Читать книгу The Discerning Gentleman's Guide - Virginia Heath - Страница 11

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.

Odd.

At dinner she had appeared so formidable, yet she was in fact so petite. And he was still clasping her hand like an idiot. A monosyllabic idiot. Stiffly he released it and promptly stuffed his own wayward hands behind his back, where they could do no more mischief, and stood racking his brain for something—anything—to say.

Miss Mansfield mirrored his pose and stared briefly at the floor, drawing her plump bottom lip through her teeth as she did so. It made him wonder what she would taste like. When she did look up it was through her lovely long lashes and he could have sworn he saw the faintest tinge of a blush on her cheeks. Alarmingly, he wanted to touch it.

‘I would like to apologise for my tone earlier—at dinner. I can be a little passionate about certain causes, and the plight of the poor is one of them. I did not mean any personal offence.’

Those soulful eyes of hers robbed him of any coherent response. Bennett wanted to accept her apology gracefully. In his head he could see the words that would be perfect for the task and clear the air between them.

I accept your apology, Miss Mansfield. No offence was taken. It is admirable that you take an interest in worthy causes.

Except he was having trouble getting his lips to form the words because they appeared to be strangely preoccupied with latching themselves on to hers.

He really did not quite know what had come over him to be contemplating such an obvious breach of propriety with his aunt’s latest companion. Dukes could not go about kissing young women willy-nilly in their own hallway, or anywhere else for that matter. It simply wasn’t done. So he nodded. Just the once. Stiffly. Like the most uptight and pompous prig and cringed inwardly at his over-starched formality.

‘I have an important speech tomorrow.’ He barked this out with such force that he saw her blink repeatedly as she stared back at him, a little alarmed. He could hardly blame her for that. At certain times in his life he had really wished he had Uncle George’s easy way with people. This was one of those times. She had just tenderly checked his injury, given him tips on how to stop his boots hurting his feet and apologised for her outburst at dinner and all he could manage was almost granite stiffness.

In a last valiant attempt to make amends, Bennett attempted a smile. Once again, his facial muscles did not want to comply and he feared that it appeared to poor Miss Mansfield to be more of a grimace. Then, to his complete horror, Bennett found himself turning briskly on his ridiculously large stockinged feet, his hands still gripped firmly behind him like an admiral inspecting the fleet, before marching up the stairs as fast as he could without breaking into a run. All the while he could feel the discarded hessians mocking him from the hallway below—Perhaps you really should have put us back on?