Rules For Being A Mistress. Tamara Lejeune

the saloon black, I’m afraid,” said Benedict.

      “Oh,” said Lady Dalrymple, batting her eyes at him. “Did you inherit?”

      “Yes. My sister and my brother both having married so well, my aunt took pity on me and left me all her estate, including the house in Park Lane.”

      “Did you hear that, Millicent?” Lady Dalrymple exclaimed. “My dear friend, Lady Elkins, has died and left this gentleman all her estate. Say hello to Sir Benedict.”

      But Millicent’s attention was riveted elsewhere. A tall, young gentleman in a blue coat had just entered the room. In addition to nice blue eyes and an estate so large that one hardly noticed his harelip, the young Earl of Ludham had a perfect halo of crimped brown hair.

      “Millicent was a great favorite of your Aunt Imogen,” Lady Dalrymple said quickly.

      “Elinor,” Benedict corrected her patiently.

      “Dear Elinor. She quite doted on the child, but, then, Millicent is so easy to love. Was there no mention of her in your aunt’s will?”

      “None.”

      Lady Dalrymple blinked rapidly. “Curious! She did not leave my daughter any token of her affection? I am sure no one was more devoted to Lady Elkins than my Millicent. Could there have been a secret codicil or something?”

      “My aunt’s chief occupation in life was keeping her will up to date. Her wishes could not have been plainer.”

      “Such a delightful woman,” Lady Dalrymple murmured. “She was forever hinting that she meant to leave her rubies to dear Millie in her will.” She sighed breezily. “But, I daresay, her ladyship was only teasing. I expect those rubies will go to Lady Wayborn—and so they should, even though Lady Elkins promised them to Millicent.”

      “I do not like rubies,” said Millicent.

      Meanwhile, Lord Ludham stood almost in the center of the room, looking about him searchingly. His eyes fell on Millicent’s bright pink bonnet, then withdrew hastily. He spoke briefly to Mr. King, then left.

      “No, don’t go!” Millicent cried softly, the words slipping from her lips.

      “Millie! You are too modest,” protested her exasperated mother. “You know that nothing suits you better than the fiery brilliance of the Elkins’ rubies. She is too modest, Sir Benedict. So the Duchess of Auckland has the rubies now, does she? Well, well. I hope it does not trouble Her Grace to wear them, when they were promised to another.”

      Mr. King hurried over to them. “That was Lord Ludham,” he said. “His lordship has asked that I add the waltz to the dance program! A waltz, in the Upper Rooms!”

      “Scandalous,” Lady Dalrymple barked. “It will never catch on!”

      “The waltz is danced in London, even at Almack’s,” said Benedict. “For myself, I prefer it to the cotillion. It is easier to remember three steps than a thousand, and, best of all, it only lasts a few minutes. One can endure anything for five minutes, I think. The cotillion is half an hour at least. Too long!”

      Mr. King’s eyes popped. “But the waltz, Sir Benedict, is fast!”

      “It is certainly brief,” Benedict agreed. “That is what I like about it.”

      “But the lady is carried about the room, as if by storm, in the male embrace!” protested Mr. King. “Whenever I think of it, I am reminded of the Rape of the Sabine Women.”

      Benedict arched his brows. “In that case, I hope you do not think of it often, Mr. King.”

      “My dear Lady Dalrymple,” said Mr. King, turning to that lady with an unctuous smile. “Rest assured there will be no waltzing in the Upper Rooms. I do hope that you and your amiable daughter will be with us at Thursday’s assembly. Miss Carteret is a great favorite with the gentlemen. They would all want to dance with her, I am persuaded, if she did attend.”

      “Of course,” the mama assured him.

      “And, if I could persuade you to chaperone your young friend, Miss Vaughn?” he went on smoothly. “As you know, Lady Agatha is too ill to attend parties and assemblies. On Monday, at the dress ball, all I heard from the gentlemen was ‘Where is Miss Vaughn?’”

      Lady Dalrymple said frostily, “Miss Vaughn? I do not know a Miss Vaughn.”

      Mr. King was startled. “But—but I had thought your ladyship and Lady Agatha Vaughn were the dearest of friends!”

      “Oh, those Vaughns,” her ladyship sniffed. “We were obliged to stay with them in Ireland last summer, when I turned my ankle and could not move for a month. Unfortunately, the poor, desperate creatures followed us here, Mr. King. I am sorry to hear that Miss Vaughn has been so unprincipled as to drop my name. She means to advance herself in society, I collect.”

      Mr. King was distressed. “That is most unfortunate, my lady. Lord Ludham has begged me to present him to Miss Vaughn as a desirable partner.”

      Lady Dalrymple became shrill. “Miss Vaughn is not a fit partner for Lord Ludham or anyone else! Miss Vaughn is a penniless Irish upstart. I would not do his lordship the disservice of presenting him to such a person. Millicent has twenty thousand pounds, and she is quite as handsome as Miss Vaughn.”

      Benedict suddenly smelled a strong odor of tobacco and perfume. In the next moment, the Honorable Mr. Roger Fitzwilliam was bearing down on them. Lady Dalrymple suddenly remembered that she needed to change a book in Meyler’s Library. Snapping her fingers for her footman, she departed, dragging Millicent with her.

      “Mr. Fitzwilliam is a younger son,” she explained to her child when they were safely away. “We are not quite desperate just yet, I think. We have a little money left.”

      “There goes Miss Carteret and her twenty thousand pounds,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said wistfully. “She’s a bit long in the tooth to be turning her nose up at you, Sir Benedict.”

      “Excuse me,” Benedict said coldly, and walked away.

      Fitzwilliam fell into step with him. “You’re welcome to Miss Carteret,” he said generously, “for I have found something better. Lady Serena Calverstock is no longer young, but she’s a damned fine female all the same. I don’t mind mutton, if there’s no lamb to be had. King has promised to present me at the cotillion tomorrow. You do not dance the cotillion, I collect?”

      “Why wouldn’t I?” said Benedict, bristling. “I am not an invalid.”

      Fitzwilliam frowned. “You wouldn’t poach, would you? I saw Lady Serena first. She’s ripe for the plucking, too! Now that her sister, Lady Redfylde, is dead, Serena can no longer live with her brother-in-law, you know. She has been cast out into the cold, cruel world.”

      Benedict snorted. “Lady Serena is perfectly able to keep her own house. And it would hardly be proper for her to live with Lord Redfylde now that he is a widower.”

      “You know her ladyship?” Fitzwilliam said jealously.

      “She was my sister’s matron of honor. I have known her for years. And she is possessed of a pretty independence. If she marries, it will not be in desperation, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

      “Setting up house is a most tedious undertaking for a single lady,” Fitzwilliam argued. “Even a wealthy woman will resent having to spend her own money on necessities when she never had to before. The more she spends on food and rent, the less there is for clothes and jewels and carriages. I doubt Lady Serena has ever had to pay a butcher’s bill in all her life. And tradesmen always do cheat a woman, if they can. Depend on it: right now Lady Serena is feeling all the disadvantages of spinsterhood.”

      Benedict looked at Fitzwilliam thoughtfully.

      “It would be remiss of me not to pay my respects,” he said.

      Although she was a near-total invalid, Lady Agatha Vaughn