An Imperfect Proposal

by Hayley Ann Solomon

Genres: Regency Romance; Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

With two young nieces now in his charge, the Earl of Devonport is quite suddenly in need of a wife—and kind, gentle Amaryllis Hastings fits the bill nicely. His marriage will be nothing more than a convenience, after all—but his "retiring" bride surprises him at every turn, especially when he discovers that she has stolen his heart!

Previously published in A Wife for Papa.

Release date: November 1, 2012

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 63

Sample

“Amaryllis, dear, do come and meet Captain Fredericks of the Third Hussars! Captain Fredericks, this is my daughter, Lady Amaryllis Hastings and do not feel afraid to ask her for a dance, for I declare she is an obliging child and would not disappoint you for the world.”

Amaryllis, thus summoned, felt her heart sink into the very toes of her fashionable slippers. Oh, how mortifying to be paraded thus! Poor Captain Fredericks would be bullied into offering to dance with her, and though it would be very pleasant to take up the set, it was humiliating in such circumstances.

Why could her mama not leave her be? She was perfectly satisfied with her dance card which was a respectable half full. There was no need to be thrust forward like this.

But her mama seemed to think there was every need, for after Captain Fredericks it was the Earl of Cathbrook, then Mr. Fry, who was rumored to be a nabob, then Lord Patterson—the list went on and each time Amaryllis felt worse. She was a pretty wisp of a girl—far too thin, in her own opinion—but her shyness in company made her awkward, and the delicious lights of laughter that sprung from her inner depths never seemed to surface at functions such as these.

Small wonder when she was laced and corseted and had had dressers fussing over her all evening, shaking their heads over her pale coloring—wan, they called it—and her golden locks that refused to curl and were gentle in tone rather than the ravishing guinea gold that was all the rage.

Her redeeming features were her eyes, which were a magnetic midnight blue, framed in lashes that were dark and thick and wondrously long. But even these came in for criticism, for her dresser was certain that no one would believe that artifice had not been employed in the darkening of those brows and lashes. She was in a positive quake that one of the patronesses would accuse Amaryllis of using paint and unfortunately passed those qualms on to Amaryllis, who felt shier than ever.

Suffice it to say, then, that whilst Amaryllis never precisely lacked for a partner, she was also never as sought after as Miss Lila Trewellyn, her dearest friend, or Miss Martha Caddington, the lady she least liked of her acquaintance.

Both of these damsels were currently engaged in the waltz, Miss Caddington catching her eye with infuriating sympathy (or was it triumph?), and Miss Trewellyn winking merrily as she twirled past, feigning ecstasy, for she was in the arms of a particularly dashing partner, and she was certain Amaryllis would agree.

Amaryllis did agree, for it was hard to ignore Lord Redding’s very fine physique, or the elegant cut of his dark, tailored frock coat, which sparkled, a little, with diamonds. Nor could one exactly miss the muscled thighs that defied even the clocked stockings to disguise their perfection of form. As for the velvet knee breeches, well, they were positively indecent, so fitted as they were! Amaryllis was glad, for once, she was not waltzing, for she was flushing like a schoolgirl and would have been rendered speechless had her hand been solicited by such a paragon.

She need not have worried, for it wasn’t, though she did think, for a fraction of an instant, that she had caught a reassuring smile in those handsome hazel eyes. But how foolish! Lord Stephen Redding, the Earl of Devonport, was as likely to notice her as he was to offer for the local costermonger’s daughter. She ignored the flush on her cheeks and dropped her eyes down to her fan, berating herself for such foolishness.

Lila was curtsying politely at the cessation of the waltz and edging her way round the potted palms to her side. Suddenly, for some unknown, urgent reason, Amaryllis wanted to fly. She wanted to escape the glittering, jeweled hall, festooned with bright silks and decorated in the Spanish style in memory of Salamanca.

She wanted to flee the sympathetic sighs of the dowagers who caught her eye and shook their heads; she wanted to creep past her mama, engaged in conversation with Lord Sedgebrooke (doubtless telling him how delightful a partner she would be) and find some fresh air somewhere. She was engaged, after the quadrille and the bourrée to Mr. Ratchins. It was to be the waltz, at last, which lifted her spirits, somewhat, for there was nothing so fabulously exhilarating as the waltz, especially when the gentleman encircling your waist was altogether too attractive for one’s own good.

Not that Mr. Ratchins fitted that category precisely, but one could be generous when one was waltzing, and overlook such small matters as protruding teeth and a collar starched far too stiffly for comfort. If it had only been the Earl of Devonport—that would be another matter entirely. Amaryllis suddenly knew why she was avoiding Lila. She did not want to hear her animadversions on this paragon. It was enough, surely, that she’d had to watch from the sidelines?

Miss Trewellyn’s progress was stopped by Miss Baskerville, so Amaryllis breathed a little sigh and took her opportunity to escape. She gathered up her skirts and disappeared into the anteroom just off the main ballroom, then frowned as she saw Miss Caddington’s form silhouetted on the adjacent balcony. If Martha were to corner her here, she would delight in saying something catty and hurtful, and Amaryllis was in no mood for such sport. She therefore edged her way out of the antechamber and found herself in a dark suite of rooms that were obviously not intended for the use of the ball, for no tapers had been lit and only the firelight in the hearth lent a rosy glow to the vacant room.

She sank back thankfully, though a little guiltily, into one of the winged chairs and listened, for a moment, to the first strains of the quadrille as the orchestra tuned up. It was uncustomary for her to be so sunk in gloom, for normally—when she was not being paraded like a prize pig on the marriage mart—she was cheerfulness itself. Her sunny nature and kind heart did not permit of a fit of the dismals, so busy was she in decocting potions, writing snippets for her diary—a wonderfully eclectic notebook of all matters ranging from Miss Mars. . .