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magic secret from a doltish husband. Furthermore, she wouldn’t have needed to grant this same doltish husband any liberties with her body, just to secure herself a place in society. To imagine that Mr. Polidori’s hero let the horrid Lord Ruthven marry his sister just so the girl wouldn’t face social ruin! Thus, what the poor thing faced instead was being sucked dry by a vampyre. Marvelous.
    Making a face, Amy reached for a biscuit.
    Sometimes, a quaint cottage sounded awfully appealing. Even if it came complete with an ill-tempered, scarred tomcat!
    ~*~
    That afternoon, when Isabella’s torment of the fortepiano had ceased and Amy had slipped back upstairs so her absence wouldn’t be noted, the young ladies in the Bentham household received a call. From Lord Munthorpe, no less!
    The beaming Mrs. Bentham sat enthroned in an armchair, while Amy and Isabella shared one of the butter-colored settees. The other was occupied by Lord Munthorpe. Isabella poured tea and the Scottish earl told them all about the sheep that merrily bounced about his lands up north. “We also have Scottish Blackfaces, of course.”
    “Blackfaces?” Amy took a sip of thin tea.
    Lord Munthorpe beamed at her. “On account of them having black faces, Miss Bourne.”
    “Ah.”
    Isabella trilled a laugh. “I am astonished you don’t know these things, my dear Amelia.” She shot Amy a look that was supposedly full of honeyed sweetness. “After all, you must have lived in the country all your life, isn’t that so?” The way she pronounced “country” made it sound like a contagious disease. Which, Amy thought, was a bit daft considering she wanted to impress Lord Munthorpe so badly.
    “Yes, it is quite true,” Mrs. Bentham chirped in, using what she probably thought a sympathetic voice. “Poor Amelia has whiled away her days in the depths of the country and has unfortunately not been blessed with a suitable Town education. I have found, my lord, that it is only in London that one finds the best tutors, drawing masters, and music masters. Don’t you think so?”
    “Er…” After a moment of perplexed contemplation, Lord Munthorpe made a dive for a plate of sandwiches. “I can’t really say,” he mumbled apologetically.
    Mrs. Bentham nodded sagely just as there was a knock on the door. It was flung open with flourish, and the butler announced, “Mr. Fermont.”
    Amy vaguely remembered the man who entered the room from last night. With his curly blond hair and soulful brown eyes, he reminded her of an overlarge puppy dog. Daylight did not dim this—if anything, it even strengthened this first impression.
    “Mr. Fermont, what a lovely surprise!” Mrs. Bentham enthused in syrupy tones.
    “Mrs. Bentham.” The man inclined his head. “Miss Bentham. And”—he turned toward Amy, his face lighting up to compete with the autumn sun outside— “Miss Bourne. Enchanted.” A dimple appeared in his cheek and he bowed to her. Then his gaze fell on the other gentleman who currently occupied the Benthams’ drawing room. “Munthorpe.” The smile dimmed; the dimple disappeared.
    “Fermont.”
    The men eyed each other with similar expressions of glowering suspicion.
    “Won’t you take a seat, Mr. Fermont?” From her armchair throne, Mrs. Bentham gave him a kind smile. Or it would have been a kind smile if her eyes hadn’t glittered like a mad ferret’s—a mad ferret about to strike and drag its prey off to the wedding altar.
    Amy allowed herself a momentary lapse to roll her eyes. Mrs. Bentham, she had garnered very quickly after her arrival in London, was hell-bent on securing a betrothal for her daughter before even Christmas, before the new year would begin and see Isabella turn twenty-five—almost an old maid. Thus, while Mr. Bentham had welcomed her as the niece of an old and dear friend, his wife and daughter had regarded her as very un welcome competition from the first. Hence their desperate efforts to belittle Amy in the