Amelia swallowed the bitter, acidic taste that rose in her throat. How had she not known that Grace used Wyndham’s Christian name? They were friendly, of course. They lived in the same house—huge, to be sure, and filled with a flotilla of servants, but Grace dined with the dowager, which meant she often dined with Wyndham, and after five years they must have had countless conversations.

Amelia knew all that. She didn’t care. She had never cared. She didn’t even care that Grace had called him Thomas, and she, his fiancée, had never even thought of him as such.

But how could she not have known? Shouldn’t she have known?

And why did it bother her so much that she hadn’t known?

She watched his profile closely. He was still speaking with Grace, and his expression was one that he’d never—not even once—used with her. There was familiarity in his gaze, a warmth of shared experiences, and—

Oh, dear Lord. Had he kissed her? Had he kissed Grace?

Amelia clutched the edge of the chair for support. He couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have. Grace was not her friend so much as she was Elizabeth’s, but even so, she would never have committed such a betrayal. It was simply not in her. Even if she had thought herself in love with him, even if she’d thought a dalliance could lead to marriage, she would not have been so ill-bred or disloyal as to—

“Amelia?”

Amelia blinked her sister’s face into focus.

“Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said sharply, because the last thing she wanted was everyone looking at her when she was certain she’d gone quite green.

And of course, everyone was.

But Elizabeth was not the sort to be put off. She laid a hand on Amelia’s forehead, murmuring, “You’re not warm.”

“Of course not,” Amelia muttered, brushing her away. “I was just standing too long.”

“You were sitting,” Elizabeth pointed out.

Amelia stood. “I believe I need some air.”

Elizabeth also rose to her feet. “I thought you wanted to sit.”

“I’ll sit outside,” Amelia ground out, dearly wishing she had not outgrown her childhood penchant for smacking her sister on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she muttered, crossing the room even though it meant she had to brush right past Wyndham and Grace.

He had already risen, gentleman that he was, and now bowed his head ever so slightly as she passed.

And then—oh, God, could anything be more mortifying—out of the corner of her eye she saw Grace elbow him in the ribs.

There was a terrible moment of silence, during which he was surely glaring at Grace (Amelia had already made it to the door, and thankfully was not required to look at his face), and then, in his usual polite voice, Wyndham said, “Allow me to escort you.”