As the daughter of the Earl of Hollinworth and an invited guest, she was expected to fully participate in the silly, childish games that marked the penultimate evening of the Twelfth Night celebration at Weatherby Hall. Except that she could not tolerate parlor games and had thought Lord Weatherby - or David as she privately referred to him - could not, either. Then again, as the host of their party, he could not precisely say no to the repeated requests from his assembled guests for evenings filled with fun and frivolity, either. Though he could have said no to the rather overt attentions of Lady Lydia Parham, daughter of the Viscount Colebrooke, who clung to David like a leach to skin. That, she was certain, he could have said no to at least in some fashion. No, that was mean, Amelia chided herself as she scurried into the hall, praying that no one had noticed her departure from the ballroom. It was not David's fault that the chit was empty-headed and simpering. If anything, it was her parents' fault for too often indulging their overly spoilt offspring in her every whim and desire. Not that Lady Colebrooke would ever view her daughter in such a disparaging way, of course. After all, Lady Lydia had been raised from the cradle to be a peer's wife, a countess or perhaps even a duchess. At the moment, however, given the way she was attached to David's side as a burr might be to a saddle, she seemed perfectly content to aspire to the title of countess.
