The Making of a Gentleman (2 page)

Felicity Bennett stood in the park in the center of Berkeley Square and stared at the mammoth town house before her. She had never seen a house with so many windows, and in this gray, dreary city, she had never seen one so white. London’s morning fog had yet to burn off and hovered oppressively around the other town houses, shrouding them in gloom. But the fog did not deign to touch this house. The white façade glittered in the shaft of sunlight just emerging from the fortress of low-hanging clouds.

Felicity took a deep breath. It was not like her to be intimidated, and if she did not muster her courage soon, walk across the park, and knock on that door—that mammoth door with the golden lion’s head door knocker—she was going to be late for her appointment.

Late for what was to be her first day of employment.

That would not do, especially after all the pains she had taken to arrive punctually. There was the hour-long walk from the rectory to the posting house, the eight hours on the mail coach—crushed between a portly woman and a man who sounded as though he might cough up his lungs—and the harrowing hansom cab ride to her present location.

She had traveled all night without sleep and with little more than a small wedge of cheese and some three-day-old bread for sustenance. Every muscle in her body ached and her belly felt like a hollow pit, but she would not allow her fatigue and hunger to surface. She pushed them down and focused on the time ticking away.

Her father always said there was no time like the present, and Felicity always agreed. But that was because she did not mind cooking dinner or studying her mathematics or sweeping the floor. She did very much mind going to work for some snooty aristocrats who, if they were like all the others she had known, would be condescending and hypocritical. In short, Felicity did not look forward to a life of servitude.

But really, what choice did she have? The alternatives…

She almost jumped when she saw a movement to her right. She turned sharply when a man dressed in tight breeches, a fitted coat of navy superfine, and a stark white shirt with a perfectly tied cravat stepped out from behind one of the trees in the park and beckoned to her. Felicity blinked at him, certain he was an illusion—fervently
hoped
he was an illusion. Could she ignore him? Could she pretend she hadn’t seen him?

He beckoned again, this time adding an impatient glare, so with a furtive glance at the town house, she hurried to meet him. “What are you doing here?” she whispered, stepping behind a tree and hoping she was out of sight of the house. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“My fiancée finally arrives in Town, and I’m not allowed to see her? Rubbish.” His words were only slightly slurred, which was a good sign. And his fine clothes another good sign. Perhaps he was winning at the tables. Perhaps he would leave her in peace.

“How did you know where I would be? I haven’t even met the family or secured the position.”

He winked at her. “I have connections.” He tapped the jaunty hat tucked under his arm. “Don’t you forget that.” He reached out, probably to poke her arm, but she quickly moved out of his reach.

He chuckled and gave her a long perusal that made her want to pull her cloak tighter over her bosom. “They’ll like you.” He nodded. “And they’re rich. Very rich. Just what we’re looking for.”

That was not at all part of her criteria, but she didn’t contradict him. “I only hope the pay will be adequate. How much did you say you owe the creditors?”

He grinned. “Anxious to get rid of me, are you?” He leaned closer, and she could smell the spirits on his breath. “I told you. For twenty-five pounds I will make our little agreement go away.” He snapped his fingers, and she jumped in spite of herself. “If you can’t pay up by the first of the year, well, then, prepare to have the banns called,
darling
.”

She shuddered. Once the idea of marrying Charles St. John had been her favorite fantasy. Now, she would avoid it at all costs. Why hadn’t her father seen through him? Why hadn’t she? Twenty-five pounds might as well have been a million, but she had to find a way to earn it.

“I understand the conditions. And you stay away from the house.” She gestured to the town house behind them. “If they see you with me—”

“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand. “A”—he squinted at her—“what’s your position again?”

“Governess,” she said through clenched teeth. Would he not just go away!

“A new governess should not be engaged. The quality don’t like it.” He leaned in again, and she held her breath. “The quality won’t like me. Pay up, or I might just knock on the door and introduce myself. See how long your fancy position lasts then.”

“I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” she said, but he was already moving away.

“I’ll find a way to speak to you in a day or so. I’ll send a note or prowl around the garden.”

“Charles, no—” She was wasting her breath. He was already too far away to hear her. She sighed and swallowed back the frustrated tears that stung her eyes. How she wished her father was still alive. How she wished she could have been there at the end, snatched her father’s pen away, done something,
anything
to prevent her betrothal to that—oh! She couldn’t think of a word bad enough.

She watched Charles St. John stroll away, his hat now on his head at a rakish angle, and tried to pretend this would not end in disaster. Of course, that was no way to think before she went into that elegant town house. She had to be confident. With that in mind, she lifted her small valise, squared her shoulders, and began marching toward the huge structure. It grew larger the closer she came, towering over her like an alabaster oak. Her heart began to pound, and her legs wobbled like jelly, but she clenched her jaw and kept walking. She was no coward, and she bore her gaze into that ornate door knocker. Finally she stopped before it, her eyes level with those of the gold lion’s. He looked friendly—in a violent, hungry sort of way. She reached toward the open mouth, complete with sharp golden teeth, grasped the heavy ring dangling there, and rapped three times. Hard.

Her hand dropped to her side, and belatedly she wished she had a basin of water with which to wash the grime from her face. Surely she could not look as bad as she felt…

No matter. The wealthy and titled rarely stooped to acknowledge the likes of her—daughter of a poor vicar. She heard the sound of a lock being turned, and the door yawned open to reveal a tall, distinguished man in black.

“Good day,” he intoned. His voice sounded as friendly as the lion’s teeth looked.

“Good day.” Felicity’s voice came out in a squeak, and she automatically cleared her throat. “I mean, good day. I’m Felicity Bennett. I’m here to see—”

Oh, Lord. What was the name of the lady of the house? The meeting with Charles had flustered her, and now she could not remember the details of the letter of employment. One would have thought she had committed it to memory, given the number of times she read that letter, but the small, vital detail of the lady’s title had apparently danced away.

The butler raised his eyebrows, and Felicity smiled tightly. “I have an appointment with Lady—” She drew the word out, hoping the title would come to her. But, no, her mind remained a fresh slate.

Curses!

“Duchesse,” the butler corrected, and immediately Felicity remembered. “The duchesse
de Valère,” he intoned.

“Felicity Bennett.” Her tight smile did not waver. She was probably not as obsequious and fawning as the usual visitors to the house, but neither was she an imbecile. She knew the correct forms of address. “I’m here to see Her Grace.”

The butler nodded, his expression giving nothing away. “Her Grace is expecting you.” He stepped aside and opened the door wider to reveal a cavernous black-and-white marble vestibule as large as the rectory that had been her home. Wide stairs curved gracefully before her, leading to the upper floors. The interior was as impressive and as beautiful as the exterior promised, and the vestibule glittered with light. The sun was streaming in through a small window above the door, the light flashing off the crystals in the chandelier, sending a rainbow of sparkles across the sea of gleaming marble.

The scene was so pretty it drew Felicity inside.

“Leave the valise there.” The butler pointed to one side of the door. “Is that the extent of your luggage?”

Felicity blinked, his voice tearing her away from the small, glittering rainbows. She realized she had expected the house to look gaudy and pretentious, but that was not the effect of the décor at all. Everything—from the chiseled marble statuette of a Greek woman on a pedestal to the cream upholstered Sheraton chair in the corner—was tasteful and inviting.

Everything but the butler, who was still looking at her.

“Pardon? Oh, no. My trunks should arrive later today or tomorrow.” She set the valise on the smooth marble. In it, she had packed a change of clothing and all she held precious—a portrait of her father, her mother’s Bible, and her sheet music. Removing her bonnet, she placed it on top of the valise.

She should probably have packed another change of clothes, but she could not bear to be away from her favorite pieces of music, even though she had no means with which to play them. Besides, she did not trust the men she had engaged to transport her trunks not to lose or damage the contents.

No, in the end she had decided it was better to sacrifice fashion than her precious music. Not that what she wore was going to matter, she thought as the butler motioned for her to follow him up the staircase. His black livery was of better quality than her Sunday dress.

At home in Hampshire, the pretty white muslin with a puff of a sleeve always garnered her compliments, especially when she paired it with the dark blue cloak she wore now. The blue of the cloak matched her eyes and contrasted nicely with her blond hair. But from all she had seen today, her clothing was sadly out of date.

Not that it mattered. No one cared what a governess wore. She was not going to be attending balls and soirees. She would be teaching a young boy. Boys liked to play in the dirt and run in the gardens. Perhaps it was best then that her clothes were more serviceable than fashionable.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Felicity searched the portraits hung in the corridor for one of a small boy. His name she remembered: Armand. It was a sweet name, conjuring the image of soft brown hair, a gentle smile, and rosy lips. The duchesse de Valère had been vague about his age in her letter of employment, but Felicity imagined him to be six or seven.

The butler rapped sharply on the towering white drawing-room doors then pushed them open. “Miss Felicity Bennett,” the butler announced.

A woman was standing in the center of the room beside a bright yellow chintz sofa and across from a beautiful pianoforte. She turned when the butler spoke, and to Felicity’s surprise, her smile was warm and inviting. It even appeared genuine. “Thank you, Grimsby. Will you have Mrs. Eggers send tea?”

The butler nodded and closed the doors with a flourish.

“You must be Miss Bennett,” the woman said, stepping forward and holding out her hands. It was an unexpected gesture and a surprising one. The woman greeted her like an old friend.

“Yes.” Felicity hesitated only a moment before moving forward and placing her hands in the other woman’s. The woman’s hands were slim and soft but firm. She led Felicity to the sofa, gestured for her to sit, then took the chair upholstered in cream opposite.

Felicity sat, belatedly realizing she should have curtseyed. Their greeting had been far too informal. But perhaps this was not the duchesse. Felicity narrowed her eyes. The woman’s celery-colored gown was of the best material and the newest style, but it was plain and unpretentious. Not at all the sort of thing one would expect a duchesse to wear.

In fact, the woman did not look very much like a duchesse at all. Certainly, she was pretty. She had wide brown eyes and glossy brown hair, elegantly but simply styled. Her face was honest and open with high cheekbones and full lips.

She looked like a normal person, Felicity decided. Surely this was not the exotic duchesse de Valère, wife of one of the richest and most mysterious ducs in England. Made even more mysterious because his title and his ancestry were French.

“I don’t look much like a duchesse, do I?” the woman said, and Felicity’s heart stuttered. Had the woman read her thoughts?

“I haven’t been the duchesse for long, only seven months. Before I married the duc, I actually held a position similar to the one you will occupy. I was a governess.”

“Oh.” Felicity tried not to seem surprised, but it was not every day a duc married a governess. Felicity attempted to imagine being married to a duc. Being the wife of a man who owned all of this. She glanced about the room with its polished wood floors, its thick Aubusson carpets, its heavy drapes, and its expensive art. She was not certain she would
want
responsibility for all of this.

Except for that pianoforte. It drew her gaze. How long had it been since she’d had the opportunity to play an instrument of that quality? Possibly never of
that
quality, but far too long since she had indulged in playing.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Felicity glanced back at the duchesse, unsure how to respond. It was the most beautiful room she had ever entered, but the little porcelain plate on the table could have probably fed some of her poorer neighbors back in Selborne for a month or more. If she had even a tiny fraction of the wealth on display in this one room alone, she would not be here now—penniless, homeless, with almost all she owned in the world in a valise at the bottom of the staircase.

“It’s lovely.” And how her fingers itched to touch those pianoforte keys. She could already hear the music in her mind.

“But intimidating.” The duchesse smiled. “The first time I was ever in this room, I cast up my accounts because I was so nervous.”

Felicity’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“In front of the duc.”

“Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.