The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen

  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 blon
d 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.

  “It’s all right. I want you to laugh.” A tap sounded on the door, and a servant entered with the tea service. As the duchesse spoke, she set the lovely china on the table, poured the tea, and offered Felicity a large slice of what looked to be sinfully delicious cake. Felicity took the cake and forked up a large bite. It was vanilla and cinnamon, and as soon as she tasted it, her stomach growled with pleasure. She wondered if it would be rude to request a second piece. Felicity eyed the cake and decided to sip her tea delicately. Perhaps she could make this slice last longer.

  “I want you to know,” the duchesse continued, “that I understand how daunting all of this can be.” She gestured to the room. “Please feel free to come to me if you need support or encouragement. I’m afraid your task will not be an easy one, but I’ll help in any way I can.”

  The servant slipped away, and Felicity decided now was as good a time as any to ask a question. “Can you tell me more about the comte de Valère? What will my duties be as governess?”

  The duchesse frowned slightly, and Felicity wondered if she had said something wrong. “I wouldn’t say your title is governess. You’re more of a tutor. The comte no longer needs supervision.”

  “I see.” Felicity supposed she had been wrong to picture little Armand as so young. Only, she thought the titled usually sent their sons to Eton when they were older. But obviously the current duchesse must be the duc’s second wife. In which case, the boy could be any age.

  “I understand you have quite a background in education,” the duchesse said. “Your aunt, who recommended you, said you taught at the parish school near your home. The village of Selborne. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. My father was a Methodist minister who believed in education for the poor. He raised money for a free parish school, and then spent much of his own salary to keep it furnished with books and other supplies.”

  “That’s quite admirable. Your aunt said your father had passed away recently.”

  Felicity looked down, hoping the sudden sting behind her eyes would not turn into full-fledged tears. “He’d been ill for a long time.”

  “So it was not unexpected, then.” The duchesse’s voice was kind, and the tender tone pulled at Felicity’s heart.

  “No.” At least her father’s death had not been unexpected to him. He had apparently known how ill he was and that he did not have much time left. She, however, had thought his cough would pass. It had lasted too long, but that was only because her father overexerted himself and did not get enough rest. If only he would have rested…

  If only he would have confided in her the severity of his illness and his plans for her, she would not have agreed to visit her aunt. She would have been with him at the end, and perhaps this whole business with Charles St. John might have been avoided.

  The state of their finances was dismal, but her father’s solution to provide for her even worse. Unfortunately, he must not have known that Charles had debts of his own, that he was an inveterate drunk and gambler. How could her father have known? Charles had fooled everyone. Ignorance she could forgive, but it was harder to forgive her father for signing a betrothal agreement without even consulting her. How could he give his daughter away as though she were one more piece of property?

  And now here she was, in this ornate drawing room, seated across from a duchesse, sipping tea.

  She supposed life could be worse.

  Much worse.

  “Well, we are happy to have you. Your aunt is the particular friend of a woman who is like a mother to me. When she recommended you, I knew we must hire you. And it was fortunate for us that you could arrive on such short notice. We want you to get started imme—What is it
Grimsby?”

  Felicity turned to see the taciturn butler standing in the doorway. “A question for you, Your Grace.”

  “What is it?”

  “I am afraid it is from the workmen in the nursery.”

  “Ah. Can you tell them to wait?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The butler took a step backward and then paused. “Though they did say it was a matter of some urgency.”

  The duchesse sighed loudly and rose to her feet. Felicity quickly followed, noting as she did, the slight rounding revealed when the duchesse’s gown had tightened over her belly. The duchesse was expecting. “I’m sorry.” The duchesse spread her arms sympathetically. “I’m sure this will take only a moment or two.”

  “Of course.” Felicity took her seat on the sofa again and tried to sip her tea. It was very good, much better than what she had been used to at home. Of course, she and her father were lucky to have tea, she reminded herself. Her aunt Robbins had six children, and with eight mouths to feed, tea was the last thing her cousins worried about.

  Felicity smiled, thinking about her aunt and uncle and their big happy family. When Felicity’s father passed away, her aunt had offered her a place in their home, but Felicity did not want to be a burden. And then when Charles appeared, waving that marriage agreement, her options became even more limited. Nothing but money would make him and that loathsome document quietly disappear. Oh, she could refuse to marry him, but then she would be in a worse predicament than she was now. How would she survive? No respectable man would marry a woman so scandalized. And who would hire one with such a reputation? Her aunt, seeing Felicity’s dire situation, had helped her secure this position.

  Felicity looked about the drawing room again, marveling. Who would have thought she would end up here?

  She allowed her eyes to rest on some of the impressive paintings and ran her hand over the expensive fabric on the sofa. But what she really wanted to do was to play that beautiful pianoforte. And, coincidentally, here she was, all alone. And there it was, waiting to be played.