THAT AFTERNOON, ARTHUR and Amelia signed the agreement. After the Crown’s solicitor whisked the formal papers away into his briefcase, Amelia stared at Arthur, who was staring at a painting on the wall.
“Are you up for one more obligation tonight?” Arthur asked, turning to look at her.
“Do I have a choice?” Truth be told, Amelia was exhausted, but she now served, like the rest of the palace, at Arthur’s pleasure.
“You always have the choice. But my parents have invited us for dinner.”
“When did they do that?” Amelia blurted.
“A courier came while you were walking in the gardens,” Arthur said blandly, as if that were a normal way for one’s parents to issue a dinner invitation and as if he weren’t perfectly well aware she had stormed out of the room.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” Am
