Martha Barwood
Regency Romance Author
A Spinster's Secret
Suitor
Suitor
Chapter One- Chapter Two – Chapter Three
Chapter One
Amelia Cranington adjusted her shawl as she sat at the breakfast table, tugging the soft wool closer around her shoulders against the persistent chill of the townhouse.
The sunlight streaming through the tall windows bathed her dark curls in a golden glow, but did little to dispel the gloom of the bleak February morning.
A delightful aroma of freshly baked rolls, eggs, and bacon filled the air—normally a welcome invitation to start the day—but this morning, it merely curled around her without stirring her appetite. Instead, she cradled a cup of sweet tea between her hands, letting the warmth seep into her numb fingers.
The large genealogy book before her held more appeal than the meal. As was often the case, Amelia found herself engrossed in its well-worn pages, her striking blue eyes darting across the delicate looping script that recorded the triumphs, scandals, and legacies of generations past.
It was a peculiar thing, to see a name written down—once flesh and blood, but now reduced to nothing but ink scrawled across the page. She had always felt a curious connection to these long-gone ancestors, their stories whispering to her from the brittle parchment.
The book itself was a testament to endurance, its pages worn smooth by generations of careful hands, the oldest entries dating back to the Jacobean era. Here were the Craningtons of old—knights and landowners, members of parliament, and the occasional scoundrel whose name had not been erased, though perhaps it had been written in a smaller hand.
As she traced the elegant script, Amelia could not help but wonder how many more names would be added in the years to come. Would this record continue for another hundred years? Two hundred? Would some distant descendant run her fingers over these same pages and pause over her name, as she did now with those who came before her? The thought was strangely humbling.
And yet, as much as this book recorded the unbroken line of her family, it was also a silent ledger of those who had slipped through the cracks of history. The daughters who had married and taken another name. The sons who had died young or left no heirs. How many of them had lived lives as full and complex as any duke or celebrated statesman, only to be remembered by a single line in a family archive?
She exhaled softly, her fingertips ghosting over the latest entries. Soon, John’s name would be joined with Lucy’s, a new branch extending forward. Perhaps, in time, their children would be inscribed here, then their children’s children, until the ink of the past met the ink of the future in a seamless chain.
But hers? Hers would stand alone. A name disconnected. A branch that bore no further fruit.
She pushed the thought aside with a small shake of her head. There was no sense in dwelling on such matters. After all, names in a book were only part of a life, not the measure of it.
Aunt Helena had long been the guardian of their family’s history, and was determined to preserve the names and deeds of those who had come before them. Amelia had begun to suspect she was being prepared to inherit this particular mantle, although the thought did not trouble her. On the contrary, she found it oddly comforting.
If she was destined never to have a family of her own, she could at least keep alive the memory of the one she had.
Across the table, her great-aunt Helena was equally absorbed, though her focus was on a daunting stack of correspondence rather than the past. Letters, as ever, demanded her attention. She had always been a meticulous woman, well turned-out despite the passage of years, her graying hair arranged with care, her gowns chosen with an elegance that refused to be diminished by age.
Her expression, sharp and assessing, softened only when she reached the end of a letter and added it to the growing pile at her elbow.
“Nothing of great interest this morning,” she murmured at last, though Amelia noted the slight furrow in her brow. “The usual requests for introductions, invitations to dull soirees, and one particularly tedious inquiry from Lady Marchbank, who seems convinced I possess some knowledge of a distant cousin’s ill-advised marriage.”
Amelia allowed herself a small smile. “And do you?”
Aunt Helena gave an unladylike sniff and a flippant shrug of her shoulders. “Naturally.”
With a fond shake of her head, Amelia turned back to the genealogy book. A particular name had caught her attention—one she did not recall noticing before. The ink was slightly faded, as if it had been added long ago and never revisited. A question formed on her lips, but before she could voice it, Aunt Helena let out a quiet hum of displeasure as she opened the final letter in her stack.
“Now this,” her great-aunt said, her tone subtly altered, “is interesting.”
Amelia glanced up, catching the flicker of something unreadable in Aunt Helena’s expression. It was a look she had seen before—one that often preceded the unearthing of some long-buried family truth.
Before she could ask what had caught her great aunt’s attention, Helena set the letter aside with a decisive motion and, as if sensing Amelia’s curiosity, smoothly changed the subject.
“Are you not hungry, my dear?” Helena ventured, her keen eyes scanning Amelia’s barely touched plate. “You really should fill up before you travel to your mother’s house. You’ve always had an appetite like a sparrow at breakfast time. It will not do to starve yourself. I have told you time and again that it is the most important meal of the day.”
Amelia exhaled softly, resting her hands around her teacup. “I’m sure I can have something at the Cranington estate if the mood takes me. Are you coming with me, Aunt? Mother would be delighted to see you, and I would obviously appreciate the support.”
She gave Aunt Helena a wry smile. “Anything to stop my family endlessly blathering on about me being a spinster. The subject is becoming rather tiresome.”
Helena arched an elegant brow, amusement flickering in her eyes. “I am quite certain it is. However, I’m afraid I must gracefully decline, my dear. I rather think I need to attend to my correspondence this morning. I am woefully behind.”
She gestured to the untidy stack of letters, her tone light, but Amelia suspected there was more to it than that. The idea of her aunt being ‘woefully behind’ with anything seemed ludicrous. She was organized to the hilt with or without her great niece’s assistance.
Perhaps it was mere coincidence that Aunt Helena’s curiosity had been piqued by that last letter, or perhaps, as Amelia suspected, her great-aunt had just uncovered something of significance.
Whatever it was, she would not share it just yet. No, Aunt Helena enjoyed doling out information at precisely the right moment—often when it would have the greatest effect.
Either way, it seemed the morning held distractions enough for them both.
Despite their age difference, the two women had settled easily into living together. Their familial tie was strong, and their mutual passion for ancestry made for some exhilarating conversations.
Aunt Helena’s company had become something Amelia not only valued, but relied upon. After her father’s death, relations with her mother had become somewhat strained. They loved each other, but both women were stubborn and had struggled to remain on good terms as they dealt with their grief in their own, separate ways.
Amelia knew that Lady Cranington had only her best interests at heart, but she wished she would focus on the excitement of up-and-coming events rather than dwelling on her daughter’s utter indifference to finding a suitor.
She’d spent the last several years away from London working as a governess. In truth, the years had gone by in a blink, and she’d missed her window of opportunity to attend many of the society balls and find a potential husband following her debut, but the idea of marriage had always seemed like something other people did—and, in any case, she was not discontented with her life choices.
Amelia had seen the effects of losing a spouse firsthand on her own mother and it wasn’t something she particularly wanted to experience herself. Losing her father had been very hard, and she couldn’t imagine losing a husband would be any easier.
Indeed, she rather enjoyed being a live-in companion for Aunt Helena, who always had an interesting story and perpetually in possession of the latest tidbits of gossip circulating among the fashionable society. In fact, she seemed to know so much about everyone else’s business that people were inclined to seek out her opinion before even bothering to look in the scandal sheets.
Amelia thought she might one day return to being a governess once she had helped her great aunt with her latest charity ventures, but—for now—she was content with their arrangement.
“The wedding is soon,” Amelia remarked quietly, breaking the silence. “John and Lucy are getting married in just a few weeks. I think the family wishes to discuss arrangements today.”
“Hmmm,” Aunt Helena murmured distractedly, tapping her chin as she added a letter to the pile with a precise flick of her wrist. “Indeed. It seems everything is proceeding quite smoothly. The invitations have been sent, and most responses received. The wedding breakfast has been arranged. I hear it will be quite the expensive affair, but it is to be expected for a wedding of this caliber.”
Amelia gave a dry chuckle. “Indeed. It is fortunate that John has a penchant for quoting poets and can charm even the most skeptical of audiences. Otherwise, I suspect Mother might have declared the match unsuitable for reasons only she could justify.”
Her great-aunt’s lips twitched with the smallest of smiles. “My dear, we all know you find his preoccupation with Shelley tiresome, but he’s your brother, and Lucy adores him. Perhaps indulging in lofty verse serves as his means of comforting himself before he submits to the domestic sphere. Not everyone embraces marriage quite so willingly, after all.”
Amelia sighed inwardly. There was a softness to her aunt’s words that made the harsh reality of her own life sting a little. She had often thought that if she’d met a man who found her as amusing as John did Lucy, she might have seen marriage in a different light. Maybe she could have been content in the same way.
But it seemed the prospect of such a match had long since slipped through her fingers. At thirty-years-old, she had almost made peace with it, even if her family’s jabs at her unmarried state were not always so kind.
“Will you be accompanying us to the wedding, or shall you be occupied with ensuring the groomsmen conduct themselves appropriately?” her aunt inquired, her gaze rising from the letters to fix upon Amelia.
“You, of course,” Amelia replied, her voice firm though her gaze dropped to her teacup. “Someone must chaperone Lucy. I have been assigned the job, and I can think of no better task. I am looking forward to welcoming my new sister.”
“Good.” Aunt Helena paused. “Though it may be time to think beyond such mundane duties as playing chaperone and companion all the time. You’ve been with me a long while now. Do you think you’ll continue to live here for much longer?”
Was that a hint of concern in her aunt’s voice?
The question was so pointed that Amelia could only glance up at her with a puzzled smile. “I expect so. It’s hardly a troubling life, Aunt. You’re in need of help, and I’m quite happy with my lot, as it is. Would you rather I left?”
“Of course not. You misunderstand me. I’m only saying that you could be a wife as well, my dear.” Aunt Helena added with a wry smile. “Though, I admit you have never seemed to desire such a union.” She sighed gently and bit her bottom lip as if worried about continuing. “At the risk of sounding like your other family members, I hate to think of you letting life pass you by.”
Amelia shifted in her seat, unable to keep the discomfort from her expression. “I have no desire to marry, Aunt. I am happy as I am. I have my hobbies, my charity work, and plenty of family to occupy my time.”
Aunt Helena’s eyes softened, but there was a flicker of something—an almost imperceptible gleam of amusement—as she rose to fetch her spectacles.
“I do wonder, sometimes, whether you might regret your decision. But, then again, there are far worse things than being a spinster. At least you aren’t surrounded by scandal… which is more than I can say for some.”
Helena cleared her throat conspiratorially and leaned forward as if they were not the only two people present and she feared being overheard. “That reminds me. I shall tell you of the latest doings of the ton when you return!”
***
Amelia adjusted her bonnet as the carriage jolted along the uneven road, her gloved fingers tightening around the ribbon beneath her chin. The crisp winter air seeped through the small gap in the carriage window, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant wood-smoke, a stark reminder of the season’s chill. She exhaled slowly, her breath clouding the glass as she fixed her gaze on the blurred scenery outside.
The journey to her estate had been uneventful, marked only by the steady clatter of hooves and the rhythmic creak of the carriage, yet her thoughts had been anything but idle. With every mile that passed, the knot in her stomach tightened—a strange blend of anticipation and trepidation that she had long since come to associate with returning home.
Cranington Hall emerged at last from the rolling countryside, its familiar ivy-clad facade rising against the dull winter sky. It was as stately as ever, though a faint air of neglect clung to its edges—an overgrown hedge here, a worn patch on the stone steps there.
The sight stirred an odd mixture of comfort, nostalgia, and apprehension within her. How many times had she come down this road as a girl, giddy with excitement to be home again? And yet now, the prospect of stepping through those doors filled her with an uneasy sense of duty rather than delight.
As the carriage came to a halt, a footman rushed forward to open the door, and Amelia descended, her boots crunching against the gravel. The house loomed before her, unchanging, immovable—a relic of her past, a reminder of all that had once been and all that still remained.
Inside the majestic, yet slightly faded, drawing-room, her mother sat in her usual chair, delicately embroidering a handkerchief. Lady Cranington glanced up, her intense eyes assessing Amelia with the precision of a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. Her mother rang for tea, but not before looking her up and down.
“You look tired, Amelia,” she remarked, setting aside her needlework. “Perhaps you should consider more vibrant hues over winter; this constant inclination for muted tones does little for your wan complexion. Some colour for your cheeks would be a start, at least.”
Amelia handed her cloak to the butler, giving him a knowing look. He gave her a shrewd smile in return before he took his leave and then Amelia took a deep breath before turning to face Lady Cranington. She was more than a bit used to her mother’s opinions, and it came as no surprise to Amelia whatsoever that her first utterance of welcome had been a thinly veiled insult.
“Delightful as always to be the subject of your targeted critique, Mother, but I am here to see if I can help with any final arrangements for John and Lucy’s big day rather than exchanging fashion and beauty tips,” Amelia said dryly, smoothing her hand over her skirts as she settled into the chair opposite Lady Cranington.
Her mother gave a delicate sniff, as she stated. “Oh, you always take yourself so seriously, Amelia. I’m merely expressing my concern. I am your mother, after all. And that is the duty of a mother.”
“Yes, I know,” Amelia replied with a dutiful smile, though her tone carried a hint of jesting. “But there is a reason why I don’t visit as often as I used to, you know. You were never one to embellish the truth. I shall give you that, Mother.”
Lady Cranington arched a finely shaped brow. “I simply don’t see the point in dancing around the truth, dearest. It’s a tiresome business.”
“Indeed, well, so is constantly hearing how I could be dressing better, sitting straighter, and generally being a more presentable version of myself.” Amelia folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Really, Mother, I am surprised you have not yet taken to sending me fashion prints as subtle suggestions.”
Lady Cranington waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I gave up subtlety with you years ago. It’s entirely wasted.”
Amelia let out a laugh as a maid delivered a tea tray. “That’s certainly true.”
Despite their tendency to provoke one another, the ladies were used to each other’s sense of humor. Their conversation meandered pleasantly through polite inquiries about Amelia’s health and her duties as Aunt Helena’s companion.
Lady Cranington seemed content, for the most part, though Amelia noted the telltale flicker in her mother’s eyes, the one that suggested she was waiting for the right moment to bring up something truly irksome.
And, sure enough, when they spoke of John and Lucy’s wedding, the inevitable topic arose.
“I do hope John and Lucy will be very happy,” Lady Cranington mused, reaching for her embroidery once more. “Such a fine match, don’t you think? And so fortunate, really—Lucy has the most charming temperament, and of course, John is besotted with her.”
Amelia hummed in agreement. “Indeed, they seem very well suited to one another. It’s good to see John so happy.”
Lady Cranington let the silence linger just a fraction too long before adding, almost offhandedly, “of course, it does make me wonder when you will decide to think of matrimony seriously, my dear.”
Amelia sighed, lifting her teacup in a deliberate attempt to give herself something else to focus on. “Ah, yes. There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The moment in our conversation where you decide to remind me that I am a spinster and apparently quite content to remain one.”
“Well, I don’t see why you must say it as though it is some dreadful accusation,” Lady Cranington said primly. “You make it sound as if I am personally responsible for your continued single state.”
Amelia gave her mother a pointed look. “Are you saying you’re not?”
Lady Cranington pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “My dear, if I had any say in the matter, you would be married to a respectable gentleman by now, with at least two children and a third on the way.”
Amelia choked on her tea. “Good heavens, Mother! You do move quickly.”
“Well, time does not wait for us, Amelia. You must concede, it would indeed be rather delightful to have someone besides myself attending to your needs.”
“I think Aunt Helena does enough of that to make up for any deficit.”
Lady Cranington sniffed. “Aunt Helena permits you considerable freedom. I daresay if she had her way, you would end up one of those scholarly women who never marries and insists on reading Latin before breakfast.”
Amelia smirked. “Oh, the horror.”
Lady Cranington sighed, shaking her head as though her daughter’s stubbornness was an affliction she had resigned herself to bearing. “At least, I do hope you will at least try to enjoy the wedding rather than treating it as merely another family obligation that you must endure.”
“I shall do my best,” Amelia said, setting down her cup with a smile. “Provided, of course, that I can go an entire evening without someone commenting on my unmarried status.”
Lady Cranington gave her a knowing look. “Well, I shan’t make any promises on that account.”
Amelia merely sighed and took another sip of tea, already bracing herself for the endless matchmaking attempts to come.
“You’re thirty, my dear,” Lady Cranington said with a sigh, her fingers pausing in their stitching. “You can’t blame people for asking you whether you’ve given any thought to securing your future. Marriage, even now, could offer stability—financial and otherwise.”
Deliberately keeping her tone light, Amelia’s response was measured. “I’ve been through this many, many times with various well-meaning family members, and my answer is the same as it ever was. My life is quite satisfactory, Mother. I find companionship and purpose in my current circumstances.”
“But, you’re living with your great aunt. Not that I wish to sound like the harbinger of doom, but she shall not remain your companion for all eternity, my dear. Have you given any thought to what might become of you later in life?”
Trust Mother to find the sunshine in everything life has to offer.
Before Amelia could respond, the door to the drawing room flew open, and in stumbled her brothers, John and Albert, accompanied by none other than Arthur Bancroft, an old family friend and the son of the Duke of Westbury.
The sudden intrusion was enough to make Amelia stiffen in her seat, but she couldn’t help feeling a modicum of relief. The interruption meant she didn’t have to respond to her mother’s somewhat cruel notion that she was to be alone in life, certain to suffer a lifetime of isolation and misery.
Amelia’s brothers had returned to London for the upcoming Season, but nothing could have prepared her for their current condition.
John grinned at her sheepishly from a pale face and Amelia couldn’t help but think he might benefit from some colour on his face, as well, although she doubted her mother would berate him about his waxen appearance.
He looked as if he might have been quite literally dragged through a hedge backwards. His previously white shirt was more creased than crisp, and the rest of his attire—in tandem with his bloodshot eyes and the overpowering aroma of ale and whiskey—bore the hallmark of a man who had neither changed out of yesterday’s clothing nor slept a wink.
“Good morning, dear sister. Mother,” he managed, attempting a nod in their direction.
Lady Cranington looked less than amused as she reached forward to remove what appeared to be a twig from her eldest son’s hair. He inhaled as if he was about to say something else, but seemingly lost his train of thought part way through, a bewildered expression clouding his visage.
Amelia shifted her gaze to her younger brother. At two and twenty, Albert had slightly more stamina for overindulgence than the other miscreants in his midst, but he looked only slightly better. He gave a loud yawn, a brandy-fueled cologne emanating from his very pores.
And Arthur—well, Arthur was the worst of them all.
To describe his normally coiffed hair as messy was an understatement. Tufts of disarranged, sandy-blond hair stuck up as if he’d barely bothered to run a hand through it that morning; his usually impeccable attire was a dirty, disheveled mess.
His cravat hung loose and an overwhelming scent of alcohol clung to him like a second skin. He blinked rapidly, as though struggling to stay upright, and Amelia noticed the obvious tremor in his hand as he reached for a chair.
“Well, I see the revelry has not quite been left behind yet,” she remarked, her tone as scathing as sandpaper. “You do realise it is almost noon!”
Arthur shot her a glance, his lips curling into a grin despite his state.
“You always did have a sharp tongue, Miss Cranington,” he said with a playful drawl. “I do hope I haven’t offended you with my behaviour. I was merely following the advice of my dear father to… ‘get the wildness out of my system before I have to settle down.”
“Your father should have known better than to allow his son to turn into some careless dandy,” Amelia retorted, struggling to maintain her composure as she tried to avoid the unmistakably pungent odour of the previous night’s excesses. “Are you not set to become the next duke? This uncouth behaviour is hardly befitting of a man set to take over an esteemed title.”
Arthur chuckled softly, though it sounded strained. “Mayhap. But what harm is there in having a little fun before the weight of responsibility takes over?” His eyes caught hers, and for a brief moment, something flickered across his features—a hint of recognition, perhaps, of the girl he once knew when they had been much younger.
Her pulse quickened, but Amelia shoved the uncomfortable sensation aside with a practiced ease. She was no longer that girl who had admired him from afar as he reveled in his youthful freedom. In any case, the person standing before her was hardly the epitome of a perfect gentleman.
“Mayhap you should have saved some of that fun for another time,” she said curtly. “Your behaviour is most unseemly. I can only hope that you haven’t inflicted it upon anyone else this morning.”
“No, of course not, my lady,” Arthur began. “We would never dream of—”
Just then, a strange expression flitted across Arthur’s face. His eyes widened in horror, and a loud, guttural noise broke through the quiet as he bent suddenly, his hand instinctively covering his mouth.
For a brief moment, he seemed to battle with himself, his entire frame rigid as he fought desperately to maintain composure. But the fight was in vain.
His face turned an unhealthy shade of green as he valiantly tried—and failed—to contain the rise of his sickness. Without warning, his stomach heaved, and he retched, losing whatever remained of the previous night’s indulgences.
Amelia recoiled in shock as some of it splattered across her dress, an appalled gasp escaping her lips. A moment of stunned silence followed—one in which she could do nothing but gape at the horror before her.
Then the revulsion hit.
“Good heavens!” she cried, leaping to her feet, horrified and furious at the unceremonious indignity of it all. “I—I must change immediately!”
“Oh, my.” Lady Cranington added reaching for the bell to summon the unfortunate housekeeper and her lady’s maid for cleaning assistance. “Well, you are not as pale as some people now, Amelia.”
Amelia whirled on her mother with an outraged glare. “This is hardly the time for jests, Mother,” she retorted, her voice tight with indignation. “Kindly spare me a dress so that I do not have to leave in this revolting state. We shall have to discuss the nuptials another time —after I have rid myself of this abhorrent humiliation.”
Arthur, meanwhile, stood frozen, his complexion ashen, his mouth opening and closing as though he wished to speak but could find no words to mend the catastrophe. The weight of his actions pressed down on him with crushing force.
John, ever the empathetic soul, clapped a hand over his own mouth, visibly struggling to keep his own stomach in check, while Albert—entirely unhelpful—had turned away, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter.
“I—I apologise, Miss Cranington, Lady Cranington,” Arthur stammered at last, his voice thick with shame. He could not meet Amelia’s eyes for longer than a second before glancing away, his usual charm obliterated in an instant. “I—it was never my intention—I mean to say, I deeply regret—”
But Amelia’s cheeks were burning with fury, and she could only manage a stiff nod. “Your apology does not undo the damage,” she said, her words clipped. “Nor does it make up for such egregious misconduct or the lack of propriety you so plainly demonstrate. An heir to the dukedom indeed!”
Arthur flinched as though she had physically struck him.
With an air of dismissal, accompanied by the rustling of her skirts, she turned sharply and swept out of the room without another word, the echo of her footsteps rebounding off the marble floors, leaving Arthur standing desolate amidst the aftermath of his folly.
Lady Cranington sighed and turned toward the housekeeper as she arrived, her gaze flicking toward the soiled floor. “I am terribly sorry about this,” she said, her tone resigned. “I do believe this has been one of the most eventful days we’ve had in some time.”
Albert, unable to contain himself any longer, released a sharp bark of laughter, which he unsuccessfully attempted to mask as a cough.
John groaned, still looking faint. “Oh, Heavens, Albert. Must you?”
But Albert only chuckled harder, shaking his head in wonder. “Poor fellow,” he muttered, casting a pitying glance toward Arthur. “He will never live this down.”
Arthur stood in the aftermath, his expression one of pure wretchedness, his pride crumbling at his feet along with the last remnants of his dignity. No, he thought grimly. He most certainly would not.
Chapter Two
Arthur Bancroft’s head throbbed in protest against the excesses of the previous few nights—evenings painted with too much whiskey, ale, raucous laughter, and the inevitable foolishness of youth.
Groaning, he placed his head in his hands, the memory of Amelia Cranington’s disapproving stare flashing behind his eyelids. And then, the final indignity: vomiting unceremoniously at her feet. A duke-in-waiting, no less.
Of all the people. Why did it have to happen in front of her?
He usually exuded charm effortlessly, a man known for his wit and debonair presence. But, today, his careless bravado had caught up with him, unraveling his composure right in front of the woman he had harbored feelings for since they’d been children.
“Sterling performance, Bancroft,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his unruly head of hair. No amount of charm could erase that memory or the humiliation he felt, though heavens knew he would have to try and undo some of the damage the next time he saw her.
He sat in the comfort of John Cranington’s library with Anthony Bellsmith who was sprawled inelegantly in the adjacent chair. Arthur attempted to laugh off his embarrassment. “I believe I’ve made a lasting impression on your sister, John. Alas, not quite the kind I intended.”
John, ever the poet, responded with a dramatic sigh. “Indeed, you are immortalized in her memory… as the ‘child’ of a man who could not hold his liquor.”
Anthony, who had come a little later, chuckled, swirling his tea with none of the finesse required for such a task. “If anything, Arthur, you’ve managed to achieve what years of school holidays could not. True infamy in the eyes of Amelia Cranington.”
Arthur feigned nonchalance, though the burn of humiliation lingered beneath his rakish grin. “Perhaps it is better to be infamous and remembered than refined and forgotten.”
John leaned back, regarding Arthur with a mix of mirth and curiosity. “You know, old friend, I believe Amelia always thought you to be quite dashing when we were younger. I daresay that opinion has been… revised.”
Anthony snorted. “Charm fades in the wake of whiskey-induced theatrics. However, it is only a temporary problem and you shall no doubt return to your well-groomed and elegant self once the headache subsides.” He flashed Arthur an impish grin. “Do not despair, Arthur. Women are strange creatures—their hearts are like poetry. Complicated and prone to revision.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Ah indeed, leave it to Bellsmith to wax philosophical over my disgrace. I thought John was the poet amongst us.”
“Cheer up, Arthur,” John said, attempting to stifle a laugh. “Amelia’s always had a forgiving nature.”
“Just not where alcohol-soaked miscreants are concerned,” Arthur retorted with a grin, masking his mortification with humor.
“Amelia likely knows you well enough to understand that last night was my influence,” Anthony declared, slapping Arthur on the back. “You’ll both laugh about this later.”
Arthur appreciated Anthony’s boisterous optimism. Anthony, lacking the restraints of nobility, enjoyed a freedom without consequence that Arthur often envied. Despite lacking a title, he held sway over any room he entered with his charisma and was renowned for his ability to arrange the most memorable social escapades across London.
Among the three of them, Anthony was the sport-loving adventurer, John the poetic dreamer, and Arthur—the tentative heir to his family’s title—often felt caught between societal expectations and his longing for a more authentic and enjoyable existence.
Since meeting at school, their differences had only solidified their bonds; theirs was an enduring camaraderie that defied the public constraints of their respective paths.
Arthur tapped his fingers on the armrest in a pensive rhythm, contemplating the kind of man he wished to become. His father, the current duke, often insisted that Arthur’s youthful indulgence was natural, and a necessary freedom before shouldering the mantle of responsibility. Yet, Arthur felt a stir within him that extended beyond youthful exuberance.
Had it ever been simply about youth? The revelry, the careless nights of drink and laughter—they had once been effortless. But now, every evening of excess carried the weight of expectation, not freedom.
His father encouraged his indulgence with a knowing smile, as though the wildness must burn itself out before nobility claimed him entirely. But Arthur felt no fire dwindling, no gradual acquiescence to duty. He only felt an ever-growing uncertainty, an awareness that he walked a path predetermined for him, and that each night spent in careless abandon was not an act of rebellion—but a farewell to himself.
And now, Amelia had seen him like that. Had seen him at his most undignified, his most childish state. He wondered, irrationally, if she had expected more from him. If somewhere in her mind, she had thought him capable of being something other than what the world believed him to be.
He exhaled, shaking his head at his own musings. What did it matter what she thought? He had devoted years to the art of appearing nonchalant, of laughing in the face of duty. The fact that her disapproval stung so much now only proved what he had long denied—Amelia Cranington had always had the power to unsettle him.
***
After a morning that was memorable for all the wrong reasons, the day passed in typical fashion—a leisurely haze of idle conversation, interspersed with games of billiards and an impromptu fencing match between Anthony and Arthur that ended with more laughter than skill displayed.
Arthur found himself drifting into moments of distraction, his mind stubbornly returning to Amelia’s sharp gaze and the way her disapproval had cut deeper than he cared to admit.
Why does her opinion of me matter so much? She’s known me for a long time and there have been far more occasions where my behaviour has been exemplary rather than embarrassing.
He knew that it was a wasted concern, and yet he couldn’t quite shift the day’s events from his mind. She was the last person he would want to feel uncomfortable with, especially because of his foolishness.
Later that evening, the trio reconvened and made their way through London’s bustling streets, drawn to the gritty excitement of the boxing match for which Anthony had procured tickets.
The roar of the crowd in the dimly lit room offered an intoxicating contrast to the stifling decorum of their usual circles. Arthur thrived in the chaos, his laughter genuine, his worries temporarily drowned by the spectacle. The sharp tang of sweat and the rhythmic thud of gloves temporarily grounded him in the visceral immediacy of the moment.
In the boxing ring, two fighters sparred with focused intensity. Anthony watched closely, his eyes glinting with unrestrained enthusiasm as he stood near the ring, barking encouragement to one of the fighters, his face alight with interest.
“See that, Arthur? That’s precision of movement. Not like your fencing ‘prowess’ from earlier today.”
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “Perhaps. But I wager they are not nursing headaches as immense as mine.”
“It’s all about finesse and timing,” Anthony went on, ignoring Arthur’s excuses and not taking his eyes off the ring. “It has a dance-like rhythm. Much like the poetry you adore, John, only with a more primeval steps.”
John smirked, unperturbed. “There is beauty and brutality here, I suspect, that transcends metaphor.”
Afterward, cards and brandy awaited them in an even more dimly lit parlor that was tucked away behind the boxing establishment. The clink of glasses and the shuffle of cards provided a familiar and fitting end to their evening, but Arthur’s heart wasn’t in it.
He was still tired from the previous evening’s debauchery, and he found himself staring at the flickering candlelight, his thoughts drifting once more to Amelia.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” John observed, arching a brow as he dealt the next hand.
Arthur shrugged, feigning indifference. “Just contemplating the brevity of life… and the even briefer span of my dignity.”
Anthony laughed. “Ah, so it is Amelia who haunts you. I knew it.”
Arthur didn’t deny it. Instead, he gathered his winnings, standing abruptly. “Gentlemen, I find myself unfit for cards and drink, or indeed socialising at all. While I appreciate it is most out of character, I believe I shall retire early.”
Longing for solitude, and doing his best to ignore his friends’ raised eyebrows, he excused himself and returned home. Back at his family estate, he slipped quietly through the halls, navigating the shadows like a ghost revisiting old haunts. However, instead of heading directly to his chambers, he bypassed his room entirely, enticed by the lure of his art studio.
His mother, ever the attentive matriarch, intercepted him in the corridor. “Out late again, Arthur?” Her tone was gentle, if a little world-weary.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he replied softly, offering a reassuring smile. “I do not wish to cause you any worry or trouble, I assure you. I have actually left the boys to it and come home earlier than usual today, if you can believe that.”
She touched her son’s arm gently. “It’s your father’s belief you should enjoy these youthful freedoms while you can,” she said, smoothing her gown as she spoke. “I only wish you’d rest occasionally. You need to look after yourself.” Her concern was genuine, born of maternal love and an awareness of the responsibilities that lay ahead.
Arthur nodded, grasping his mother’s hand with a gentle squeeze, easing her worry with a promise of better behavior. For his father, wildness was a phase that was meant to burn out before nobility and duty took over. Yet, he knew he was never very far from the watchful eyes of the ton and it weighed heavily on his shoulders.
His painting studio was the one place where Arthur found solace —a retreat from duty, expectation, and the ever-present weight of his impending title. It was a modest space, tucked away at the rear of the estate, overlooking the quiet sprawl of the gardens. The scent of oil paint and turpentine hung thick in the air, a familiar comfort, in stark contrast to the polished grandeur of the rest of the house.
Here, he could shed the mask of society, the carefully constructed image of the charming, effortless heir, and simply be a man with a brush and a vision to create.
The room itself was unlike any other in the house, its usual orderliness abandoned for something more instinctual—shelves lined with jars of pigment and well-worn brushes, sketches scattered in careless stacks, canvases propped against the walls, some half-finished, others abandoned in frustration. It was a contradiction to his otherwise meticulous nature, but here, there was little need for perfection.
He lit a single candle, the warm glow casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls, stretching long and restless. A blank canvas sat atop his easel, expectant, its emptiness challenging him. This room was the one place where he could quiet his mind, where he could make sense of the things he could not articulate. And yet, he only ever painted the things that mattered—the things that held weight, the things that refused to be ignored.
Dipping his brush into a pool of blended color, he pressed the first stroke to the canvas. There was no conscious decision to paint her, no moment of intent—his hands simply moved across the blank canvas, guided by something deeper and unspoken.
Amelia.
The shape of her face emerged in delicate lines, the arch of her brow, the curve of her jaw. He traced the shadows beneath her eyes, the intensity of her gaze, and the quiet fortitude she carried even in silence. The motion was instinctive, almost reverent. Each stroke was an admission, a confession of emotions he had buried beneath layers of bravado and recklessness, hidden under years of duty and denial.
He had painted landscapes before, the odd still life, the occasional commissioned portrait when it was expected of him, and he had even painted portraits of Amelia over the years—but none had ever held his focus like this. None had consumed him the way this one did.
Time blurred as he worked, his movements steady, controlled, yet driven by something restless beneath the surface. Outside, the world remained asleep, oblivious to the battle playing out in oil and pigment.
As dawn crept over the horizon, the first tendrils of light slanted through the window, and cast a pale glow across the studio. Arthur sat back, exhaustion tugging at his shoulders and hands, his mind thick with fatigue, but there, on the canvas, was a truth he could no longer ignore.
The painting was far from complete. The colors were raw, the details undefined, but her initial form was there, staring back at him ready for definition.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before wiping his palette knife and setting his brush aside. The peace he sought still eluded him, but for now, this would have to do.
With one last glance at the unfinished portrait, he stretched his stiff limbs and slipped out of the studio, returning quietly to his chambers before the household stirred.
***
In his dream, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred. Arthur found himself following Amelia into a garden filled with the scent of blooming roses as she ran ahead of him down a winding path.
She was a vision, every detail as vivid as if he had painted her himself. The way the light glowed against the strands of her dark hair, the way her skirts swished around her ankles like the whisper of a soft breeze—he saw it all with the precision of an artist’s eye. Her laughter echoed through the sunlight. She was wild and untamed, the very essence of freedom, and yet she remained just out of his reach.
No matter how quickly he moved, how desperately he tried to close the distance, Amelia always danced just beyond his fingertips. Her silhouette flickered between the flowers, her figure shifting between the pools of light and shadow cast by the towering hedgerows. The chase was maddening, intoxicating, much like the woman herself—always contradicting, always slipping through his grasp.
The closer he thought he was, the further away she seemed. He could see her perfectly, every breathless smile, every flicker of teasing mischief in her eyes, but he could not touch her. She would turn to him, pausing just long enough for him to believe he had finally caught her, before darting away once more, her presence tangible yet elusive, like a fleeting brushstroke that refused to be defined.
Arthur quickened his pace, drawn forward by something deeper than reason, but the moment his fingertips grazed the air where she had been, the light shifted—suddenly, it was night.
The garden transformed. The warmth of the sun vanished, replaced by a cool, silvery moonlight that cast long, eerie shadows across the hedgerows. The roses, once bright and full, stood in brittle silence, their petals falling softly, soundlessly, disintegrating into dust the moment they touched the ground. The path beneath him twisted, unfamiliar now, coiling in ways that defied logic.
Still, she was there.
The glow of the moon caught her figure as she danced through the darkness, her presence both real and impossibly distant. Arthur called out her name, but the sound was swallowed by the night. She turned, just for a moment, her face half-illuminated, her expression unreadable.
Was she smiling? Was she sad?
He couldn’t tell—he only knew that she was waiting.
He surged forward again, desperation clawing at his chest. She was slipping away. He could feel it in his bones, the terrible inevitability of it, just as he felt it when he was awake. This was not only a dream. This was a truth his mind refused to accept.
And yet, he did not stop chasing her.
He could not.
Because even in his dreams, Arthur knew what he could not admit in the waking world—he would pursue Amelia Cranington to the ends of the earth if only she would let him.
Chapter Three
Amelia Cranington sat at the small, ink-stained writing desk, meticulously recording notes in the family genealogy book. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Aunt Helena’s sitting room, casting golden patches on the polished floor.
The scent of old paper and faint lavender filled the space, mingling with the occasional creak of the aged chair beneath her. Aunt Helena, standing beside her, peered over her spectacles, scrutinizing the neat script.
“You see, Amelia,” Aunt Helena began, tapping a finger against the delicate pages, “the Cranington line intertwines with the Westburys several generations back. It is always fascinating how these connections resurface in the most unexpected ways.”
Amelia mumbled in agreement, though her thoughts drifted. The upcoming wedding of her brother John to Lucy Bancroft weighed heavily on her mind. It was not the marriage itself but the responsibilities that came with it. As one of the chaperones, she was expected to maintain propriety and decorum, roles she outwardly fulfilled with ease but which left her inwardly restless.
Closing the book with great care, Amelia glanced at Aunt Helena. “It is important work, I suppose, ensuring our family history remains intact. And to think, John and Lucy will soon add to it with their own story.”
“Indeed,” Aunt Helena replied with a knowing smile. “Their wedding will be quite the event. A union of two families, with all the necessary lineage and social expectations met.”
“And that’s why I’m here,” Amelia agreed, satisfied in her role as one of the chaperones, her gaze drifting to the window where the bustling streets of London hinted at lives far different from her own.
She pondered her past choices, the years spent as a governess, the quiet acceptance of spinsterhood. Was it truly contentment, or had she simply grown accustomed to the absence of romance? Watching her brother take this significant step coaxed a contemplation about her own choices—choices that had steered her life’s course uniquely away from marriage.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, filled with gentle admonitions.
You’ll regret it if you don’t marry young, Amelia.
Now that she was thirty, she wondered if that regret had indeed settled in, disguised as tranquility.
She had embraced the independence her unmarried status had afforded her, finding purpose in charitable and familial causes. Yet sometimes, when she was alone with her thoughts, she wondered if her mother’s urging had been wise, even though they felt unwelcome at the time. There was a lingering curiosity about what paths might have unfurled if she had sought out a suitor and married as a younger woman.
“There is still time, my dear.” Aunt Helena said softly, interrupting Amelia’s reverie with a smile, as if reading her musings. “Life offers many opportunities, though some appear when we least anticipate them.”
Amelia huffed softly, a small sound of acknowledgment and appreciation. “I know, Aunt. I appreciate the reassurance.”
“Speaking of opportunities,” Helena changed the topic briskly, “I think we should visit the Bancroft estate. Arthur’s mother is expecting us at some point to discuss the upcoming charity gathering.”
Amelia stiffened, the memory of Arthur stumbling into her household not too long ago fresh in her memory. “Do we really have to see them today?”
Amelia’s stomach tightened at the mention of Arthur’s mother. It wasn’t that she was averse to seeing Her Grace but the prospect of encountering Arthur was not one she relished. She could still vividly recall the scene from days prior—his disheveled state, the unfortunate incident that left her both appalled and unable to shake the image from her mind.
Helena laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You are not still fretting about the minor morning mishap, are you? Boys will be boys, Amelia. I dare say he was likely mortified at such an unexpected ‘performance’.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, it’s hard to forget the sight—and smell—of such revelry,” Amelia countered. Although—even she had to admit—she sounded more amused than aggrieved now.
“And yet,” Helena insisted, “it is vital we not shy away from these tasks. The Bancrofts have always been reliable partners in our charitable endeavours.”
With a reluctant nod, Amelia rose, looping her arm through Helena’s as they prepared to set out.
Amelia and Aunt Helena arrived at the Bancroft residence, greeted with an impressive elegance befitting the family’s social standing. The estate, a sweeping testament to generations of wealth, loomed with an effortless elegance.
The stone facade, adorned with intricate carvings of ivy and heraldic symbols, seemed untouched by time. As their carriage drew up to the entrance, Amelia took in the polished marble steps leading to massive oak doors, which swung open to reveal a footman who ushered them inside with practiced efficiency.
The drawing room exuded warmth, but beneath its inviting glow was an undeniable formality. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting soft patterns across the gilded wallpaper.
A collection of porcelain figurines stood in meticulous arrangement atop the fireplace mantel, and a large oil painting of the Duke and Duchess of Westbury in their younger years watched over the room with aristocratic detachment.
The Duchess received them in the drawing room with poised grace, her every movement deliberate. Her eyes exuded warmth but were sharp with polite curiosity.
“Miss Cranington, Lady Helena, what a pleasure,” she said, gesturing for them to sit. “I trust your family is well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Aunt Helena replied smoothly, her conversation steering effortlessly toward their shared charitable interests.
Amelia listened, contributing where appropriate, but her thoughts were divided. The soft rustling of skirts, and the clink of china as a maid poured tea, all formed a quiet backdrop to her preoccupation. She could not shake the unease that Arthur might be nearby.
The conversation flowed until the Duchess, with a glint of amusement in her eyes, remarked, “Arthur mentioned your last meeting was… memorable.”
Amelia stiffened slightly, her teacup pausing mid-air.
He willingly volunteered that information to his mother?
Before she could formulate a dignified response, the door opened, and Arthur appeared at the threshold.
Oh, Heavens.
“Oh!” Her Grace exclaimed with a poised laugh. “What a coincidence! Arthur, dearest, do come and grace us with your presence.”
Arthur hesitated only a moment, but Amelia caught the flicker of surprise in his expression—along with something else. Embarrassment? Amusement? It was impossible to tell before he quickly masked it, his signature roguish grin falling into place as he stepped forward.
“Miss Cranington,” he intoned, bowing with exaggerated grace, “how delightful to encounter you again.”
Amelia set her teacup down, meeting his gaze with a coolness she did not entirely feel. “Lord Arthur. I trust you are feeling…much improved?”
His grin widened, undeterred. “Remarkably so, thanks to your, ah, wonderful presence. I was just out riding and thought I should come to see who my mother was receiving.”
“Indeed,” Amelia replied, arching her brow, unable to suppress a small smile that tugged at her lips. “I trust your morning exercise was less eventful than our last encounter?”
Arthur chuckled, shifting his gaze to meet hers, his eyes filled with a mirth that begged understanding. “I assure you, Miss Cranington, I’ve since endeavoured to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong, and my behaviour in line.”
Arthur sighed dramatically.
Lady Bancroft, keen to smooth over any remnants of awkwardness, cleared her throat loudly and quickly redirected the conversation. “Arthur,” she said, giving him a pointed look, “we’ve been discussing the charity event. You should join us for the preparations—your presence will bolster its success, as always.”
Arthur took a seat beside his mother, nodding. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Amelia scoffed. “I’m certain your social calendar provides far more scintillating activities than charity gatherings and balls.”
He laughed, the sound warm and disarming. “Touché.”
As they talked, Amelia couldn’t help but be impressed by Arthur’s sincerity; his respect for his mother’s belief in the event’s importance apparent despite his interest or lack thereof.
While there was little doubt that he would far rather be anywhere else than attending these events, his willingness to support his mother in her endeavors was admirable. He understood his family duty, and she found herself begrudgingly taken in by his charm.
Amelia caught Arthur watching her, his expression softer, more earnest. As the Duchess’s and Helena’s conversation moved onto other subjects, he leaned subtly closer, his voice pitched low for her ears alone. “Amelia, I must apologise again for, well… the unfortunate incident. I assure you, it was entirely Anthony’s influence.”
“Is that how you avoid wrongdoing? By laying it firmly at Anthony’s feet?” she jested.
“It has served him well enough over the years,” Arthur quipped with a playful grin. “But, I truly do regret any distress caused. It was nothing short of mortifying, especially in front of a lady.”
Amelia met his eyes, her feigned irritation giving way to warmth. “Consider it forgotten, though perhaps not forgiven. I find it difficult to hold negative feelings against someone so eager to make amends.”
Before he could reply, Amelia stood, turning her attention toward the window. The gardens beyond stretched endlessly, hedgerows sculpted with precise artistry, the afternoon sun bathing the landscape in a golden glow.
“This is the most wonderful view,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“It is indeed.”
His voice was much closer than she expected. Amelia flinched slightly, realizing he was standing just behind her, speaking over her right shoulder. His presence was not overwhelming, nor unwelcome, yet she was acutely aware of the space between them—scarce as it was.
Amelia felt an involuntary shiver ripple down her spine, the air suddenly feeling chillier. Perhaps she should have worn a larger shawl.
The cool air is not the real reason, and you know it.
Arthur did not step away. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the gardens as well, his hands clasped behind his back. “I sometimes think the world looks different from a window,” he mused. “More contained. Less… complicated.”
She glanced at him. There was something reflective in his tone, something that hinted at more than the polished charm he so often wielded.
He hesitated, then offered a half-smile. “Mayhap it’s just wishful thinking.”
A silence stretched between them, not an uncomfortable one, but it was charged with an awareness that neither seemed quite willing to acknowledge.
Her gaze remained fixed on the gardens, though her thoughts were far from the sculpted hedges. “Do you ever wish things were different, Arthur?” she asked softly.
“How so?” he asked, quirking a brow.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Amelia checked herself, realizing that she was perhaps about to speak out of turn. She reined herself in, adjusting her original line of questioning, but then reasoned honesty was probably the best policy after all. “Sometimes, the world feels so stifling. I often wish there were fewer demands, fewer duties, and fewer expectations in society. Do you know what I mean?”
Arthur exhaled, a sound that carried more weight than she expected, and then surprised her when he spoke his mind. “More often than I care to admit.”
Amelia turned to him then, surprised by the honesty in his voice. He met her gaze and something passed between them. A shared restlessness, perhaps. A longing for something undefined. She smiled.
“Looking outside seems freeing, somehow,” she continued. “Away from the constraints of endless soirees, balls, and dinner parties. Sometimes, I think about running away, barefoot through the woods.”
Arthur sighed as if the thought held great appeal.
“It’s foolish, I know.”
He didn’t disagree with her, merely listened politely. And when she turned to see if he was amused by her quirky revelation, she was surprised to see that his expression held not even the slightest hint of amusement, but more a sense of shared understanding.
Amelia wondered if Arthur, too, felt trapped in the life others expected of him. Her heart fluttered restlessly as she tried to reconcile the boy she had known with the man Arthur might yet become.
