hermajesty-charlotteâ:â
There was, of course, only the briefest space for conversation before the doors swung open, guided by gloved hands. The queen did not care for whispers in rooms she was not a part of; nor was she interested in being kept waiting.
Phoebe, her backside like a cotton puff, leapt from Charlotteâs lap and began to sniff one of the table legs, finding it of particular interest.
âHer Royal Highness, Princess Amelia,â announced the doorman, giving the princess a perfunctory bow. âAndââ as an afterthought. âThe Lord Conrad Mowbray.â
Charlotte looked between the pair: with curiosity first, at her daughter. She looked at Amelia often, usually when she was in some state of perplexity â pausing to help a child across a puddle, mincing in her reticule for some frippery or another, staring wistfully at the antique vase of lilies upon the receiving table. Presentation made her different, Charlotte studied through a critical eye. Lavender suited her, particularly when the fabric undulated to blue. Charlotte nodded, and a footman stepped forward to usher the princess into a chair. There was something to be said for Ameliaâs understated prettiness.
The same could not be said for the Lord Mowbray. Charlotte looked him over, toe to head, noted the wrinkled edge of the ribbon pulling back his hair â or, she thought uncharitably, most of it. His boots shone but his trousers lacked the fashionable fit. Curious.
Another nod, another chair.
âDaughter,â greeted the queen. âLord Mowbray.â Charlotteâs feather, pluming high over her head, wafted in the faint breeze. She gestured to the table before her, two gentlemen stepping forward to place a tea tray, tarts, an array of finger-sandwiches.
âI do hope you enjoy assam,â said the queen. âFor it is my particular favorite.â
I should think any gentleman would be honored to grace your dance card, Lady Mulgrave had insisted, but Conradâs name had never appeared.
He had known Amelia was in attendance, that much was confirmed as he greeted her, which could only suggest that sharing a dance was not the honor some might consider it to be. The realization stung in a distant sort of way, a feeling that was quickly followed by shame. A person could not be liked by everyone, and only those with an unflattering ego expected as much.
She tried to be satisfied that Lord Mowbray was, as ever, civil, though it continued to be colored by his persistent reserve. She was spared the need for imminent niceties as the doors to the state room were thrown up and the urge to please was tugged toward the weight of the crown. The choreography demanded by duty familiar, putting Amelia through the well-ingrained motions of entertaining as the trio settled around the table.
Acquiescence: assam held a malty flavor with little sweetness, she would have preferred a selection reminiscent of the fruits of summer, raspberry or peach. Amelia poured a full cup for her mother, Lord Mowbray, then herself. The first sip was taken with a smile. âSoon to be our favorite as well, I am sure. You always choose well.â
Courtesy: selecting a sandwich was a matter of making an unobtrusive choice. There was salmon, which her mother liked, while roastbeef seemed the selection Lord Mowbray would prefer. Amelia settled for a thinly stuffed watercress sandwich, placing the meager delicately on her place.
Finally, gentility: âLord Mowbray was only just asking how I fared during the Colchesterâs affair. We saw so little of each other.â Amelia paused to let that salient point hang in the air a moment, taking another reluctant small sip from her gilded teacup. âHe was never in want of company, always with partner or another throughout the evening. I have yet to make his acquaintance, but Mr. Wyatt seems charming company, Lord Mowbray.â
He hid his reluctance in a bow, hoping he had fixed his face to one of honored appreciation of attending tea with Her Majesty the Queen and the lovely Princess Amelia. The stiffness in his shoulders, and the attempt at a smile told him he was at least partially succeeding. Conrad glanced at Amelia, unable to help it as she poured him a glass of tea, watching as the steam rose up to kiss her fingers. His turned his attention to Queen Charlotte instead, somehow finding her less unsettling.Â
âAll of England will be drinking Assam by summerâs end,â Conrad concurred, reaching forward to take his cup in hand. He had never been the most fond of tea. He preferred itâs bolder cousin, coffee, and more distant relative, whiskey. But perhaps what he disliked most about tea was itâs annoying habit of inhibiting conversation. People seemed to forget the topic at hand whenever a cup of tea was upon the table. They were called here for a reason, and yet chatter prevailed as it always did when finger sandwiches were upon plates.Â
He did not reach for one.Â
When his gaze shifted back toward Amelia, it felt as though he were glancing back in time, finding a younger version of the Queen, her beauty offered rather than earned. And though her words pricked a nerve, he was quick to soothe it and slow to respond, his voice firm.Â
âAs you might have heard I was selected to serve on the Golden Swan Committee alongside Lord Effingham, and as youâve mention, Mr. Wyatt. I was not privy to his charm, but his opinions were sufficient.
âAnd I should say--â he turned back to the Queen, âthat my pursuits this past month have not been my own. I should say I am more of an ambassador than anything.â