One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(57)

If she was going to be mistress of this house, she was going to do it right.

Since she’d worn her gray silk the evening previous, she was forced to select a frock from her own faded, worn wardrobe today. Even the best of her summer dresses—a striped muslin done up just last year, with sage grosgrain ribbon trim—looked drab here at Braxton Hall. Most un-duchessly.

It didn’t help matters when Amelia entered the breakfast room to encounter Claudia dressed in a remarkably similar high-waisted striped muslin frock, except hers boasted lace-trimmed flounces. Two of them. She truly was a lovely girl, with the prospects of becoming a great beauty. But she needed someone to gently guide her behavior, and clearly Spencer wasn’t up to the task.

“Good morning.” Smiling, Amelia laid a plate of kippers and eggs on the table and prepared to seat herself.

Claudia stared at the plate, her features contorting in disgust. Before Amelia’s bottom even touched the chair, the girl shot to her feet and made for the door, two lace flounces bobbing pertly in her wake.

“Claudia, wait.”

She halted, one hand on the doorjamb.

Amelia squared her shoulders. “It may not be my place to say it. But whether you dine with family or strangers, it’s unacceptable to leave the table without excusing yourself.”

“I am ill,” she said mulishly. “And it’s not your place to say it.”

Amelia sighed. The girl was so … so fifteen. And desperately in need of a hug. “You look very well, to my eyes. Won’t you sit down? We need to have a talk. An honest one, woman to woman.”

Claudia let go the doorjamb and slowly turned. “Whatever about?”

“I know you resent me.”

“I …” The girl flushed. “Why, I’m sure I don’t—”

“You resent me. Of course you do. I’m a stranger who has invaded your home without warning and taken your late mother’s role. Perhaps the role you wished to one day assume?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Claudia blushed as she studied the carpet.

“I can’t fault you for being angry,” Amelia said calmly. “I’d feel the same, were I in your place. And to be perfectly honest, I cannot claim to be any better. If it helps at all, I rather resent you, too.”

She looked up. “You? Resent me? Whatever have I done to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But you’re young and pretty, and you look better in stripes than I ever have or will.” She smiled gamely. “When I look at you, I can’t help but see myself at fifteen, when the world was all marvelous, romantic possibility.”

“You know nothing of me. Don’t speak as if you do.”

“Fair enough. At the moment, I grant that we are little more than strangers. I would like, eventually, to be your friend. But I know that’s too much to expect just yet, given the circumstances. I won’t interfere in your daily routine. I will let you be.” She reached for a tray of jam tarts from the sideboard and extended it. “But you can’t keep running away from every meal. I insist that you eat.”

“You insist that I eat?” The young lady eyed the pastries. Instead of taking one, however, Claudia grasped the entire tray and removed it from Amelia’s hands altogether. “Very well,” she said, stuffing a tart into her mouth. “I’ll eat.” Then she and the tray of pastries flounced from the room.

Well, Amelia would count that as progress. At least the girl would not waste away. Settling down to her own breakfast, she opened her mental recipe book and headed a blank page, “Claudia.” Under that, she noted: “Jam tarts. No kippers.”

As she ate, she wondered where Spencer had gone for the day. It shouldn’t be surprising that he had business. After spending some months in Town, surely he must have many estate matters requiring his attention. But wherever he’d gone, she wondered if he was angry with her, after last night. Or disappointed by her. Or yearning for her.

She shook herself. The man was busy. He likely wasn’t sparing her a second thought.

Amelia kept busy, too. She interviewed each member of the staff and acquainted herself with every inch of Braxton Hall—the interior, at least. The gardens would have to wait for another day. As she moved through the rooms with the housekeeper at her side, she made careful note of any fixtures that needed replacing or improvement, any arrangement of furniture that struck her as less than pleasing or efficient. After fifteen years without a mistress, the house was still well maintained but beginning to lag where style was concerned. She limited herself to the public and common rooms, not wanting to encroach on Claudia or Spencer’s privacy.

The task took her all day, and well into evening—at which point she was glad that Spencer had not yet returned and Claudia remained cloistered with her tarts, for Amelia had no time to plan dinner. Instead, she and Mrs. Bodkin shared a cold supper as they discussed modernizing the kitchen. Afterward, they began an inventory of all the household silver. Hours later, the entire dining table was covered in gleaming rows of forks, spoons, knives, ladles, tongs …

All of which began to rattle in unison, just as the clock’s largest hand neared twelve.

Amelia grasped the table edge in alarm. Beneath the low clatter of silver, the thunder of hoofbeats swelled.

“That will be His Grace,” the housekeeper explained, the corners of her mouth creasing as she suppressed a yawn.