Her chair was positioned next to the wide window, the heavy draperies drawn back to let in the midafternoon sun. She kept glancing out the window to see if a carriage approached, but at least she was making progress on what would soon be a cushion. That was in stark contrast to how her writing was going.
She blamed her lack of inspiration on her uncertain future. She couldn’t help worrying about what would happen when the new marquess arrived. Would he be young or old? Mr. Markham hadn’t shared any information with her, and truthfully, she hadn’t asked. All she’d known was that the man was away from England and either unwilling or unable to return. Since her uncle’s death three years ago, she’d fallen into the routine of her days—broken only by her recent all-too-short trip to London—and had ceased to think about the man.
But since hastily departing London, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Would the man be content to ignore her, allowing her life to continue as it had been before his arrival? Or would he insist on marrying her off to someone, anyone, to get her off his hands? If the latter proved to be his intention, perhaps she’d be able to convince him to give her a small allowance that would allow her to move into a small cottage of her own. She wasn’t against the idea of marriage, but she wouldn’t be pushed into a union with someone she barely knew. At the age of five and twenty, she was old enough to refuse any such attempt. But the fact she was now well past the age of majority meant little if the man decided to tie up the funds the previous marquess had set aside for her dowry.
For what felt like the millionth time that day, she glanced up from the square of fabric that was destined to be a chair cushion and looked out the window. Expecting to be disappointed yet again, she glanced down automatically at her embroidery before registering the fact that a carriage had turned onto the avenue that led up to the house.
The effect of that realization was immediate. Her heart began to race and her hands became unsteady. She set aside the needlework and watched the approaching carriage. It moved at a steady pace, the Lowenbrock crest emblazoned on the door of the gleaming black traveling coach announcing that the new marquess had arrived.
Amelia rose and moved closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man when he exited the carriage.
Of course, that meant he might also be able to see her. She moved to one side of the window so the drapes would hide her if he happened to glance up. She’d decided he was likely a man of middle age. Had he been in the Americas all this time? That would be why it had taken Mr. Markham such a long time to find him. But that begged the question—was he in England to stay?
She resisted the urge to press her nose against the pane of glass, but it was a near thing when she saw Mr. Markham exit the carriage. He hadn’t mentioned during that last breakfast in London that he planned to accompany the marquess.
Her gaze remained fixed on the carriage door. She saw his hand first, gloved of course. Then one broad shoulder and a fair head of hair. Her breath caught. Something about the man reminded her so much of the one who’d come to her rescue that night at the tavern.
It couldn’t be him. Life wasn’t like that. It would be too large a coincidence to think she’d be caught out in the only adventure of her hitherto placid life by the man who held complete control of her future.
She told herself it was nothing more than a superficial resemblance. England was filled with men who had fair hair after all. Still, she held her breath when he raised his head to take in his new home.
Her heart threatened to stop. For a moment she wondered if she would give in to the trite cliché of swooning, because the man who’d exited the carriagewasthe same man she’d seen at the tavern.
His eyes passed over her window, and she realized she’d stepped closer to it when his gaze hesitated before he turned to ask Mr. Markham a question.
Had he seen her? Did he recognize her?
She stepped back and turned away. He couldn’t recognize her. He couldn’t know she’d been pretending to be a barmaid as research for a novel. She cringed at the thought.
She recalled that her hair had been looser than how she normally wore it, scraped back into a chignon. That had been Alice’s doing. She’d allowed Amelia to tuck a kerchief into the neckline of the dress she’d had to don for her role as barmaid, but then Alice had taken the liberty of removing several hairpins and threading her fingers through her hair to loosen the thick mass. Several strands had even escaped.
Quickly she moved to her chest of drawers and searched through the top one. It had been a while since she’d worn a lace cap to cover her hair, but she knew there must be several in there still. Much as she hated the things, she hadn’t wanted to give them away lest the new marquess be old-fashioned enough to expect her to wear one.
Well, he wasn’t old-fashioned—at least she didn’t think he was since he was of an age with her. She sighed with relief when she found the neatly folded stack of white fabric tucked into the back of the drawer.
She reached for the top one and moved to her dressing table. Her hands were still shaking as she smoothed the cap over her hair, careful to ensure no strands escaped. She examined her appearance in the mirror.
Ugh, she looked like someone’s maidenly aunt, but she supposed that was a good thing. Would he recognize her? The world was filled with dark-haired, blue-eyed women. A few days had passed, and it had been dark that night. Surely he wouldn’t recognize her and realize they’d already met.
Her spectacles. She didn’t really need them most of the time, but they did help if she was working by candlelight. Her eyes became fatigued otherwise.
She opened the middle drawer of the dressing table, pulled out her one pair of spectacles, and put them on. Normally she left them perched on the end of her nose, hating how they dulled her vision when she was looking into the distance. With firm resolve, she pushed the spectacles up and glanced at her reflection. She had to lean closer to get a good look.
Would he be fooled? If he’d taken in her too-wide mouth and her nose, which turned up a bit at the end, he might recognize her. But men weren’t usually that observant. The former marquess hadn’t been. If he ran into someone he should know where he didn’t expect to see them, he behaved as though he were meeting that person for the first time.
The spring fair in the nearby village had been filled with such occurrences. Amelia had taken to leaning in and whispering someone’s name to her uncle whenever they approached. He acted gruff whenever she did so, as though annoyed with her assumption he wouldn’t recognize the person, but she knew he’d appreciated her service.
Sadness swept through her as she remembered how kind he’d been when she first came to live with him. Her parents had died when she was still far too young, taken from her by a virulent fever that had swept through the household. She’d been saved when they sent her away to school after one of their staff died, but her parents hadn’t been able to avoid the illness and had also succumbed to it.
Her uncle’s own wife had passed away the year before during childbirth, and he’d never wed again. From the moment she arrived, he’d treated her like the child he never had. He’d been gone for three years, but she still missed him.
She moved to her bed and lowered herself onto the edge. Mrs. Brambles, a gray tabby, slept soundly in the middle of her bed. There was a perfectly good cushion for her on the floor by the window, but she ignored it most days in favor of Amelia’s larger bed.
Amelia stroked the cat’s head. Mrs. Brambles squinted, one amber-colored eye opening slightly. She closed it again and turned onto her side with a contented purr.
Amelia smiled. “You’ll have to be a good girl for me. No escaping when the maid comes in later. We don’t know yet how the new marquess feels about cats. It’s possible he might take one look at you and consign you to sleeping in the stables.”
The tabby made a small sound of protest and curled into a tight ball.