The Wedding Game. Christine Merrill

He used the same distancing posture when encouraging her to conform to society and find a husband who would improve her weak character so her father did not have to.

      To the last vertebra of his inflexible British spine, Mr Lovell was a man who knew how things should be and had no qualms in telling others the truth as he saw it. ‘When one marries, one does not just make a match with the young lady, one enters into a union with her family and with society as well.’

      ‘I should think it was unnecessary for you to think of such things,’ Templeton pointed out. ‘Cottsmoor, after all—’

      Lovell cut him off with a raised hand. ‘For argument’s sake, let us assume that I have no family at all. I am the first of my line, which makes it all the more important that I choose my attachments wisely. Picking the right father-in-law will do more for a man of ambition than choosing the right woman ever will.’

      ‘Then you want a man with a title,’ Templeton interrupted. ‘The Duke of Islington is rich as Croesus and has three daughters, all of age.’

      Lovell shook his head. ‘Title is hereditary and lands are entailed. And I do not need his money. I am quite capable of making my own.’

      ‘No title.’ Templeton stroked an imaginary beard as if deep in thought. ‘You don’t need to marry for money. But of course, you will tell me the daughter of a cit is not good enough for you.’

      ‘Nor scholars or men of law,’ Lovell agreed. ‘I want a proper Tory with an old fortune, distantly related to Pitts, elder and younger. Someone who dines with Wellington and has Grenville’s ear.’

      Amy leaned forward in alarm.

      ‘Politics?’ Templeton said with surprise.

      ‘If one wishes to make a difference in society, where else would one be than Parliament?’

      ‘And you are speaking of Lord Summoner, of course.’

      ‘No other,’ Lovell agreed and Amy’s heart sank.

      ‘I assume you wish to wed the lovely Arabella?’ Templeton said with a bark of a laugh.

      ‘She is the toast of the Season,’ Lovell said. ‘I mean to settle for nothing less than the best of the best.’

      ‘Then you must get in line behind the rest of the men in London,’ Templeton replied, shaking his head. ‘Her dance card was nearly full before we even arrived. I had to fight a fellow for the last spot.’

      ‘I did not bother. I have not yet gained an introduction to her,’ Lovell said. ‘There must be nothing less than respectable in our first meeting.’

      Amy’s mind raced to stay ahead of him. His insistence on propriety was a small consolation. It meant there was still time to stop him.

      ‘Even when you do manage to meet her, you will find it a challenge to draw her out,’ Templeton informed him. ‘She is very shy. Her smile is dazzling, but she speaks hardly at all.’

      ‘All the better,’ Lovell replied. ‘Who would wed a woman like that for conversation?’

      The bone handle of Amy’s fan snapped beneath the pressure of her fingers. This odious man was speculating over Belle as if she was nothing more than an afterthought in his plans. Even worse, she suspected the comment about a lack of conversation was a reference to something no true gentleman should speak of when referring to a lady.

      Apparently, Templeton agreed. ‘See here, Lovell...’

      Lovell held up his hands in denial. ‘I meant no slight to the lady. But one does not have to marry any woman for intellectual stimulation when one’s goal is to take a seat amongst the wisest men in English society.’

      Amy raised her fan to hide her smirk. Having met some of her father’s friends, Mr Lovell had a view of male superiority that was charming in its naivety.

      He continued with his plans. ‘I want to wed a woman who is beautiful and talented, who will do credit to my home and bear and raise my children.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And to win the most sought-after girl of the year will reflect well on my taste and on my abilities of persuasion. I want to be the best and I will settle for nothing less than the best from those around me. But as I said before, it is less about winning the girl and more about winning her father. He has control of two seats in the House of Commons and I mean to be in one of them by year’s end. If he is here tonight, I will seek him out and find my way into his good graces. Once I have done that, the rest will follow.’

      Bastard.

      Another spine of her fan snapped, but Amy barely felt it. Bastard was too accurate to be an insult to his character. There were probably a great many epithets she would have used to describe him, were she a man, and Benjamin Lovell deserved every last one. He might pretend modesty in his perfect, plain suit. But the man was a trumped-up peacock, near to choking on his own pride. Without even meeting her, he’d decided he must have dear, sweet, innocent Belle, just to gain a seat in the House of Commons. He would not give a thought to her, once they were married. Worse yet, if he wished for the best from those around him, he might take out his disappointment upon her sister when he realised she was unequal to his ambitious plans.

      Something must be done and it must be done immediately. Amy stood, almost bumping into a young man who was working his way along the edge of the room, balancing far too many glasses of lemonade. He muttered an apology and made to go around.

      Suddenly, she had a plan.

      She responded to his words with a simpering laugh. ‘La, sir. It is a relief to see you. I retired to the corner for I was parched and near to fainting.’

      Before he could offer or deny, she reached out and took two of his lemonades away from him, taking a sip from the first. ‘Much better,’ she said, giggling again and ignoring his astonishment at her rudeness.

      Then, as if she was as unsteady as she claimed, she turned and staggered forward the two steps necessary to stand before Benjamin Lovell. She wavered, lurched and allowed herself a brief, triumphant smile. Then she dumped the contents of the glasses in her hand down his elegant white waistcoat.

       Chapter Two

      Damn it all to hell.

      Ben Lovell was not given to outbursts of temper. Not in public, at least. Occasionally, when he was totally alone, he gave way to self-pity and cursed the strange turns his life had taken to land him where he was. Then he remembered that only a fool would complain over what must be seen by others as stunningly good luck, composed himself again, counted his blessings and ignored the rest.

      In public he could allow nothing more than one brief, unspoken curse, making sure to give no indication on his face of displeasure within. Things had been going far too well for him to spoil his perfect reputation with a cross word towards the little idiot who had baptised him in lemonade.

      This accident had ruined any chance for a meeting with Summoner tonight. If one wished to lay the groundwork for a political career, one could not afford to look less than one’s best, or to appear out of sorts. One certainly could not have one’s mind clouded with ill will over what was an innocent mistake by a flustered debutante.

      For now, he would be a gentleman and ignore the ruined coat that had cost a full thirty pounds just the previous week. He would shake off the drips of lemonade falling from the thin picot of lace at the cuffs of his linen shirt. His cravat was a sodden lump and he could feel the hair on his chest sticking to his body. How many cups had the chit been carrying to result in such havoc? Had she been actively trying to drown him?

      And where had she come from? He was normally careful to avoid treading on toes or bumping elbows even in the most crowded rout. She had seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if she’d been lying in wait to attack him.

      A gentleman should not be bothered with trivia and Ben did not want to be known simply as well mannered. To overcome