“Oh, no,” Amity began, “that hardly seems—”
“Please, dear sister,” Charlotte entreated her, “we have been invited. We mustn’t be rude to our host and hostess, and I am not going to whistle, I promise. Mother would want us to help out Lady Peabody, don’t you think?”
Amity eyed her sister, who’d suddenly matured into a reasonable person.
“Yes, please,” Lord Peabody said, with a note of teasing that made his wife dig her elbow into his side.
“Very well,” Amity said, finally giving the butler her mantle as Charlotte had already done. “In that case, I thank you for allowing us to be part of your evening. The chocolates,” she reminded them, removing the tins from the sack, which she also gave to their butler.
“Take them, my love,” Lady Peabody ordered her husband. “Oh, such pretty containers. We shall put them on the sideboard for after dinner. The chocolates will go so well with port or sherry. Did you manage to make them look like elephants?”
Lady Peabody didn’t wait for a response as she and her husband led them into the drawing room. Amity felt a little lightheaded. Despite her comportment in the foyer, Charlotte was given to rather silly behavior at times. Furthermore, she, herself, was equally inexperienced in the ways of a fancy party with—
Lord Pelham!
Her eyes found him as soon as she entered the room and their hosts stepped to the side.
“We have a lovely surprise,” Lady Peabody told those gathered, and Amity knew her cheeks were the color of raspberries. She and Charlotte could hardly be a lovely or a welcome surprise for anyone, especially the crème de la crème of London society.
“Very lovely,” Lord Peabody added, earning another dig in the side from his wife.
Lady Peabody continued, “We have lost two guests while almost instantly gaining two others in their stead. Our hosting reputation has maintained its perfect rate of partnering.”
The other guests raised their glasses, some laughed at Lady Peabody’s little quip, and others said, “Bravo.”
To Amity’s amazement, Charlotte stepped past her as if she belonged and took a glass of wine from a servant whose sole job seemed to be to stand perfectly motionless with a tray of filled wine glasses. Then naturally, her sister went toward the only person she recognized.
“Your Grace, so good to see you again.”
Amity’s eyes widened at Charlotte’s aplomb. Snagging a glass for herself, hoping it gave her a little of her sister’s courage, she took a healthy sip and followed her.
“A delightful surprise,” the duke said, a smile playing about his lips. She sensed he understood her discomfort. And a pleasant thought struck her. Was he one of the single gentlemen Lady Peabody had spoken of? He seemed to be alone.
As if they were at a play and a cue had just been given, a hush went through the room at the same time as Lord Peabody said, “There you are, dear girl. Did you get lost finding the water-closet?”
Less romantic words were never spoken, Amity was positive, at least not to this lady. In had walked a radiant young woman with the fairest of complexions and the lightest blonde hair she’d ever seen. She wore pale blue silk that seemed to catch the lamplight and shine a halo around her.
The lady — for by her manner and dress she was titled — allowed her gaze to sweep the room, perhaps making certain every eye was upon her, as assuredly they were. Then, at last, her glance landed on Amity, revealing a stunning pair of blue eyes. And all at once, she knew who it was — Lady Madeleine Brayson.
The newspaper descriptions hadn’t lied. She was stunning, like a doll crafted from porcelain and bestowed with the prettiest coloring imaginable.
Lady Madeleine’s glance passed over her to Charlotte, hovered briefly, and settled on Lord Pelham. At that point, her face broke out in a stunning smile, and even Amity gasped softly at her beauty.
“An angel,” Charlotte murmured beside her.
Amity looked at Lord Pelham to see he was utterly entranced, staring at the woman he intended to make his wife as she approached. Who could blame him?
When she got close enough, the duke made introductions. While polite, Lady Madeleine was disinterested at best. Thankfully, Lady Peabody came over to play the hostess.
“Let me introduce you to your dinner companions.” With that, she led Amity and Charlotte away from the lady and her besotted duke.
On the other side of the room were two young men, brown hair and sandy-colored hair respectively, well-dressed, who nodded politely as they approached.
“Lord Greenley, this is Miss Rare-Foure.” The paler haired man looked blandly toward Amity and nodded after she curtsied.
“And this is also Miss Rare-Foure,” Lady Peabody added. She looked at Charlotte who was grinning broadly. “This is Lord Ridley. I shall leave you ladies in their care. Now that you have rescued my seating arrangement, I must tell Cook we are ready.”
Their hostess left them with the strangers, and Amity plastered on her shopgirl face, congenial and accommodating. They chatted about nothing, which was a relief, until Lord Ridley asked about their family name.
Amity was unsure about the correct etiquette. Would they be offended to learn they had been saddled with shopkeepers’ daughters? Whoever the St. Germain sisters were, they undoubtedly did not earn their keep selling wares on New Bond Street.
Before Charlotte could answer with something embarrassingly honest, Amity said, “Our father is of the Foure barony in France.” No need to say he wasn’t in line for the title of baron. “Our mother is from the very old English Rare family.” Mostly a long line of bakers, but there was no need to mention that, either.
Their family had always flirted with the upper echelon, so to speak, being occasionally welcomed into their company, as they were tonight, whilst staying firmly rooted in the middle class. They had nothing to be ashamed of.
So why was Amity couching her family’s status in omissions and half-truths?
“Fascinating,” Lord Ridley said, sounding not the least bit fascinated and looking past her toward the rest of the guests.
Lord Greenley, for his part, did nothing but stare down her sister’s dress from his superior height. It was the inevitable course of things, Amity supposed.
Feeling protective, she endeavored to get his attention away from Charlotte’s ample bosom.
“You are related to the Greenleys on Hyde Park Street, are you not?” They’d had an order months earlier for a large quantity of chocolate from the Greenley household. Payment hadn’t been forthcoming without two notices of account going out.
“Indeed,” Lord Greenley said. She guessed he recalled the incident for he asked, “Are you related to the owners of Rare Confectionery on Bond Street?”
“Yes,” Charlotte piped up, eager to chime in and speak with the two eligible men. “Our father owns it.”
Lord Ridley’s attention returned to their little group. “Your family owns a confectioner’s shop?”
“My sister is our chocolatier,” Charlotte said and gestured to her, as if there was any question to whom she referred. “Amity is very talented. She slaves away for hours in the back room and comes out with the most delectable creations.”
The gazes of both the wealthy, titled gentlemen turned to her, examining her as if she were another species, and Amity wanted to sink beneath the richly carpeted floor and hide.