The Discerning Gentleman's Guide
- -
- 100%
- +
And then he had looked at her as if she was exactly what she was—little more than a servant and nothing of any consequence—bringing her crashing soundly back to earth with a thud. For the briefest of moments Amelia had felt a rush of pure, unadulterated disappointment before she’d shaken herself and reminded herself that she was a fool to have expected anything less. She knew better than to judge a book by its cover, no matter how splendid that cover might first seem, and she was not usually prone to silly fluttering or even sillier ideas that involved a titled man in her future.
At the time, her uncharacteristic reaction to him had bothered her immensely but, after a small period of reflection in her luxurious new bedchamber, she now understood that she had simply been completely overwhelmed. Not just by the handsome, pompous Duke, but by her surroundings and the prospect of being amongst proper society again for such a prolonged period of time. It had been a long journey and she was quite tired. It was hardly surprising that she was a little out of sorts and she had been surprised that the pompous Duke had not looked anything like she had imagined. It was rare that a title did not immediately disappoint. She had not been expecting someone who resembled Adonis, therefore she could forgive herself for her brief moment of disbelief and the understandable nervous reaction that followed. Equilibrium restored, she stiffened her spine and walked with purpose.
A footman directed her down a long corridor to a formal dining room at the end, where she was seated in the middle of a grand table set for five. Sir George was the first to arrive and plonked himself down in the chair opposite her and instructed a servant to fill up both of their wine glasses with a flick of his hand.
‘How splendid, Miss Mansfield, that I have you all to myself. I dare say you are burning with curiosity and have a hundred questions about this house and its family that you want to have answered. Unfortunately for you—’ he took a healthy glug of his wine and grinned conspiratorially ‘—I have a very loose tongue when under the influence of even the merest drop of alcohol; therefore I suggest you grasp the opportunity to take advantage of that fact before the others arrive and I have to behave myself.’
Already he was her favourite person here and she had known him less than a few minutes in total. ‘The house is very impressive. Has it always been in the family?’
Sir George rolled his eyes in irritation at the apparent banality of her question. ‘It was designed for the fourteenth Duke by none other than Robert Adam himself. It is also the biggest house on Berkeley Square. Surely that is not the best thing you could think to ask me about—I, who have an intimate knowledge of this illustrious family and all of their goings-on? Bennett’s father was my elder brother, after all.’
There was a look of challenge in his face that encouraged her to be bolder. ‘Is the Duke a close friend of the Regent?’ If he was, it would confirm all of her worst suspicions about the man.
Sir George took a thoughtful sip of his wine before answering. ‘Bennett is one of his advisers—however, the King’s son is not particularly good at taking his advice.’
‘That does not answer my question, Sir George.’ If the pompous Duke was a great friend of Prinny’s, she would find every second in his company loathsome.
To his credit, he laughed at his attempt at evasiveness. ‘If the point of your question was to find out whether or not the Duke of Aveley holds the Regent in high regard, then I have to tell you that to say that he does not would be tantamount to treason and would place his position in the Cabinet in jeopardy. However, to answer you in a roundabout way, I can say that my nephew, like his father before him, is a statesman and to be an effective statesman you have to be a diplomat. As such, I believe he uses that diplomacy to his advantage in order to get things done for the good of the country. He does not socialise with the Regent very often, if you get my meaning, and when he does it is only at events that are important to the state.’
The fact that her host did not gamble or carouse with Prinny made him only slightly less offensive. It was no secret that Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, put a great deal of stock in Bennett Montague’s opinions—which made him her natural adversary. Liverpool was unsympathetic to the plight of the poor and preferred to repress dissenters rather than negotiate with them. ‘The newspapers claim that the Duke will be Prime Minister before he is forty.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Sir George chuckled as he swirled his wine around in his glass. ‘Please do not say that in front of Bennett. He has every intention of taking that office before he is thirty-five and even that is too long a wait for his ambitions for the nation.’
Further prying was prevented by the arrival of the Dowager and Lady Worsted. The Duke’s mother took her seat at one end of the table and Amelia’s employer sat down next to her. ‘Where is Bennett? I am famished.’
Sir George glanced pointedly at the clock on the sideboard. ‘It is still two minutes before seven. He will arrive exactly on time, as always.’ He gave Amelia another amused conspiratorial glance. ‘I set my watch by him. He is far more reliable than all of the other timepieces in the house.’
As they made polite conversation, Amelia could not help tuning into the gentle rhythmic ticking of the clock and counting the seconds going past. Surely the man was not such a dull stickler that he would be so precise? But he was.
Chapter Two
It is essential that a good wife has a basic knowledge of politics. As your hostess, she will need to ask pertinent questions designed to stimulate worthy discussion between your male guests...
—The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide to
Selecting the Perfect Bride by Bennett Montague,
Sixteenth Duke of Aveley
As the big hand finally touched the hour, the Duke of Aveley strode into the dining room as if he owned the place, which she supposed, in all fairness, he did. Amelia flicked a glance at Sir George and could see her own amusement reflected in her new friend’s eyes.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ The Duke sat himself down and snapped open his napkin with almost military precision. ‘Lovett—we are ready.’
At his command, the servants began to swarm around the table with the first course, a delicious thin soup. However, and no doubt just to vex her, Amelia’s heartbeat became more rapid at the sight of him again. He really was quite splendid to behold. It was such a shame that the interior was not as wonderful as the exterior. A bit like a beautifully iced cake that was old and dry beneath its fancy casing.
The Duke did not bother with unnecessary social chit-chat. ‘Mother, I have looked at the list of invitations that you gave me. Whilst I believe that I can manage the Renshaw ball and the Earl of Bainbridge’s soirée in December, I am afraid I cannot spare the time for any others in the coming month.’
‘That is a great shame, dear,’ his mother said with obvious disappointment. ‘Are you sure that you cannot squeeze in a fleeting appearance at Lady Bulphan’s? Your presence would be quite a coup for her and I did promise her that you would. Priscilla was so looking forward to seeing you.’
‘I am afraid not. It is a particularly taxing week at Parliament. Besides, I will still see Priscilla at the reading salon. I am sorry.’ Amelia noticed that he did not look particularly sorry at all. He was more interested in his soup than the invitation.
‘Who is Priscilla?’ Lady Worsted asked her sister.
‘She is Lady Bulphan’s eldest granddaughter and one of the young ladies on Bennett’s Potential list.’
As everybody else around the table apparently knew what this was, Amelia felt obliged to ask her employer for clarification, although she was well aware that, as a companion, she really had no right to ask. ‘The Potential list?’
Lady Worsted smiled innocently, but there was definitely a spark of something mischievous in her wily old eyes. ‘It is Bennett’s list of prospective candidates for the future Duchess of Aveley. He has been working his way through it these past two years. The last I heard, there were ten in the running.’
‘We are down to five now,’ his mother explained helpfully as she tilted her bowl to one side to spoon up more soup. ‘He hopes to have narrowed it down to the final choice by late spring—but you know how these things are.’ Clearly she did not think that such a thing was a tad odd—but then again her son was a duke.
‘Is there a particular front runner?’ Lady Worsted glanced at Sir George and smiled. The pair were clearly sharing an ongoing joke that the Duke’s mother was not included in.
‘We had high hopes of Lady Elizabeth Pearce but, alas, she did not pass muster,’ said the Dowager on a sigh. ‘It turned out that she was prone to temper tantrums and not nearly as level-headed as she had led us to believe.’
Good gracious. He even conducted his own affairs in line with the edicts outlined in his silly book. Amelia had never heard anything so ridiculous. ‘Are the five front runners aware of their rivals for the coveted position?’
Both Lady Worsted’s and Sir George’s eyes widened at her subtle use of sarcasm, but the pompous Duke’s focus remained on his food.
‘Of course,’ his mother replied, looking amused that Amelia would think otherwise. ‘Bennett is very careful not to pay particular regard to any one of them. They are all treated equally and will be until he has made his decision.’
‘He is scrupulously fair.’ Sir George nodded in agreement although the hint of a smile hovered on the corners of his mouth. ‘He always dances one dance with each of them at every ball, never the waltz, of course, lest it give them ideas.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘And every Thursday each girl receives an identical bouquet of flowers.’
Amelia nearly choked on the soup. ‘Identical? How very...romantic.’ Lady Worsted gave her a light kick under the table. ‘I am sure that they are delighted to be singled out for such special attention.’
Not that Amelia had any suitors, but if she did she would expect the man to be wooing her and her alone. If she ever got wind that her imaginary beau was sending identical bouquets to another four ladies, she would use the stems to give him a sound thrashing before showing him the door. ‘Are all five passing muster?’ She wanted to giggle so much that she had to bite down hard on the inside of her mouth to stop a giggle escaping.
Sir George was also definitely on the verge of laughing. He dipped his head and slurped a big spoonful of soup into his mouth clumsily just to give himself an excuse to choke on something. His splutter caused the man in question to gaze up and stare, perplexed, at the slight commotion, giving Amelia the distinct impression that he had not been listening to their conversation at all. Probably because he was so important.
In his own mind.
The Duke cast a critical eye down the table and, satisfied that everyone was finished, signalled to the butler to clear the soup bowls away.
‘Bennett is very particular,’ Lady Worsted said, patting her nephew’s arm affectionately. ‘Isn’t that right, Bennett? You wouldn’t want to be saddled with the wrong sort of wife?’
It took a few seconds for Bennett to respond to the question because he really hadn’t been following the conversation. The final paragraph of his speech to the House of Lords tomorrow lacked something and he had been mulling over different sentences that would finish it off with a flourish. That was probably poor form, he realised. While Uncle George and his mother were used to his complete immersion in government matters, he had not seen his aunt since last Christmas and she deserved his full attention for one brief family dinner.
‘I do apologise, Aunt Augusta; I was a little preoccupied. Would you repeat the question?’
‘We were discussing your Potential list and I commented on the fact that you wouldn’t want to be saddled with the wrong sort of wife.’
Bennett was so bored with that chore. In many ways he wished it all over with so that he could get on with his work without having to bother with all of the silly social engagements that wasted his evenings and ate up his valuable time. However, as his father had repeatedly instilled in him, the Dukedom needed a strong bloodline if it was to continue to serve the nation properly. And if he was going to be Prime Minister, he needed to be married. A bachelor, his father had often lamented, did not instil the great confidence in people that such an illustrious office required. He needed to find a good wife, of sound aristocratic stock, who would be an asset to his political ambitions. Someone above reproach, who knew how to behave accordingly and who had family connections that would provide him with more allies in the house so that he could finish what his father had started. Bennett tried to appear interested for the sake of good manners, so trotted out one of his tried-and-tested sayings. ‘Indeed. Marry in haste and repent at leisure.’
As the servants swiftly reset the table for the next course, Bennett sensed Miss Mansfield’s eyes on him again. He turned to her politely and then instantly forgot the art of making polite dinner conversation the moment he took his first proper look at her.
Why he had not noticed her the moment he’d stepped into the room was a complete mystery to him now. Without the barricade of the enormous bonnet, he could see that she had gloriously dark, shiny hair. So dark that it was reminiscent of the polished ebony keys on his mother’s pianoforte. The sort of hair he would like to unpin from its tight chignon and run his fingers through to see if it actually did feel like silk—as he imagined it would. She certainly resembled nothing like an old woman’s companion. Companions usually blended into the background. Miss Mansfield rendered the background and foreground completely inconsequential. Her choice of gown for dinner was merely the icing on the cake. It was too boldly coloured for a start. The forest-green silk stood out in stark relief against the subtly striped cream wallpaper, emphasising her pale skin and graceful neck. Bennett tried not to notice the barest hint of cleavage that the square neckline suggested, forcing his eyes to remain resolutely on her face. Unfortunately, that meant that he had no choice other than to stare into those dark, mesmerising eyes and at that lush red mouth.
‘I have been reading your book,’ the enticing red lips suddenly said, startling him out of his unexpectedly errant and out of character musings.
‘Indeed?’
When he had first put pen to paper, out of complete boredom after being snowed in at Aveley Castle one Christmas, he had had no concept of how desperately society craved sensible guidance on the art of courting. Now, almost a year since his scribblings had first been published, he was quite used to receiving the effusive praise of his many readers. To begin with he had been quite dismissive of the book’s success. It was just a collection of advice that he had received from his father. The book had been a memorial, of sorts, and he had certainly not thought anybody would care about it overmuch. It was merely a way for Bennett to ensure that his father’s wise words were saved for perpetuity and it served to maintain the correct focus while he searched for his own bride—an aide-memoire, as it were. Then, as time passed and more and more copies of the thing were printed and sold, he had realised that his many readers often had genuine questions, so he tried to be accommodating. As a politician, he owed it to them. It was his civic duty to educate people—another of his father’s edicts that he had taken to heart. Besides, at least it would give him something to talk to this alluring creature about without appearing to be a completely mute fool. ‘Have you found it helpful in any way?’
Her brown eyes widened in what he assumed was surprise while she stared at him for several seconds. She had tiny flecks of copper in her irises that burned like fire, he noticed, then chided himself for his peculiarly poetic mood.
‘I have certainly found it insightful,’ she finally said, her face devoid of any emotion that would give him a clue as to whether insightful was a compliment or a criticism.
‘Miss Mansfield is not currently looking for a husband,’ his aunt interjected, looking decidedly amused. ‘So I dare say your advice is wasted on her.’
‘It is a very long journey from Bath to London and I had finished the book I had brought with me. Lady Worsted gave me her copy because she thought that it might help to pass the time.’
‘I see.’
Although he really didn’t. Bennett had the distinct impression that he was missing something. There was the merest hint of censure in the word thought, as if it contained some hidden message that he was not receiving and nor was he meant to. Was she suggesting that she found his writing boring? And who was she to judge him, anyway?
Perhaps sensing his unease, Uncle George changed the topic to a more comfortable subject. ‘Have you made any progress with the House of Commons on taxation?’
Bennett shook his head, instantly frustrated. ‘They are still resolutely against extending income tax to pay for the war debts and are far more interested in shouting at each other to make any progress on anything. Those fools cannot see further than their noses. It is preposterous to think that the nation can continue to borrow vast sums of money when we are not making enough to effectively pay it back.’
‘It is grossly unfair to expect honest working men to pay even more money into the government’s coffers when many struggle so hard to make ends meet as it is. Already they are taxed to the hilt. To add to their burden is unjust. The Members of Parliament are right to oppose it.’
To Bennett’s complete surprise, those words were uttered by Miss Mansfield. And quite vociferously too. Typically, like most people, she was completely missing the point. ‘The bulk of taxation should not come from the poorest, Miss Mansfield, and under my proposals nor should it. It should come from land and from the profit from trade. The Members of Parliament are voted into office by the wealthy landowners and merchants who would pay the most under the scheme, and so are naturally resistant to it. Therefore, the MPs continue to oppose it merely to secure their own political futures.’
She blinked at him and then her dark eyebrows drew together as she contemplated his words. ‘Whilst I do agree that those who have more should pay more, you have to understand that the costs of taxation are unfairly passed down to the poor by their unscrupulous masters regardless. Wages are cut, workers are forced to work longer hours and the prices of essential commodities, like flour or sugar, are raised as the merchants try to recoup their lost profits. Without proper legislation to protect the most vulnerable in our society, all that income tax did was make the rich want to stay richer whilst it forced the poor to become poorer. We cannot repeat that experiment.’
Bennett tried to moderate his irritation at her emotional grasp of politics. ‘They might do those things in the short-term, Miss Mansfield, but things will level out eventually, you will see. Income tax is a necessary evil, I’m afraid.’
‘And in the meantime would you doom thousands of people to suffer unimaginable poverty? That is indeed evil.’
Chapter Three
Marry a woman who thinks before she speaks. It will save you a great deal of time having to correct her...
Amelia had been too forthright. She was prepared to concede that at least. She had clearly insulted the pompous Duke over dinner, although his politeness was too ingrained for him to have chastised her for it. Instead, Lady Worsted had stepped in and changed the topic to the Renshaw ball and both Amelia and their host had remained seething and silent for the rest of the meal, their difference of opinion hanging like a dirty sheet between them for all to see. Afterwards, Lady Worsted had given her a lecture on keeping her thoughts to herself and had insisted that Amelia apologise for her outburst once his aunt had smoothed the way. That was just as well because Amelia really could not bring herself to do so quite yet, especially when she was not even slightly sorry for challenging the man on his narrow-minded views. How typical of an aristocrat like him to have no concept of how his decisions would affect the masses! Just like her father, the Duke expected everyone to blithely accept his laws and decisions, no matter how bad the effect.
However, calling him evil was a step too far. Even for her. If he wanted to, he could send her packing immediately and she would not be able to do any of the things in Town that she’d planned. Worse, if Lady Worsted had dismissed her for her impudence, she would not even be able to scrape enough money together to survive for a week. Most of her wages went straight to the soup kitchen because Amelia did not need them. As Lady Worsted’s companion, she was amply fed, had a roof over her head, fresh sheets on a comfortable bed and enough hand-me-downs to clothe herself more than adequately. Why would she need the money?
However, her lack of it and what that might mean should her current circumstances be brought to an abrupt end was certainly food for thought. The very last thing Amelia ever wanted was to be homeless again. Or dirt poor. She really needed to learn to hold her tongue, no matter how hard that might actually be in practice. She might not like her employer’s nephew, but she thought the world of Lady Worsted. Lady Worsted had taken a chance on her when nobody else would, plucking her from a life of poverty and giving her a home. Lady Worsted found her pithy comments and sarcasm entertaining and was gracious enough to gloss over the unfortunate stains in her past. If her employer wanted her to hold her wayward tongue in front of her nephew and apologise to him for her perceived insult, then Amelia was duty-bound...no—honour-bound...to do that.
It made no difference that the pompous Duke clearly had limited, if any, experience of what life was like for the majority of the nation’s subjects. It was not Amelia’s place to educate him. Even if she tried, she doubted he would listen. His hereditary beliefs were too ingrained and he clearly felt, like all aristocrats, that they had a divine right to govern the rest of the country simply because they had been born. This evening he had given her that look when she had dared to question him. That look that men always gave women when they wanted to put them back in their place. That look that said that she was incapable of understanding his line of argument, based solely on the circumstances of her sex. As if being in possession of a womb rendered her somehow more stupid than all humans who were born without one.
Ha! Amelia was better informed than most men and probably cleverer than them too. Not only had she read every learned treatise she could get her hands on, she had also experienced life from both sides of the same coin. She had been rich and cosseted and she had been poor and insignificant. Both states had shaped her personality and had given her more insight into the human condition than anyone else she could think of. His Royal Highness the Duke of Pomposity could not compete with that hard-won knowledge. If she had been born a man, she would run for Parliament herself. If ever an institution needed more wisdom, more empathy and more vision, it was that one. Just thinking about all of the injustice they perpetrated in the name of governance made her livid.
Too agitated to even think of going to bed, Amelia decided to head for the kitchen for some warm milk to help her sleep. Then she carried the steaming mug back out towards the deserted palatial hallway and allowed herself a few minutes to simply take it all in.
Although she had not set foot in her father’s London residence in a decade, she had a clear, indelible memory of the place. She only had to close her eyes to see the highly polished wooden banisters that she had surreptitiously slid down when nobody was watching, the sparkling chandelier in the entrance hall, the comforting smells of beeswax and polish that always reminded her of happier times when they had lived as a family. Back when she was little and her father still adored her mother—before he had found a way to annul their marriage in order to get a son—she had thought their house in Mayfair the loveliest house in all of England, but it paled in comparison to this. This was a level of luxury that Viscount Venomous would truly envy.