But then, as Amelia’s father was often heard to say—life wasn’t always fair. In fact, it rarely was. Just look at him, for the love of heaven. Five daughters. Five! And now the earldom, which had descended neatly from father to son since there were princes in the tower, would revert to the Crown, with nary a long-lost cousin in sight to lay claim upon it.

And, he frequently reminded his wife, it was thanks to his early maneuverings that one of his five daughters was already settled, and they need only fret about the other four, so would she please stop yammering on about the poor Duke of Wyndham and his slow progress to the altar.

Lord Crowland treasured peace and quiet above all else, which was something he really ought to have considered before taking the former Anthea Grantham as his bride.

It wasn’t that anyone thought that the duke would renege on his promise to Amelia and her family. On the contrary, it was well-known that the Duke of Wyndham was a man of his word, and if he said he would marry Amelia Willoughby, then as God was anyone’s witness, he would.

It was just that he intended to do so when it was convenient to him. Which wasn’t necessarily when it would be convenient to her. Or more to the point, her mother.

And so here she was, back in Lincolnshire.

And she was still Lady Amelia Willoughby.

“And I don’t mind it at all,” she declared, when Grace Eversleigh brought up the matter at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly. Aside from being the closest friend of Amelia’s sister Elizabeth, Grace Eversleigh was the companion to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham, and thus in far closer contact with Amelia’s affianced husband than Amelia ever had occasion to be.

“Oh, no,” Grace quickly assured her. “I did not mean to imply that you did.”

“All she said,” Elizabeth put in, giving Amelia a queer look, “was that his grace plans to remain at Belgrave for six months at least. And then you said—”

“I know what I said,” Amelia bit off, feeling her skin flush. Which wasn’t precisely true. She could not have repeated her speech word for word, but she had a sneaking suspicion that if she tried, it would come out something like:

Well, that’s certainly lovely, but I shouldn’t read anything into it, and in any case Elizabeth’s wedding is next month so I certainly could not dream of finalizing anything anytime soon, and regardless of what anyone says, I am in no great rush to marry him. Something something something. I barely know the man. Something something more, still Amelia Willoughby. And I don’t mind it at all.

Which was not the sort of speech one generally wished to relive in one’s head.