The Discerning Gentleman's Guide

The only decently built brick edifice was the parish workhouse that dominated Norfolk Street and the sight of it sent an involuntary shiver down Amelia’s spine. Only the truly desperate ventured through those doors and her poor mother had been one of them.

Clutching the small bunch of violets that she had just bought from a street vendor, Amelia marched past the workhouse and turned into the tiny overgrown cemetery lying next to its walls. There were very few headstones here. These were paupers’ graves and all of them were unmarked. Somewhere under the grass were her mother’s remains. She did not know where. There had been no formal burial ceremony for her to attend. Her mother had gone into the ground with all of the other wretched souls who had died in the same week. It had been a cruel and insignificant ending to a lovely young woman who had once been toasted as the most beautiful heiress in Philadelphia.

Amelia placed her tiny posy on the ground and stood for a few moments, allowing all of the memories, both happy and sad, to wash over her. Just once a year she allowed herself to remember the pain. Any more than that and the anger it created threatened to consume her. It was far better to channel that anger constructively, doing good deeds, giving something back, to forget about all of the cruelty and malice that had sent her here in the first place.

She had been just eighteen when her mother had died. Despite her best efforts, Amelia had been unable to save her. By then they’d been penniless and destitute. Once her father had secured an annulment, as far as he was concerned they were both dead to him. The seventeen-year marriage might never have happened and he had had no contact with either of them for years. That had destroyed her mother and plunged her into a pit of self-pity and self-recrimination that she was never inclined to claw out of. She had been raised to be a rich man’s wife and had blamed herself for the end of the marriage. ‘If only I could have given him a son, Amelia, then he would still love me.’ From the age of twelve, Amelia had heard those words at least once a day. By the time she’d turned sixteen she had completely lost patience with them.

By then, her mother’s physical health had been deteriorating rapidly too. Amelia had done her best to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads, but as her mother needed more care even that proved to be impossible. The only place that they could turn to for help had been this workhouse, and Amelia had been determined not to go there.

In a last-ditch attempt to get her father to do the right thing, she had trudged through the dark streets to Mayfair in biting rain and sleet to beg for his help. As usual, he’d refused to see her. He no longer had a daughter. How could he have a daughter when he had never been married? When she had kicked up a fuss and refused to leave, two burly footmen were sent to forcibly drag her down the street and threw her face down in an alleyway, warning her never to darken His Lordship’s door again.

One dank, wet February morning a few days later, her desperately ill mother had walked into the building behind her and had never walked out. Consumption had made her poor lungs so weak that pneumonia killed her. Apparently, her last words were words of love for her former husband because, even when things were at their worst, her mother still clung to the hope that he would want her back.

For a while Amelia had drowned in bitterness. Her American grandparents had died shortly before their daughter had married, she had no money, no home and no one to turn to. After a series of low-paid and menial jobs, she had learned how dangerous life for a woman alone truly could be. At least in the workhouse all they had required of her was her work. Out on the streets, her youth, beauty and petite size made her the target of every lecher in London. On numerous occasions she’d barely escaped with her virtue intact.

Those had been the darkest days, until she had realised that being bitter was not going to change anything about her unfortunate situation. These were the cards that life had dealt her; she might not like them, but it was up to her to play her hand as best she could. Rather than simply lament the injustice and remain a victim of it, as her mother had, it would be much more cathartic, and far more useful, to fight against it. Besides, her father did not deserve that sort of power over her. Amelia would forge herself a good life just to spite him.

From that point on, things had improved. Because she was well spoken and able to read, Amelia had managed to get a job in a draper’s shop and earned enough to pay for a room. Then she’d searched for better employment and eventually secured a position at the Minerva Press circulating library in Leadenhall Street. That had been the making of her. The library was not only a place where she could read and learn about all of the causes that interested her, it had proved to be a wonderful place to meet like-minded people. Soon she was attending meetings, supporting worthy causes and following a new path that would help to bring about change for all of the other victims of injustice.

She had loved that job and would still be there to this day had it not been for the unfortunate events of the sixth of March last year. On that fateful day, she had been spotted marching towards Westminster in protest of the Corn Bill, a shocking piece of legislation that increased the price of bread for the poor. What had started as a peaceful rally had quickly deteriorated into a riot. Amelia had barely escaped the mob intact—but once word of her involvement reached her employer he dismissed her on the spot without giving her the right of reply. He did not want a Radical and an agitator sullying the reputation of his establishment and dismissed her without references. When her savings had started to dwindle, and determined not to sink back into the life she had once endured, Amelia had rashly applied for the position of a lady’s companion out of utter desperation.

Maybe it was cowardice, but she never wanted to be that lonely girl in Seven Dials again. The girl who relied on charity and who had lived on her wits. The letter she had written had told the truth, mostly, explaining that she had once been from a good family and did not wish to end up in the gutter. She had not expected to get an interview, and it had taken the last of her money to travel to Bath. Why she had gone, Amelia could not say because she’d been certain that she would not even be allowed past the front door. But Lady Worsted had not only seen her; miraculously, she had given her the job. Now, in an enormous twist of irony, she was right back where she had started her life—in a fancy house in Mayfair. Almost full circle.

Except this time she was not related to the aristocrat who owned the magnificent house. The Duke of Aveley had exceeded her expectations, though. He was every inch the arrogant stuffed shirt she had imagined him to be. Yes, he was unbelievably handsome, there was no denying that, and her pulse did flutter each and every time he regarded her with his intense cobalt stare. Unfortunately, any attraction she had for him had died the moment he’d opened his mouth. Yesterday he had proved himself to be both condescending and emotionless when she had tried to tend to the injury to his head. Despite that, her silly pulse had fluttered out of control the moment she had laid her hands on his perfect golden skin.

Well, perhaps he was not completely devoid of all emotion—he did irritation very well. He had not been even slightly grateful that she had tried to help him and had been highly critical of the fact that he had almost tripped over her. And then, even after she had swallowed a great deal of her pride, at Lady Worsted’s insistence, and apologised to him for her forthrightness, he had looked at her as if she were nothing but a great inconvenience to him. Then he had stomped off without so much as a by-your-leave. She had never met a man so full of his own importance in her entire life!

* * *

Bennett had not had a good day. The debate had been a farce. The majority of those who had taken part had been more determined to shout louder than the next person than to listen to reason. There had been no time for his speech, which was probably a blessed relief because the House had deteriorated into more of a mob than a gathering of educated gentlemen. On days like this, it was a wonder that they ever got any laws passed at all. His head still hurt from all of the noise.

And his feet still hurt because of his unfortunate choice of footwear yesterday. Worse, he was also sporting an impressive swollen bump on his head, which had inspired Lord Liverpool to stare at it and laugh. It was difficult to be taken seriously as a politician when your forehead was protruding and purple. To add insult to injury, a drover’s cart had lost a wheel in the middle of Piccadilly, plunging the early-evening travellers into chaos. It had taken him over an hour already to navigate the mess, and it was getting colder by the second, but at least on horseback he was moving. If he had taken the carriage today as he usually did, he would still be sitting stationary somewhere much further back.

He steered his mount towards the side of the road so that he could pick his way past all of the spilled wooden barrels blocking the road. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young woman who was the spitting image of Miss Mansfield walking briskly along the pavement. He shook his head in annoyance. That woman really had dominated enough of his thoughts since last night, and his dreams too, if he was imagining her to be here.

The problem was, he was still smarting from his incredibly stupid behaviour last night. He really did not know what had come over him. Well, he did, he supposed, if he was being honest with himself. His suppressed anger at her acidic comments over dinner combined with an unexpected dose of raw lust had churned his emotions up and rendered him incapable of normal conversation. Bennett really did not approve of emotions at the best of times and usually kept them all neatly contained inside himself as he had been taught. However, Miss Mansfield was uncommonly pretty. He would even go as far as to say she was the most attractive woman he had collided with in a long time. That, combined with her irritatingly forthright opinions, gentle, caring hands and kissable mouth had scrambled his senses and frazzled his normally sensible mind. Obviously, he had gone far too long without a woman. When was the last time?

Months and months ago, he realised with a jolt. Perhaps just over a year. Good grief! It had been over a year. Since he’d started seriously searching for a wife. He had not expected it to take quite this long to select the right one. No wonder he had such vivid ideas about Miss Mansfield! That could be the only explanation to it all. Such errant thoughts were the very last thing he needed at the moment. There was far too much to do. He made a mental note to redouble his efforts and whittle down the Potential list to just one. Someone his father would have approved of. And he would begin at the Renshaw ball on Saturday night.

Feeling intensely relieved to have sorted the problem out in his head, Bennett finally manoeuvred around the last of the barrels and was able to nudge his horse into a slow trot. Miss Mansfield’s scurrying twin was just ahead of him, hunched into her shawl against the bitter cold. As he came alongside, the woman turned her head towards him and he realised that he was not going mad at all.

Chapter Five (#ud127bffa-bd6a-59f1-b619-09e4fd4047eb)

A woman is like a delicate flower. It is your duty to protect her...

‘Miss Mansfield?’

With no other option available to her, Amelia stopped dead and gave him a weak smile. It would have been innocent-looking if her face had not been frozen solid by the wind. ‘Oh, hello.’

Stupid, stupid girl! She had promised Lovett faithfully that she would be back at Aveley House by four o’clock. Of course, then, she had only intended to help out at the soup kitchen. But Seven Dials had been positively buzzing with political rumour and outrage. Clearly, the plight of the poor had worsened in her absence.

When she had found out that there was going to be a clandestine meeting of factory workers in Ludgate, to discuss the dangers of working with the new machines, she had thought that she would be able to attend, hail a hackney and be back in plenty of time. Unfortunately, the awful crush of people travelling had forced her to walk. Now she was horrifically late and completely chilled to the bone. She had been certain that the butler was going to kill her; now, it seemed, he would have no need. She was already doomed.

‘What are you doing here, all alone?’ he snapped, peering down at her from atop his horse. The animal’s hot breath formed puffy clouds in the frigid air and Amelia was sorely tempted to huddle beneath the beast’s nostrils in the hope that it might warm her a bit. ‘The London streets are dangerous for a woman alone once it gets dark!’

‘I l-l-lost track of t-t-time.’ Now her teeth were chattering as well. How splendid.

‘You are cold,’ he said, stating the obvious, and then he looked up and down the street as if he was searching for something. After a few seconds his face hardened and he glared at her imperiously. ‘There are no cabs.’

‘I am aware of that fact. H-h-hence I am walking home.’

‘My aunt will never forgive me if you catch a chill.’

‘Never mind, I am made of stern stuff. If I walk briskly, then I will soon warm up.’ Amelia began to walk, keen to be away from him and having to explain where she had been.

‘You cannot walk home alone.’

His horse was trotting alongside her at a snail’s pace and appeared to be quite irritated about it. It glared at her accusingly as throngs of people began to swarm around them. ‘I shall be quite all right, I assure you. B-B-Berkeley Square is less than a m-m-mile away.’

‘Then I shall walk alongside you.’ To her horror he made to slide off his horse. Amelia held up her hand to stop him.

‘Really, there is no need. Your poor horse is already becoming agitated in this crowd. Take him home; I will not be far behind.’

It took her a moment to realise that one of his gloved hands was outstretched. Surely His Royal Highness, the Duke of Pomposity, was not suggesting that she should ride on the horse with him? Just the two of them? On one saddle? In the middle of Piccadilly? Her disbelief must have been evident in her expression.

‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘This is hardly the moment for you to become all missish. You are the one who decided it was perfectly acceptable to be out here alone. In the dark. Unchaperoned. If I stick to the back alleys, nobody will see us and we will be home in half the time. Besides, I can hardly leave you to fend for yourself, and I have no desire to walk when I have a perfectly good horse.’

Words truly failed her. She would never have expected him to show such kindness to a lowly being like her. For a moment she considered how improper it would be for her to sit on the same horse as a man, then quickly decided that she did not care. Amelia was too cold to refuse him. If he was prepared to risk the impropriety, so was she.

She grabbed his hand and found herself hoisted from the ground in one smooth motion, as if her weight was of no consequence, before she was deposited across the saddle and, by default, his lap. At a loss as to what else to do and feeling quite precarious, Amelia was forced to slide one hand about his waist just to balance herself while he guided the horse around the many pedestrians. Within minutes, they had left Piccadilly and entered a dark alleyway, away from the jammed main thoroughfare.

Wordlessly, he adjusted his position on the saddle to give her more room, then arranged his arms so that they still held the reins but formed a safe cage around her. Another thoughtful gesture for her comfort, she noticed begrudgingly. He felt so warm and so solid it was difficult not to want to snuggle against him. Instead, Amelia tried to make polite conversation, in the hope that it might somehow serve to warm her or make her feel less awkward.

‘Thank you. It is very kind. I was not looking forward to walking the last mile home. It has got cold quickly, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s winter and it’s dark. What else did you expect?’ He sounded peeved again. Or perhaps that was just his natural tone of voice. Either way, there was no answer to his clipped question, so she huddled into her shawl and decided to remain mute.

After several uncomfortable minutes he spoke again. ‘You are still shivering.’

‘It will stop.’

‘What possessed you to come out without a proper winter coat? My aunt will kill me if I let you freeze to death.’ One of his hands let go of the reins and reached around to undo the buttons on his greatcoat. Then, to her complete shock and mortification, he pulled her backwards so that she was closer to his big, solid body and wrapped the ends of his coat around her protectively. Amelia was instantly, and gratefully, surrounded in his warmth. Instinctively, she turned her chilled body towards his chest and burrowed nearer to the heat, then regretted it instantly when he stiffened.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered as she pulled away. ‘I forgot myself. I am just so very cold.’

She heard his breath come out in a ragged sigh. ‘It’s all right. Warm yourself. Nobody can see.’

He pulled her back under the heavy folds of his coat again and held her close with one arm. Beneath her fingers she felt the muscles on his flat abdomen tense briefly before he forced them to relax, although she was certain she heard his heart quicken. Or perhaps that was just her own heart she could hear? Her pulse had certainly stepped up since he had pulled her closer. But he made no further attempt at conversation.