On the road to London, November 1816
Choosing a wife is not a task that should be undertaken lightly. Too many young gentlemen allow their hearts to rule their heads and rush into marriage without any forethought whatsoever—but remember! So many who marry in haste repent at leisure.
You must take time to select the perfect bride because a wife is a reflection of who you are. What if she is not a good hostess? Or is too forthright in her opinions? Or prone to temper tantrums or bouts of excessive melancholy?
Such a wife will ultimately turn out to be a hindrance to you and you will rue the day you entered into the Blessed Union.
This collection of advice, gathered from the wisdom of my esteemed late father and the follies of my peers, is intended to warn you of the pitfalls that might lure you into making a regrettable choice and to guide you through the process of selecting the perfect wife.
‘What drivel!’ Amelia Mansfield tossed the book on the carriage seat and stared at it as if it had just bitten her. ‘Your nephew must be a very pompous man indeed to have written that rubbish. After reading just one paragraph, I am already dreading the prospect of spending a month trapped in his company.’
Lady Worsted smiled, clearly amused by her reaction. ‘Bennett is not so bad, Amelia. He is prone to be a little imperious at times, but then again he is a politician and politicians are rather inclined to tell us what to do. And, of course, he is a duke. Therefore, he is expected to be a little pompous. All dukes are bred that way.’
The title, as far as Amelia was concerned, was yet another strike against the man. In all of her twenty-two years she had never met a single man in possession of one who was not completely obnoxious, her own father included. In fact, her father, or Viscount Venomous as she preferred to call him, was probably the most obnoxious and disagreeable of the bunch. Just thinking about him made her mood sour.
‘It is a shame that we are not going to your nephew’s castle. I should have enjoyed that. I have never stayed in a castle before. Do you think he might take us there during your visit?’
‘I believe that we may go there for a few days, if Bennett can be spared. Aveley Castle is just an hour or so away from London and my sister loves it there.’ Lady Worsted’s sister was the priggish Duke’s mother. ‘But any visit will be fleeting. In these challenging times Bennett needs to be close to Parliament—he is one of the Regent’s most trusted advisers, after all.’ Another strike against him. ‘I am sure that we can find plenty of entertainments in town. The season is in full swing. I do believe that you will enjoy it.’
Having been denied a season because of her father’s treachery, Amelia had long consoled herself that she was completely disinterested in such puerile pursuits. Balls and parties were for silly girls who had no other ambition than to marry well, embroider and live a life of subservience to their well-born husbands. When she had been younger she might have enjoyed the spectacle and the dancing that the season offered, but she had been a viscount’s daughter then and would have been able to dance. Now she was a mere companion, she would be doomed to watch the festivities from the wings while the older ladies gossiped. That was not how she wanted to spend her first visit back to Town in almost a year.
Amelia already had a long list of things that she wanted to do whilst visiting the capital. She had missed the place and, more importantly, she had missed the many political associations and reform groups that represented all of the many causes she held so dear. Unfortunately, a goodly few of those wonderful organisations and the people who ran them had been unfairly labelled as Radical by aristocrats who felt threatened by their common-sense opinions. For too long she had only been able to read about their work second-hand. This winter she would once again attend and contribute to the proceedings and help to campaign for all of the changes that needed to be made in society if poverty was ever going to be alleviated. More importantly, she would be able to help out at the soup kitchen run by the Church of St Giles. It was a place she owed a great deal to and it would always occupy a special place in her heart. Although she had religiously sent them half of her wages since she had left London last year, she had missed getting her hands dirty. The sense of fulfilment that she got from helping other unfortunates was its own reward. It mattered; therefore as a
