DISCERNING GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE, THE

by HEATH, VIRGINIA

  She was staring at him with such intensity, her lips ever so slightly parted, and he was sorely tempted to just give in and kiss her. When the tip of her tongue nervously traced the top of those lush lips he almost did...until the sounds of the ballroom began to drift towards him, reminding him that they were not really alone and he panicked.

  ‘Well, I shan’t be lying on any floors soon.’ The words came out as an admonishment because her presence unsettled him. Bennett instantly regretted his harsh tone. Unfortunately, his brain and vocal cords did not appear to be aligned because more of the same nonsense came from them. ‘I have a perfectly good perspective of the world without having to sprawl on the floor like a commoner.’ Now he had offended her. Her feline eyes narrowed and her lovely mouth flattened. He tried to save the situation, but his wayward mouth had gained too much momentum. ‘And it has not escaped my notice, Miss Mansfield, that despite my previous admonishment you were once again out in the dark. Alone.’

  Even with her father lurking within a stone’s throw, and despite the fact that he was also a member of the aristocracy, Amelia had been enjoying the Duke’s company.

  Had.

  When he wasn’t being the Duke, Bennett Montague was actually a very knowledgeable man with a dry, clever sense of humour. His grasp of the universe was quite impressive and he managed to explain it all without sounding patronising or haughty or pompous.

  For once.

  And that had been the problem. At some point while they were strolling back through the garden, the cosy intimacy and easy conversation had made her forget that he was a pompous duke and Amelia had enjoyed being with the man. Seeing him as a pompous duke, it did not matter that his silvery blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight or that his quiet, deep chuckle made her insides melt like butter. Seeing him as a man, Amelia was keenly aware of those things. Repeatedly, she’d found herself staring at his profile as he gazed at the sky. The mist in the air had tousled his hair so that it fell over his forehead, and each time they’d paused to look at another constellation she had been sorely tempted to brush it away from his eyes. And then the air around them hung heavy with the weight of promise and she had the distinct feeling that he was going to kiss her. At that moment, to her complete surprise, she would not have minded in the slightest.

  However, the closer they’d got to the house, the more duke-like he’d become. Now the Duke of Aveley was back with a vengeance. His posture was as stiff as a plank and his arms were clasped imperiously behind his back. It had been the most sudden, and unwelcome, transformation. Almost calculated. It was obvious that he had no intention of even pretending to be amiable when he was anywhere near his peers and would be mortified if anybody saw them together, even though there were already several people taking the air on the terrace a few feet away, so their presence out here could be easily explained. Yet he had called her a commoner—maybe not directly, but the implication was clear—and the spell he had cast around her was broken.

  Thank heavens.

  The very last man she would ever want to kiss would be a man with a title. Just like her father, Bennett Montague could change from reasonable man to self-righteous aristocrat with a click of his fingers. Underneath all of that amiability he was just as mercenary and she would do well to remember that.

  ‘I hardly think that walking in a garden in Mayfair counts as a clandestine outing. And, even if it did, I am employed by your aunt. My free time is mine to do with as I choose.’ Gathering her blanket tightly around her, Amelia turned and marched around the side of the house towards the French windows she had left open. She heard him start after her.

  ‘Wait. I am sorry. My tone was unnecessarily harsh and I apologise. It’s just that...’

  Amelia whipped her head around angrily and cut him off. ‘Save your apologies; I have no need of them. We both know that your aristocratic stodginess returned the very moment you realised that you might be seen talking to someone as lowly as me!’

  ‘Stodgy!’ That word, out of all that she had used, clearly offended him the most and he thrust out his square jaw in protest. Well, Amelia had a jawbone too and could not stop herself from using it.

  ‘Yes. Stodgy. You have no need to fear for your aristocratic reputation, Your Grace; I would rather not be seen with you either. Commoners can be quite particular about who we talk to.’ Her feet tore up the ground and the elusive French windows came into sight. Unfortunately, her short legs were no match for his much longer strides.

  ‘I did not mean that either, Miss Mansfield.’ He was in front of her now and intent on blocking her path. He ran his hand through his thick hair in agitation and then stood a little awkwardly. It was apparent that he did not know what to do with his arms until he clasped them firmly behind his back again. ‘I just...’

  ‘It does not matter.’ Amelia was in no mood for hollow explanations or meaningless apologies. She was well aware of her place in society—and of his. Experience had taught her a great deal about the titled male’s mind; any doubts she had about the mind of this man in front of her had been amply filled with the drivel in his silly book. She had been foolish to allow her head to be turned, even for a few minutes, by a man who lived according to such a strict and ancient code of conduct.

  But she had promised Lady Worsted that she would be on her best behaviour whilst she was a guest in his house; no matter how galling she found it, her position in the household meant that she had to keep the peace and swallow her pride. ‘You are a duke. I am a servant. You have been very charitable to have honoured me with your conversation this evening and I thank you for it. However, the vast chasm between our stations makes it impossible for you to continue in that vein in the company of others. I understand that. Let us not make more of it than it is, Your Grace.’

  ‘Stop interrupting me!’

  The next thing that she knew, he’d hauled her against him and covered her mouth with his.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marriage to a politician has to be viewed as a treaty. The nation will expect you to ally yourself with one of the great families of England to maintain the high standards of the government...

  There really was nothing stodgy or reserved about his kiss. The moment his lips fused with hers, it lit a fire within her that burned too hot to extinguish. Not that she gave that much thought at the beginning. All thought was suspended while Amelia gave herself over to the wonderful sensations he created.

  Amelia had been kissed before. There had been a couple of chaste kisses from intellectual young men who fervently believed in the same causes that she did. In each case, those romances had fizzled out because neither party felt the same fire for the relationship that they did for the plight that united them. Then there had been the other kisses which had been an unwelcome intrusion. A violation even. There had been quite a few of those too. Things were earthier in the slums and those who did not try to take what they wanted were invariably left with nothing. And she had been a young woman all alone and there were a great many who had sought to take advantage of that fact. Fortunately, in every circumstance, she had been able to fend off the male who tried to take from her.

  This kiss fell into neither category. He was passionate—yet tender. The kiss firm yet achingly gentle. And his strong arms felt so very right wrapped around her that she gave in to the flash of desire and allowed her own arms to coil around his neck so that she could cling to him for dear life. It was only when she felt the blanket slither from her shoulders when his arms searched for, and found, her waist, then drew her hips to rest intimately against his that she realised that she was in trouble.

  Serious trouble.

  This intoxicating man was a duke. A duke who was hell-bent on finding his perfect duchess—a woman who would be well-bred, compliant and aristocratic. He had already reminded her that she was a commoner and therefore unworthy. That meant there was only one thing that he coul
d possibly want from Amelia—and that was the same thing that every chancer and bounder had tried, and failed, to achieve.

  Decisively, she dragged her hands to his chest and pushed him away with all of her might. She might well be a commoner now, in fact she was proud to be one, but she would not be her mother and be seduced by his wealth or his power. Or, heaven forbid, his ghastly title. The measure of a man was what he was inside and not who he was born to be. Whilst the Duke might have a bit more substance than some of his aristocratic peers, his arrogant superiority was still ingrained into his soul.

  Commoner!

  How typically...aristocratic. As if being common was an infectious disease that he needed to be protected from! Well, he needn’t worry on that score. He was too much like her father to even consider him. Not that he would ever offer her marriage, thank goodness. And she was not prepared to be a passing fancy for him either, no matter how much her body enjoyed his touch. Even if he were the very last man on earth, it would be a cold day in hell before Amelia would ever consider any form of dalliance with one in possession of a title.

  However, that brought another problem immediately to the forefront. In her experience, the more powerful the man, the less understanding they were about being rejected. Amelia might well want to slap him stoutly on his perfect cheek, but she needed to keep her job. Humour and diplomacy would serve her much better than anger right now.

  Bennett fought to catch his breath while he watched the alarming play of emotions on her lovely face. Kissing her had been a mistake. And a revelation. What had he been thinking? Perhaps, for once, he had not been thinking, which was somehow even worse. He never lost his head. Ever. He was always fully in control of every single situation and his emotions. There could be no volcanic eruption in front of Miss Mansfield.

  Yet here he was, completely aroused and totally blindsided by a simple kiss with a wholly unsuitable woman. A woman who was now regarding him cautiously, her feline eyes wary and her body poised to either run away or attack. Without thinking, he took a step towards her, but she stayed him with her small hand.

  ‘Before we continue, Your Grace, I just wanted to be sure that I am right to believe that I am now on your Potential list?’

  Bennett had not been expecting that and confusion got the better of him. ‘Um... I...’ How exactly did one politely say that, although one found a woman attractive, alluring and completely maddening, she was wholly unsuitable to be his duchess? She did not meet any one of the criteria his father had deemed essential for high office—no, which Bennett knew was essential for high office. He needed a wife who would be a political asset. A wife with impeccable breeding and an innate understanding of social etiquette, neither of which this conundrum of a female possessed, more was the pity.

  ‘I see.’ She took his silence as an answer, then bent down and retrieved the blanket before slowly wrapping it around her shoulders and facing him proudly. ‘That is most unfortunate, Your Grace. I am sure your aunt would be very disappointed to know that you had made improper advances to her companion.’

  She was right. He had no place kissing her if he was not able to offer for her. Her polite censure made the muscles around Bennett’s ribs constrict with the fierce wave of shame he experienced at his shoddy behaviour. Unfortunately, that shame did nothing to dampen his overwhelming need to kiss her again.

  ‘I apologise unreservedly. You have my word that it will not happen again.’ Saying that made his throat tighten until swallowing and speaking became difficult. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he inclined his head stiffly and strode back towards the terrace and the safety of the crowded ballroom.

  It was a tactical retreat.

  If he had stayed a moment longer, he knew he would have been tempted to throw propriety to the wind and tell her that, frankly, he really did not give a damn about the circumstances of her birth. But he had to. He would never become Prime Minister if he scandalously married a woman so far beneath him yet, bizarrely, the vast chasm in their stations made him very sad. If she had not come from Cheapside, if her parentage had not been so lowly and her connections non-existent, if she was not so outspoken, or so impertinent, or his aunt’s servant, and if his choice of bride had not been so very important in order to continue his father’s legacy, then he had a suspicion that Miss Mansfield might well have been perfect for him.

  Bennett had experienced an intellectual connection with her that was sadly missing in his life. For a few minutes he had not been the Duke of Aveley, he had been just Bennett. Free and unburdened from the constraints that his position and his career put upon him. And he had enjoyed that. If she had met just one of the criteria that his father had set down, he would have gone after her because he could be himself with her. The simple fact that he could not was devastating.

  He waited several minutes before he entered the ballroom again, for propriety’s sake, although he needn’t have worried. Miss Mansfield was gone.

  * * *

  Amelia deftly avoided him for the next few days—or he was deftly avoiding her—which made life much easier. Her reaction to him had confused her. Not just the kiss, but the simple pleasure of being with him. She had not expected to feel that kind of connection with him, of all people, nor did she want to continue to be disappointed in his reaction when she had called him on it. She might well have intended her words to be a warning which she had wanted His Pomposity to heed, but a tiny, hopelessly romantic part of her had hoped that he might have surprised her. If he had said that he did not care that she was his aunt’s companion and a commoner, or if he had miraculously agreed that she was, indeed, on his Potential list, then she was not entirely sure that she would have had the strength to have resisted him.

  Saying that she had no interest in kissing the Duke of Aveley and actually meaning it was, apparently, quite another matter altogether. She had dreamed about the stupid kiss every night since and her traitorous pulse sped up whenever she caught a fleeting glimpse of him. Clearly, a small, errant part of her personality was greatly influenced by her mother’s weakness for the wrong sort of man. Stupidly, she had developed a bit of a tendre for a man with a title—although it was definitely not his title that made him so attractive. It was everything else, inside and out. Even his stiffness was a little endearing.

  Amelia sighed and pinned on her old straw bonnet. There was no point in getting upset about it. In a few more weeks she would go back to Bath and be spared the odd feeling that he ignited within her. For now, she could head back to Seven Dials. The factory workers’ meeting and a few hours in the soup kitchen would purge her thoughts of the irritatingly handsome and priggish duke and his intoxicating kisses. She needed to hear some passionate speeches to remind her of the fact that men like the Duke of Aveley were not quite as important or special as they would like to believe themselves to be. They perpetuated poverty and silenced the masses to feather their own nests. So what if he claimed to want to clean up the slums? He would never agree to the more important changes that the so-called Radicals proposed. Fair wages, fair taxation or, heaven forbid, universal suffrage. And he would treat his future wife with the same dispassion that he had shown in his writing. She would do well to remember that next time her mind wandered back to that starlit walk and unforgettable moonlit kiss.

  Fortunately, there was nothing to stop her going to Seven Dials today. The house was empty. The only fly in the ointment was Lovett. The butler had made it quite plain that if he knew she was heading out alone again, then he was duty-bound to send a footman, on His Grace’s explicit instruction. If he had not shown her the servants’ stairs that first time, those instructions would have seriously curtailed her outings, but he had and she had become quite adept at using them. Especially the dark back staircase that took her to a door that led directly to the gardens. Once outside, it proved to be surprisingly easy to skirt around the back of the house, behind the stables and down an alleywa
y that took her into the mews and freedom.

  * * *

  Bennett’s speech had had to be postponed yet again, which had put him in a foul mood. The morning debate had descended into a shambles almost as soon as it had started and no amount of the Speaker calling order managed to stop the lords from braying like wild donkeys across the floor. After an hour Bennett left in disgust, intent on heading to the tranquillity of his own study in order to get some proper work done, but once again Piccadilly had been horrendously busy—thus making his foul mood fouler.

  ‘Will you be returning to Parliament this afternoon, Your Grace?’ The groom took the reins while Bennett dismounted.

  ‘I am not sure yet.’ He should go back for the afternoon session even though the idea of it made him frown involuntarily. ‘I will send word if I need to.’

  Bennett was sorely tempted to stay at home. The current behaviour of his fellow politicians was not conducive to getting bills passed and the less said about Piccadilly the better. For some reason, the peace of the gardens drew him and, instead of heading into the house, he found himself wandering towards the empty flower beds. Perhaps he should ignore the guilty knot in his belly and retire to Aveley Castle for a week or two? He had certainly earned a rest. Some time away from all of his mounting responsibilities might get his life back into perspective and help to shift the odd mood that had plagued him since the Renshaw ball—or, more specifically, since he had kissed his aunt’s companion.

  Who knew that such an impulsive decision would leave him so out of sorts? He had not felt fully himself in days and he certainly could not focus. He had lost count of how many minutes he had wasted reliving that brief experience and wishing that he could do it all again just to be certain that he had not imagined it.