Rules for Being a Mistress by Tamara Lejeune Page A

Benedict would need someone to soften him around the edges. “There is a lecture on the growing threat of Atheism in the Upper Rooms tonight.”
    “God, no,” said Benedict, with unintentional irony. “I couldn’t possibly go out tonight. Besides, such a subject would be highly unlikely to attract marriageable young ladies,” Benedict pointed out. “I believe the most prudent course of action would be to retire early, get a good night’s rest, and begin afresh tomorrow.”
    With his little silver pencil he began circling the names of promising females in the newspaper column on the table before him. Any name prefaced by a “Miss” received an equal share of his attention.

Chapter 4
     
    As usual, Lady Dalrymple had positioned herself with a commanding view of the entrance to the Pump Room. “Sir Benedict Wayborn!” she exclaimed, putting up her quizzing glass to inspect the new arrival. “He’ll do for you, Millicent. About three thousand a year.”
    “But, Mama!” her daughter cried in alarm. Recently, Miss Carteret’s spots had cleared up, and a special preparation had carried off the fuzz on her upper lip. She certainly did not intend to throw herself away on a mere baronet, and a one-armed, middle-aged baronet at that.
    “I know, my love,” said the viscountess with a sigh. “Not to mention: he is one of these dreadful reformers. Why, if he had his way, your poor brother would actually have to stand in an election for his seat in Commons. One shudders to think what would become of England if the common man had his way. But I hope I am not so stupid as to turn my nose up at three thousand a year simply because I disagree with the man and everything he stands for!”
    Benedict gazed around the room in dismay. Crotchety-looking, elderly females abounded, but, none of them, it seemed, had brought along a nubile young dogsbody who would jump at the chance to marry anybody kind enough to ask. There were no desperate damsels in brown bombazine casting him hopeful glances. Not even one.
    Mr. King, the master of ceremonies, hurried over to him. Bath was no longer the fashionable resort it had been during the war. Nowadays, the rich and privileged were flocking to the playgrounds of continental Europe, which had been closed to them for so long while the war raged on. It was all Mr. King could do to scrape together a few dozen couples for his cotillions on Thursday. After a few oily pleasantries, he offered to introduce the baronet to anyone he liked.
    “I am looking for a wife,” said Benedict. “Have you got anything under thirty-five?”
    Mr. King had been master of ceremonies in Bath for twenty years. The baronet’s request did not shock him in the least. “You are in luck, Sir Benedict. Lady Dalrymple is in Bath with her amiable daughter, Miss Carteret. If you are indifferent to fortune, perhaps Miss Vaughn can tempt you. She is not a rich young lady, like Miss Carteret, but beauty is not an unworthy dowry, when accompanied by good birth. Do you not agree?”
    “I know of no marriages that fail sooner than those based on the beauty of the lady,” Benedict replied curtly. “We do not marry to please ourselves, Mr. King.”
    “Er, yes. Lady Rose Fitzwilliam has only just arrived in Bath. This young lady is sure to melt your heart, for she joins in one person the virtues of birth, beauty, fortune, and youth.”
    “Only three young ladies of the class?”
    Mr. King forced a smile. “It will be more difficult than the Judgment of Paris.”
    Benedict scowled. “What are the French up to now?”
    Mr. King looked pained. “I was not referring to the events in France, Sir Benedict. You will have a more difficult time, I think, choosing between Miss Carteret, Miss Vaughn, and Lady Rose than Prince Paris had choosing between Venus, Juno, and Minerva.”
    “Ah,” said Benedict. “Present me to Miss Carteret, then.”
    Benedict knew the viscountess slightly, but he had never had the opportunity to meet