Just not yet. He couldn't face her wrath just yet.
Chapter Twelve
The butler had delivered the news along with dinner instructions to the kitchen. Mary had snatched that titbit and hauled it up the stairs with glee to assault her mistress with. Lady Amelia’s stomach didn't like the news any bit. It rebelled, losing the reins on its tenderness during her monthly bleeding and hurled the unrecognisable contents of breakfast in a chamber pot.
"Damnation!"
"Mistress?" Mary hovered and pulled the stinking chamber pot away from her mistress's nose. Amelia waved her away and snuck back into bed. She closed her eyes and thought about the news. Her stomach churned but she refused to become even more of a coward than strictly necessary.
Spewing was no way to greet a marriage announcement. The action would only add fire to flames already burning out of control. The household would have her pregnant with Robert's heir in a trice. Her night away from their watchful eyes with him at an unknown rendezvous was a matter of serious contemplation among the household servants. Her thin falsehood about staying with a tenant family would melt away come Sunday, when everyone could compare notes in church.
A burn in her hand confirmed her hands had tightly clenched the soft bed sheets in a white fist. She felt the loss of control more than anything, and the betrayal. Amelia subsided into bed and curled on one side. The burn in her eyes signalled the tears that would soon fall, but that wouldn't do. Closing her eyes against it, she lulled herself into quietness even while her thoughts and stomach churned.
She must have succeeded, because the coolness of a damp cloth on her brow startled her awake faster than ever. She raised her eyes to find Mary looking at her with deep concern and sympathy. Drat her sentiments.
"It is not a fate too unbearable, my lady. There are worse things, and I have it in good authority that Lord Windon is a kind man," the girl said as she moped her mistress’s brow.
"I am sure." Though her voice was low, it trembled, but not enough to disguise her tone that conveyed a healthy amount of disbelief.
"Cook roped his valet into discussion and we were most curious about Lord Windon now that—well, now that..." Mary stuttered and Amelia winced. Her reaction was disgraceful at best. And knowing Cook approved of the match stung. Was there no one on her side?
"My constitution is not that weak to spew at the reminder. I dare say I only did that because it was rather abrupt," she countered sharply. Her angst showed through her attempts to curb it.
Mary almost tipped the bowl into the bed. "He didn't discuss his intentions with you!?"
"Have a care, Mary. I do not wish to lie in the wet!" Amelia cautioned as she scooted away. Mary rescued it in time, still looking at her with a question in her eyes. "H
e did." She let it lie at that.
Mary remained unconvinced and huffed as she put the piece of cloth back into clean water, wringing the excess off and returning it to her mistress's brow. "I warrant his manners are stiff and eccentric." She started in the manner of a person who was giving a lecture aimed at consoling a child. How on earth a lecture was supposed to console a person, Amelia did not know.
"Then we are quite a match in that respect." Amelia replied to her maid with a great deal of sarcasm.
"Quite so," Mary chorused. The subtleties of the conversation flown right over her head. Amelia groaned on the bed, but Mary didn't react to it as she continued her belated attempt to reassure. "He is kindly to his staff and does not curb them, except when they act in excess and outside orders and that is rarely, if never. He is not miserly but he is not given to excesses that might beggar you."
"I see." Amelia commented in a tone that should convey her disinterested state to her maid, but then Mary just continued her explanation as she cleaned her lady’s face.
Mary continued with a feigned confidence. "You are more in danger of neglect. His Grace is known to prefer his own company for hours on end and would go days without a word to persons around him."
"Who is the font of this veritable knowledge again?" How servants dug up these truths was not a mystery to Amelia. She has visited the kitchens herself.
"His valet, who I am sure knows his person perfectly well. There are also no multitude of friends," Mary added with what she thought was a sagely nod of her head. It only put Amelia in the mind of a rooster strutting and about to crow. Amelia laughed inwardly at the ridiculous image.
"His Grace does not lack for company," she answered though airily, but she was not quite sure herself.
"He is not very amendable to company except in the person of his cousin Lord Felton," Mary countered.
"I am sure you want to ease my mind, but nothing will," Amelia returned just as succinctly.
Mary scrambled to touch her, making her to open her eyes to look into her maid’s earnest eyes. "He is a good match, offers you the title of duchess, and you cannot say he cares not a whit for you."