The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen

  Felicity smiled. “He is making progress, but I do not think it is all attributable to me.”

  The dowager nodded thoughtfully. “He is somewhat preoccupied by the incident earlier this week. Those men jarred something in him. They made him remember something.”

  “The duchesse said he sleeps very little. The comte spends much of the night guarding the house and garden.”

  “Yes. He is afraid of something. God knows what. Perhaps we will never know. I cannot stand to think what he must have suffered all of those years, alone and isolated. He still cannot bear to touch me or to be touched. It pains me I cannot even touch my own son.”

  Felicity nodded, sympathetic but also confused. How was it the comte could not tolerate the feeling of his mother’s arm linked with his, and yet he seemed to have no qualms about touching her? And she had touched him, as well. She could vividly remember the feel of the muscles along his back as she ran her hands over it. Or the stubble along as his cheek as he pressed her hand to his face on that first encounter.

  And yet, she could not very well bring this discrepancy to the attention of the dowager.

  “However, it appears that, whether you like it or not, your lesson for the day has ended. I would so enjoy your company on my shopping expedition.”

  Felicity smiled tightly. How was she going to refuse a duchesse her company?

  “No, no!” The dowager held up a hand. “I know that look. My daughter-in-law has already given it to me. She pled fatigue, but she has an excuse you do not. I will not take no for an answer. Fetch your wrap, and I shall see if the coachman has the carriage ready.”

  Well, there was nothing for it now. Felicity could hardly argue with a direct order from a duchesse. “I shall be down in a moment.”

  Ten minutes later, she had donned her cloak, fetched her reticule with its scant coins, and tucked her hair into a bonnet. And as she climbed into the Valères’ well-appointed vehicle, she had never felt so poor or so simple in all her life. The carriage was huge and infinitely luxurious. The squabs had to be upholstered in velvet, and the carriage drapes were silk or satin, while the pillows were soft, jewel-toned, and equally expensive. Pillows in a carriage! She had never seen such indulgence.

  She settled across from the dowager, glad the woman had decided to keep the curtains drawn. She did not relish the eyes of hundreds of commoners peering in on her in curiosity and awe. She, who was no better than they. The dowager tapped her walking stick on the roof of the carriage, and they were in motion. “I need material for several new dresses,” the dowager began the conversation, “but I am not at all opposed to stopping at the millinery or glove-makers.”

  “Thank you,” Felicity said, averting her eyes. Perhaps it would be better if the drapes were open. She could pretend to study the view of London. “I really have no need of anything at this point. I shall simply enjoy accompanying you.”

  The dowager was silent, and Felicity glanced up to see her reaction. She was tapping a thoughtful finger on the knob of her walking stick. “How bad is your financial situation, Miss Bennett? I would add the caveat, ‘if you don’t mind my asking,’ but clearly you are going to mind, and clearly I am going to ask anyway.”

  Felicity felt her stomach tighten. This was precisely the reason she disliked the aristocracy. She had watched her father deal with them over the years, and they were always butting in where they were not wanted. “My financial situation is adequate, though it does not afford me the luxury of a new hat, dress, or gloves at the moment. Thank you for asking.”

  “I see. Exactly how much money do you have?”

  Felicity gaped at her. Really! The gall of these aristocrats! “Excuse my rudeness, Your Grace, but that is none of your affair.”

  She nodded. “You are right, of course. I do not ask because I am curious, but because I feel some sort of motherly responsibility toward you. I know your father is gone, and you have only your aunt left to care for you. Did your father make no provisions for you before he passed away?”

  Felicity cleared her throat and wished again the drapes were open. Perhaps she should open them? “He did provide for me, Your Grace. Unfortunately, those plans are not without some small defects.” She loathed her betrothed, and he threatened to ruin her if she did not either marry him or pay him off. That was certainly a small defect.

  “Would you mind sharing those plans with me? I would like to help you if I could.”

  Felicity smiled. The dowager really did seem concerned with her well-being. “You have already assisted me immensely, Your Grace, by hiring me as the comte’s tutor.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Did your father leave you any money?”

  The carriage bounced over a rough patch in the road, and Felicity gripped the cord at the window to steady herself. “No. My father was a poor vicar and had no money to leave. Instead, he made other arrangements.”

  The dowager merely raised a brow, but Felicity would say no more. She wished she could ask the dowager for help, but governesses were not supposed to be betrothed. Further, aristocrats hated scandal. Felicity had a feeling the dowager might not be so eager to help if she realized her son’s tutor could bring scandal on her family. “I’m grateful to have the opportunity to tutor your son.” Was now the time to ask for an advance on her salary? The dowager did seem to be in a generous mood…

  “Yes.” The dowager drew the word out. “But that is not all there is between you, is it?”

  Felicity’s breath caught. Had the dowager seen more than Felicity realized this afternoon? Curses! How mortifying to have the comte’s mother see her in such a compromising position. Why had she not been more forceful and refused the comte’s advances right away?

  “I see by your silence I am not wrong on this point.”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Let me speak for a moment, Miss Bennett. If age has afforded me anything, it is the right to speak my mind.”

  Felicity nodded. The dowager was right. If she wanted to scold Felicity for the rest of the day, Felicity supposed she deserved it. And now there was no question of the salary advance. It would be grossly impertinent to ask.

  “I have seen from the beginning, Miss Bennett, that my son is drawn to you. The way he looks at you, the way he reacted to you immediately. As soon as you stepped foot in our home, you changed things for him.”

  “And I’m very sorry to have done so. I certainly didn’t mean to alter anything, Your Grace.”

  The dowager held up a hand. “Will you allow me to speak? I am not admonishing you. I am complimenting you.”

  Felicity blinked. She was not going to be scolded by the dowager? Perhaps the woman had not seen what had transpired in the drawing room this morning.

  “That does not mean I approve of everything. My son does not know the boundaries of Society and, as a man, he is less likely to pay attention even if he did. You, Miss Bennett, do not have that luxury. You are alone in the world, and, as such, you must protect yourself.”

  “I am well aware of that fact, Your Grace.”

  “Normally, I would ask my son’s intentions toward you, but I do not think he has advanced enough to comprehend that question. What does he understand about marriage? At this point, he likely understands only that he wants to take you to bed.”

  Felicity felt heat rush into her face and her throat close up. She felt she would surely combust from embarrassment. She had never heard such matters spoken of so frankly.

  “Therefore, Miss Bennett, I must ask you—what are your intentions toward my son?”

  Felicity opened her mouth and found no words came out. How could she possibly answer a question she had been so ill-prepared for? Was this how men felt? No wonder they tended to shy away from marriage.

  “I-ah-I—”

  “Do you find my son handsome?”

  Felicity shook her head, speechless.

>   “Miss Bennett, we are both adults, are we not? Simply answer the question. You cannot be that naïve.”

  Felicity took a deep breath. The dowager was right. She must stop acting like a ninny. “Yes, I find the comte handsome. I do not know what woman would not.”

  “Many, I assure you. Most women of our acquaintance cannot see past the wounds Armand has suffered. They would rather die old maids than be saddled with an imbecile who cannot make bon mots to entertain everyone at the evening’s soiree.”

  “Oh.” Felicity had not thought of the comte’s prospects in quite those terms. “But I am certain that given more time and encouragement, the comte will be—if not entertaining—certainly not an embarrassment to any lady of the ton.”

  “So then you have no designs on him?”

  “Your Grace!” Felicity shook her head again. “I do not see how that would be at all appropriate. I am his tutor, nothing more. I am not of his station, nor do I aspire to be. I am no social climber.”

  “No one said you were, Miss Bennett. I hope you did not think I meant to imply such a thing.”

  The carriage slowed and halted, and Felicity heard the coachman jump down. A moment later, a footman pulled the door open and moved to lower the stairs. The bright afternoon light blinded Felicity for a moment. It had seemed as though days had passed in the carriage. And yet outside, the sun was shining, and but a few minutes had passed. “Close the door again,” the dowager ordered. “I will let you know when we are ready to disembark.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” And the footmen shut them up in the dark again.

  “I do not care about your title—or rather your lack thereof, Miss Bennett. When Julien and I fled from France, we had nothing but our title—little good that did us. Now the French government has abolished all titles, and we do not even have that. Oh, we retain it as a courtesy, but we are no better than you. Not that we ever were. What I care about is my son’s happiness. That is all I have ever cared about. He seems happy with you.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Your Grace,” Felicity stammered, and it was true. She did not know what to say. The comte’s title did matter, if not to her, then to all of Society, as well. She was nothing, no one. Any romantic link between her and the comte would be noted by Society, and she could only imagine what demands Charles would make then.

  “Do you intend to pursue my son, Miss Bennett?” the dowager asked in her usual forthright style. Felicity did not think she would ever get used to it.

  “No, Your Grace. I propose only to be your son’s tutor. I have no higher ambitions.”

  “And if my son decides to pursue you? Ah… I see by that flush creeping back into your cheeks that perhaps my son has decided to pursue you.”

  Felicity pressed her lips together. There were some things even this brash dowager duchesse would not get out of her. She wished circumstances were different. She wished she were free to consider marrying the comte. But she was not. There was no point in pretending Charles St. John was not a very real presence in her life. One who, given the slightest opportunity, would exploit her connection to the comte and the Valères. She liked the Valères too much to expose them to Charles’s loathsome schemes. She liked the comte too much to allow him to see what a sad, pathetic situation she was in. She’d rather lose the position and deal with Charles than be so humiliated.

  “If my son decides to pursue you, Miss Bennett?” the dowager asked.

  “Then he will be disappointed.”

  The dowager tapped her fingers on her walking stick for what felt like several minutes. Finally, she said, “Well, Bond Street will not wait all day. I have very definite ideas about the material I want for my gowns, and I have half a mind to have a new gown made up for you, as well, Miss Bennett.”

  Felicity’s head whirled at the quick change in subject. Had the dowager accepted what she said? Had she not accepted? What did her silence on the subject portend?

  “That is not at all necessary, Your Grace,” Felicity forced out even as the dowager tapped on the door and the footman opened it once again.

  “Do you have a ball gown, Miss Bennett?’

  “I…” Felicity blinked into the sunlight as the footman handed her down. “I do, Your Grace.”

  The woman raised a brow at her over her shoulder. “Perhaps I should have said a ball gown made within the last Season or so?”

  “Ah…” When had her ball gown been made? Three years ago? No, probably closer to four.

  “I see.”

  Felicity did not care for the look on the dowager’s face. They stepped out of the carriage and into the bright sunlight, and the dowager immediately entered a dressmaker’s shop. Felicity could only follow, and for an hour or so, she trailed after the dowager duchesse as she looked at hats and lace and silks and gloves and spent more money than Felicity had ever seen.

  Finally, the hour grew late, and the dowager told her to wait in the carriage during the last stop. She would only be a moment. Felicity sat in the cool, dark interior and stared through a crack in the curtains at the other shoppers on the street. Men and women hurried about, their arms or the arms of their servants filled with packages. She tried to guess what they might have bought. That woman had probably purchased new shoes. Hers were quite worn. That woman was obviously admiring the hats in that window. And that man with the woman in the garish red dress had a new walking stick he was quite proud of—

  Charles?

  Felicity slunk down and slashed the drapes closed. It was Charles. There he was, casually strolling down Bond Street, looking every bit the dandy. If he was so in need of funds, where did the money for that new walking stick come from? Better yet, what about that tailcoat or those boots? They were not the same ones she had seen him wearing the first day they had met in London.

  She parted the curtains only enough to allow one eyeball a view of the street. With a frown, she noted the woman beside Charles. The lady—if she could be considered such—wore a low-cut dress, had an unnatural shade of copper hair, and wore quite a bit of rouge. Felicity had heard of the demimonde, women little better than prostitutes. Was Charles associating with one of these?

  As she watched, he lifted his fancy walking stick and pointed to the Valère carriage. The woman turned to look at the conveyance and said something that looked dismissive. Charles frowned and started for the carriage, obviously intending to prove the woman incorrect.

  Oh, no! Felicity dashed the curtains closed and threw herself back against the squabs. No doubt, Charles was coming toward the carriage. What should she do now? She could stay inside and hide, but what if the dowager returned while Charles loitered outside? What if he mentioned to her he knew Felicity?

  Curses! Even if the dowager didn’t return, he would surely speak with the footmen. They might feel obliged to mention her connection to a man who associated with demireps to the duc. She bit her lip hard then jumped out of the carriage. She had no choice but to intercept Charles and his companion.

  The footmen called after her, but she ignored them and, dodging the cabs and carriages, made her way to Charles and the woman. He had seen her coming and now stood with a smirk on his face.

  “Miss Bennett.” He tipped his hat in a sardonic greeting. “I was about to leave my regards with your employer.”

  She swallowed the venom on the tip of her tongue. “How kind of you, but I think it better we spoke here.”

  He grinned. “I’m sure you do. And how rude of me.” He gestured to the woman beside him. Now that she was closer, Felicity could see the woman wore not only rouge but lip and eye paint. She had a black dot stuck on one cheek. Felicity was more certain than ever the woman was a prostitute.

  “This is Celeste,” Charles said. “Celeste, this is my fiancée, Felicity Bennett.”

  Celeste waggled her brows. “Fiancée? Well, well, well…”

  Felicity felt heat rush to h
er face. Not only had she been introduced to a prostitute—her fiancé’s prostitute—but she had the additional embarrassment of being introduced as Charles’s betrothed. Felicity tried to ignore the curious stares of passersby and hoped the conveyances in the street were numerous enough to hide her activities from the dowager, should she return before this odious business were concluded.

  Charles’s catlike grin widened. “Fortunate for you that you found me today. I was thinking it had been too long since we’d spoken.”

  “I have hardly had time to settle in.”

  “And yet the time grows short. Perhaps I should charge you interest on that twenty-five pounds. That might make you work a little harder at acquiring it.”

  She clenched her jaw, holding back the words she wanted to say. “I assure you that I am working quite hard. Furthermore, I intend to ask for an advance on my salary.”

  He nodded. “That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say. When will you have it?”

  She looked away, accidentally meeting the gaze of Charles’s companion. The woman sneered at her.

  Felicity wished she could wipe the grin off the woman’s face. She murmured, “I haven’t asked yet…”

  “Well!” Charles threw his hands up. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “What does it matter when I give you the money? Why not tear up the agreement now? As soon as I have the funds—”

  “Tear up the agreement?” He gave her a look of mock surprise. “What would your poor father, who is surely looking down on us even now, think? He begged me to marry you, to protect you, to—”

  “Stop!” she hissed, her stomach roiling at the way he derided her father. “You took advantage of an old, sick man.”

  “He knew what he was doing.”

  “Oh, yes, you kept your true nature hidden from us all, didn’t you? Lying about joining a regiment and fighting for your country, when all along you were in London, gambling and drinking and…”