wagered he could break Lady Amelia Bertram in four short months.
“Mademoiselle?”
The sound of her maid’s voice jerked Amelia awake. For a moment she didn’t know why she felt so panicked and what had her gulping mouthfuls of air. Then everything hit her at once.
Light—bright light—streamed in through the windows of the bedchamber. Her gaze frantically sought the clock on the bedside table. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Nine o ‘clock! With a squeal and a flurry of arms and legs, she kicked off her covers and sprang from the bed. “Heavens above, how can it possibly be so late?”
Amelia had a vague recollection of the upstairs maid arriving to open the curtains and tend the fireplace earlier that morning. She’d intended to rise then, but had talked herself into another fifteen minutes of sleep. How had she allowed that time to run nigh on two hours?
Blast and double blast!
In her haste, she snagged her toe on the hem of her nightdress but managed to right herself before she went tumbling to the floor.
“Qu’est que c’est? Mademoiselle, what is wrong?” Hélène darted forward to steady her as Amelia tottered on her feet.
“I am late,” Amelia snapped her reply, her panic having quickly given way to irritation. This was not how she’d intended to begin the humiliation that was her punishment.
“But it is still quite early.”
Her maid’s point was a valid one. Rarely, if ever, had she reason to rise before ten, especially when residing in London. The social whirl of the Season made it impossible for one to sleep before two in the morning.
“I know, I know, but I was to meet with Lord Armstrong at eight. Please Hélène, make haste. I must bathe and dress quickly.”
With her brows furrowed in puzzlement, Hélène released her arm and started toward the bathing room adjoining the bedchamber.
“No, I shall tend to my bath. Just prepare my clothes.”
Hélène shot her a curious glance and then reversed course to hurry toward the wardrobe.
Precisely fifteen minutes and one gooseflesh-inducing bath later, Amelia stood outfitted in a velvet robe dress. As she didn’t have time for anything that required more effort than a brush and some pins, Hélène had merely coiled her hair at the nape in a simple bun.
“You must wake me at seven every morning,” Amelia said, slipping her feet into a comfortable pair of kid leather shoes.
Hélène paused in her task of straightening the dressing area, raising her head to stare at Amelia, her brown eyes the size of a crown and just as round. “Every morning, mademoiselle?”
Amelia nodded briskly. “Unfortunately, we shan’t enjoy the same luxury as we do at home. But you needn’t bother with my toilette. That I can handle myself. But as there’ll be no time for me to take breakfast downstairs, unless”—she gave a mild shudder—”I’m prepared to rise at an obscenely early hour, please bring a tray when you come. It needn’t be anything grand. Just enough to stave off hunger until luncheon.”
“And zis morning, shall I bring you something toute de suite?” Hélène asked, ever the solicitous lady’s maid. She’d not have her mistress go hungry if she could prevent it.
“No, this morning, I have no appetite at all.”
“As you please, mademoiselle.”
Already out of the chamber, the address floated behind Amelia, a faint whisper in her ear as she hastened toward the staircase.
Downstairs, Amelia reduced her pace and made the long trek down the marbled hallway. In the midst of performing their duties, servants paused, their expressions polite with only the barest hint of curiosity. Then, as she passed, like a line of falling dominoes, they acknowledged it with dips and nods with the courtesy due her status as a lady.
However, her position in the household—neither a guest nor truly a servant—was the equivalent of a queen forced to labor for her keep with the full support and encouragement from the king. In truth, her position couldn’t be considered much above the people whose duty it was to serve her.
Quickening her steps, she made the final turn down yet another long stretch of floor. She passed the billiard room, the library, and another half dozen servants before she finally reached the study. She viewed the sight of the ornately framed double doors with a mixture of disapprobation and trepidation.
Was he angry? she wondered. Or more aptly put, just how angry was he? Well, in this her conscience was clear. It was not as if she’d done it deliberately. Not that he’d believe her claim that she hadn’t