being plain. As far as she could tell, beautiful women were not sensible. Her mother was a perfect example. She was a Marianne, like in the novel, beautiful yet senseless, though intelligent, which made the senseless part so infuriating. And Amelia was an Elinor, sensible and witty but unremarkable in looks, except people were constantly remarking on her height. If only she were not so tall, she was quite sure she would get Charles just as Elinor had just captured Edward’s love with her unwavering devotion to him. She practiced slouching, just in case she should see Charles in town today. It was embarrassing in the extreme that she could look him directly in the eye. He really did need to hurry up and grow taller.
“Amelia!” her mother shrieked, a voice she usually reserved for Philip when he was home from school and plodded through the house with muddy boots on.
“Coming,” Amelia called. As she made her way down the stairs and noted the faded carpets and peeling wallpaper, she could not help but wonder what Philip was looking at this very moment. How lucky her brother was to have been invited to the Duke and Duchess of Aversley’s country home for a birthday celebration for their son. A pang of jealousy at the beautiful artwork and gardens Philip was probably getting to see streaked through her, but then she reminded herself jealousy was not sensible and forced her mind to think of other things. Such as how her name would sound when she was one day married to Charles Stanhope, Baron Worthington.
“Lady Worthington how are you today?” Amelia asked the air with a giggle.
“Not that again,” her mother moaned from the bottom of the stairs. A small, albeit exasperated smile, played at her mother’s lips. “Amelia, if we should run into Lord Worthington in town today, please do remember not to call him Charles. It’s unseemly, and now that he’s seventeen, he’s practically a man. You really cannot call him by his given name. Do you hear me?”
Amelia blinked as her mother snapped her fingers in front of Amelia’s face.
“I hear you,” Amelia murmured and made her way out the door and toward the carriage. She’d not seen Charles since he had turned seventeen. For some reason, she had not been invited to his birthday celebration, which she only knew of because Constance had been invited, but Amelia was quite sure her lack of invitation was because of Charles’s mother and not Charles. Amelia tried not to take it too personally. If she were a mother that had a son as beautiful as Charles, she would probably hope he found a stunning girl to compliment his golden beauty so they would produce striking grandchildren. Amelia would someday give birth to smart, sensible grandchildren for the woman. The thought made her face warm.
“Amelia, do you feel unwell?” her mother asked as she sat across from Amelia in the carriage. “You’re flushed.”
Amelia pressed her hands to her cheeks. “It’s awfully hot today, that’s all. Perhaps in town I can get a glass of lemonade with Constance before my fitting?” Then she could have a moment alone with her dearest friend to learn who had been at Charles’s party, and if he had paid special attention to anyone, specifically any girls. She had to stay abreast of who her competition was.
“That seems like a good idea,” her mother agreed as the carriage started to roll down the driveway. “I can have my fitting first, which will put Mrs. Pickard in a pleasant mood before she does yours. She does so love to fit me.”
Amelia eyed her mother’s perfect figure. She had lovely womanly curves and was not tall at all. Fate must have been in a bad mood the day Amelia was born. With a sigh, she glanced out the window and watched the scenery, perking up when they arrived at Constance’s home, and Amelia saw her friend standing on the front porch waving at her.
“You must tell me every detail,” Amelia insisted not long later as she sat at the bakery