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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.’