The Discerning Gentleman's Guide

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.

Amelia looked up at the wonderful ceiling and spun in a slow circle. She loved to draw and, although her attempts at art were pathetic in comparison, she could not help but appreciate this clever artist’s work. Every single cherub was different, flowers and leaves were dripping out of their chubby hands, but from this angle it was difficult to comprehend the total effect of the painting. A quick check of the hallway confirmed that she was still alone, so she quickly deposited her cooling milk on an ornamental table and lay down in the middle of the floor. Only then did she fully understand what the picture was trying to show.

The four corners of the high ceiling were filled with the flowers and fruits produced in the four seasons. Vibrant green holly, winter berries and bare twigs represented winter in one. Copper leaves, golden corn, horse chestnuts and acorns for autumn, spring daffodils and cherry blossom bloomed in another corner, then finally fat roses of every colour depicted summer. The cherubs were joyfully grabbing handfuls of nature’s bounty to sprinkle on the world below. It was whimsical and delightful, the tiny details sublime, and she could have stared at it for hours. It was exactly what she needed to alleviate her sour mood.

* * *

Bennett read through his speech one last time before he cast it aside in irritation. It was good, of course, because he had a way with words, but he was still not completely happy with it. Or perhaps it was not his speech that was vexing him? He was still smarting from Miss Mansfield’s scathing rant from earlier.

He had never been called evil before. He had been criticised in Parliament for being too moderate or too reforming, but he had never taken offence because that was politics. His father had been absolutely right. Change was a gradual process and it could not be rushed; it was normal for people to be resistant to it. Bennett’s first and foremost role in Parliament was to gradually whittle down opposition to change so that society, as a whole, could make progress.

Miss Mansfield had no understanding of such things. Her suggestion that he was personally responsible for making the lives of the poor more wretched than they already were was not only grossly unfair, it was downright insulting. He was very aware of their plight. In fact, he had always taken a particular interest in it. If something was not done to alleviate their suffering, then he feared that the very foundation of English government was in jeopardy. The last thing anybody wanted was a revolution like there had been in France or in the American colonies.

Why else would he be so insistent that the wealthy had to take on more of the responsibility for taxation? If the government could raise more from taxes, then that money could be used to improve society. One of his own aspirations was to see the compulsory education of all poor children in government-built schools. Many of his contemporaries were against making the masses literate, claiming that it would merely encourage more revolutionary tendencies, but Bennett firmly believed that reading was a skill that could only serve to improve their prospects in adulthood whilst making the nation greater. That certainly did not make him evil.

His aunt had spoken to him about Miss Mansfield, claiming that she had been dealt a bad hand by life and that she was a truly wonderful young lady when you got to know her. Bennett was yet to see any evidence of that, but it was obvious that Aunt Augusta was very fond of the chit, so for that reason alone he would be benevolent towards her. However, he was not going to be quite so polite the next time she offered her unsolicited and tart opinions.

No, indeed! Next time he would give the woman the sound dressing-down she deserved, no matter how devilishly pretty she looked.

A quick glance at the clock on the mantel told him it was past midnight, again. He had to be back in Westminster by eight. If he was not going to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon debate, he really needed to get some sleep. All of these late nights spent working until the small hours were beginning to take their toll. Unfortunately, these were trying times for the government and his workload was immense. Something had to be sacrificed in order to get it all done and at the moment that something was sleep.

Wearily, he unfolded his stiff body from his chair and stared at his discarded hessians next to his desk. Despite the fact that he knew that propriety dictated that he should put them back on, he could not bring himself to. They were new boots and they hurt. The polished leather was still so stiff that they pinched and rubbed in all manner of places. Besides, it was late and none of the servants would comment on his lack of footwear. Lovett had them all far too well-trained for that. In fact, if he chose to walk around the house completely naked except for a strategically placed fig leaf, none of them would dare to bat an eyelid. That thought made him smile, and smiling made his face ache. Clearly his smiling muscles were protesting at being used. It felt unnatural—which probably meant that Aunt Augusta had been quite correct when she had said that he was looking far too serious for a young man. He made a mental note to smile more. Perhaps it was vanity, but his esteemed father had not smiled a great deal, so by the time he was forty he’d appeared very dour indeed—even when he wasn’t.

But serious politics was not exactly a cheerful endeavour. And it was completely absorbing. His father had groomed him to serve in government. We are Montagues, boy, he would say, and we were born to shape this country. Later, when his father had realised that he was ill, Bennett’s training for the highest office had begun early. By the tender age of fifteen, he was ready and eager to step into his father’s footsteps. His final conversation with his father had been a solemn promise to continue his family’s political legacy. Bennett had taken the oath seriously and had worked tirelessly since to do the right thing. So tirelessly that he was always tired.

Perhaps his mother was also right and he needed to get out more. Bennett could not remember the last time he went out for a ride or walked in the park or even visited Aveley Castle, the place he loved more than any other. He made another mental note to take a weekend off soon. He deserved a little time to relax. He was also tired of being cooped up in his carriage. Tomorrow he would ride to Westminster. The exercise would do him good. He glanced at the stiff hessians again and decided to be rebellious for once. Tonight, propriety could go to hell. Picking them up and tucking them underneath his arm, he headed off to bed.

He was so tired that he did not see the woman lying spread-eagled at the foot of the staircase until he almost stepped on her. The sight gave him quite a fright.

‘Miss Mansfield! Are you injured?’

Convinced that she had had an accident, Bennett dropped to his knees at the exact same moment that his aunt’s companion sat bolt upright in alarm. Their foreheads bashed together with such force that Bennett actually thought that he saw stars. He fell back onto his bottom, clutching his sore head and glaring at her as she clutched hers.

‘Did you fall?’ he snapped harshly.

Still rubbing her own forehead, she shook her head. ‘I was just admiring your ceiling.’

‘And to do that you needed to prostrate yourself on the floor?’

‘The floor offered the best perspective. I did not hear you coming, else I would have immediately alerted you to my presence.’ She glanced furtively at his abandoned boots, lying haphazardly at his side where he had dropped them in his panic. ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace! I did not mean to alarm you.’ She did look suitability mortified, he supposed. ‘For a big man you walk with unusual stealth.’

‘My boots pinch,’ he found himself explaining and then stopped himself. The fact that he was not correctly dressed was by the by. She was the one who had been in a position that was improper. People just did not sprawl over the floor to look at a picture. Under any circumstances.

Beneath his fingers he could feel a bump beginning to form under his skin. An unstatesmanlike bump that would, no doubt, look quite ridiculous tomorrow when he delivered his speech. Without warning she moved closer, looking concerned, and began to gently pat around the swelling on his head herself. The close proximity was unnerving. Bennett could not remember the last time that somebody had touched him without his consent. Every morning his valet shaved him and he briefly touched the gloved hands of the ladies he danced with. That was about as much human contact as he could manage. He usually preferred to keep a good foot or more of distance between himself and another person, just in case they accidentally brushed against him...

Except, as the faintest whiff of something deliciously feminine and floral wafted up his nose and she smoothed her soft hands over his skin, he found that he was quite enjoying her ministrations. Her face was inches from his and her brown eyes were regarding him with gratifying distress. It made him feel almost special.

‘You should probably put something cold on this or you will have a terrible bruise. I did not realise that I had such a hard head.’

Her own forehead was not undamaged. Without thinking and against his own better judgement, Bennett felt compelled to trace his fingers lightly over her matching bump. ‘So should you. Clearly we both have hard heads.’ Her skin was warm and smooth like velvet. He had the sudden urge to explore every bit of it and a peculiar yearning in the pit of his stomach that was most unlike him. Self-consciously, he dropped his hand.

She sat back then and smiled at him, obviously not feeling anywhere near as awkward by the intimacy as he did. ‘Instruct your valet to rub some soap or butter into your boots. It softens the leather. Failing that, I have heard that if you fill your shoes with potato peelings that helps to stretch them a bit.’

‘I will.’

‘And witch hazel is particularly soothing on a bruise. I am sure that the servants will be able to fetch some.’

‘Indeed.’

Bennett had a reputation for being a great orator. His speeches were the stuff of legend, but suddenly he could not string a full sentence together or think of another sensible thing to say. To cover his discomfort, he rose to his feet, wishing that he was not standing in front of her without his boots on, then offered her his hand to help her up. When she took it he felt an odd tingle shoot from his fingers, up his arm, ricochet off his ribs and head straight for his groin. Her hand felt so small in his and when she was upright again he noticed that her dark head barely reached his shoulders.