“Choosing a wife is not a task that should be undertaken lightly.”

Bennett Montague, sixteenth Duke of Aveley, is seeking the perfect bride. He’s narrowed his search to five worthy “Potentials”...until the arrival of his aunt’s companion unravels his carefully laid plans.

Having fought for everything she has, Amelia Mansfield is incensed by Bennett’s wife-selection methods. But as she’s forced to spend time in his company, she begins to see another side to Bennett—and that man is infinitely more tantalizing and enticing...

Amelia offered him a saucy shrug, alongside her smug smile, then buried her nose back into her own book unapologetically.

It gave Bennett the rare opportunity to study her properly. Or, more importantly, an opportunity to try to understand his own unexpected reaction to her. Arguably, this room was filled with the most desirable young ladies of the ton. His five remaining Potentials were too polite to risk reading while others were speaking. All of them were very pretty. Any one of them would make him a perfect wife. Why was it, then, that his thoughts as well as his gaze kept creeping back to Miss Mansfield?

It was plainly obvious that she had thoroughly enjoyed besting him. The other young ladies would be mortified to have intentionally caused him offence. Miss Mansfield revelled in it. Maybe that was why she fascinated him? She was so different from every other woman of his acquaintance, and she certainly did not behave like them. Despite the fact that she had been raised in Cheapside and worked for a living, she was heartily unimpressed by his title. Yet he wanted her to be impressed.

That was an interesting thought. He wanted to impress her. How very…unusual.

Author Note

It’s funny how inspiration strikes…

The historian in me is always learning. I saw a documentary about the Peterloo Massacre, which prompted me to read up on the turbulent political situation during the Regency. At that time there was a genuine fear of revolution in England. The aristocracy were terrified that the masses would rise up against them, so parliament did everything in its power to suppress them. It was a time of public demonstrations, clandestine meetings and riots well before Peterloo.

Then, by chance, I came across a nineteenth-century book on etiquette, written by a vicar’s daughter. Not only was it an interesting window on a different side to that time period but, when read with modern eyes, some of the instructions within the book were hilarious. I decided it might be fun to write one of my own—which is exactly what I have done in this book.

My hero, Bennett Montague, sixteenth Duke of Aveley, has written a book entitled The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide to Selecting the Perfect Bride. Obviously what Bennett thinks his perfect bride might be like and what my heroine Amelia Mansfield is actually like are completely opposite ends of the spectrum. When you have a pompous duke, it stands to reason that the very last person he would ever consider marrying is an outspoken political radical—and yet it was tremendously entertaining to throw them together and see what happened…

The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide

Virginia Heath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep…

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

That Despicable Rogue

Her Enemy at the Altar

The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

For Alex,

Who always tries to do the right thing for other people.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

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 consequence she mattered too.

Unfortunately, Lady Worsted would find all of these totally worthy causes totally unsuitable while they were guests of the Duke and would doubtless forbid Amelia from going if she knew about them. The older woman had been most insistent that, as a member of His Majesty’s government, he had to be spared the taint of any scandal and, as so much about Amelia was scandalous already, it would probably be best if she avoided all of her dubious good deeds while they were his guests. It would also be prudent, her employer had cautioned, to avoid mentioning her unfortunate past for exactly the same reason.

Fortunately, life as Lady Worsted’s companion meant that Amelia always had a considerable amount of free time as her employer made so few demands on it. It was a mystery why she even bothered with a companion in the first place. It was not as if she was lonely. Lady Worsted had a great many friends and acquaintances who liked to visit her and, better still, the old lady was rather fond of her afternoon naps. Which meant that Amelia hoped to be going on a great many ‘long walks’ while she was a guest at the Duke of Aveley’s conveniently located London town house. She was not prepared to miss the opportunity to become fully involved in her good causes rather than dreaming about them from a distance. Political groups were not that well organised in Bath, nor were the people, and even the poor muddled along without needing a great deal of her help. But London was the heart of it all, the beating, pulsing, putrid centre of everything, and she was determined to make up for lost time. For the next month she would be useful again and her voice would be heard. Amelia could not wait.

Noticing that Lady Worsted had already nodded off in the seat opposite, Amelia reluctantly picked up her host’s book again and glared at the cover. The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide to Selecting the Perfect Bride. The Duke probably thought himself to be quite the wit in making the title rhyme too. The man sounded like the most crushing of bores, full of his own paternalistic self-importance and too bothered with social etiquette and appearances to be able to see further than his protruding aristocratic nose. Men like that were all the same. With nothing else to do to pass the time, Amelia selected a random page and began to read.

* * *

Bennett Montague, Sixteenth Duke of Aveley and member of His Majesty’s Privy Council, glanced at his pocket watch in annoyance before slotting it back into his waistcoat pocket. It was already six o’clock and his aunt should have arrived by now. Whilst he did not blame her personally for the inconvenience—even this late in the day travelling in London could be horrendous—dinner was always promptly served at seven. At this rate, it would have to be put back.

His butler, Lovett, appeared at the door to his study. ‘The carriage is arriving, Your Grace.’

‘Thank goodness!’ He would not have to adjust his tightly organised schedule after all. All was well in the world again. As was expected, Bennett went out to the hallway to greet his aunt, conscious that he still had several letters and one speech to write before the night was done. He found his mother and Uncle George already there. As they waited, he noticed something odd about his usually ramrod-straight butler. He was listing slightly to the left.

‘Lovett,’ he hissed, ‘have you been availing yourself of my port again?’ Bennett wouldn’t have minded, but they had guests after all—an uncommon event in recent months due to his enormous workload.

Still listing, Lovett had the good manners to look sheepish. ‘I am sorry, Your Grace. I had a moment of weakness.’

One of many. If the man had not been such a loyal and resourceful servant with a keen sense of timing when it came to helping him to escape, Bennett would have dismissed the man on the spot years ago. However, he was rather fond of him despite his wayward tendencies. Without Lovett, he would have had to have spent hundreds of pointless hours socialising with people he had no interest in. ‘Is it Mrs Lovett again?’ If his butler was to be believed, that woman was apparently the reason why her husband turned to drink on a regular basis, although Bennett was confident this was just a convenient excuse.

‘Indeed it is, Your Grace. I have just found out that she is expecting again.’

‘Again! Clearly I do not give you enough to do, Lovett. How many children are we up to now?’ He knew the answer full well and all of their names, but this was the game they played when Bennett could not muster the enthusiasm to properly tell his impertinent, invaluable servant off and spared his butler from admitting that he just had a penchant for good port.

‘This will be the tenth, Your Grace, providing Mrs Lovett does not have another set of twins.’

Fortunately, the front door opened, relieving Bennett from any further pretence of admonishing his servant, and he stepped forth to welcome them. His aunt looked as robust as usual and would expect him to see that. Another social game that served no purpose. ‘Aunt Augusta, you look well. Clearly the air in Bath suits you.’

She accepted his compliment and presented him with her powdered cheek. ‘You look as though you could do with a little restorative air yourself, Bennett. You are altogether too serious for a young man. I have scarcely been here a minute and already I can see that you wish to be elsewhere.’ He did not correct her assumption because he did have a great many more important things to be doing right at this very moment than standing in his hallway and making small talk, and it would not hurt if she knew that. His aunt smiled at his bland expression. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my new companion, Miss Amelia Mansfield.’

A petite woman with the darkest eyes he had ever seen stepped forward. Usually, Bennett took no real interest in his aunt’s companions. There had been so many of them over the years that their plain faces had all begun to merge into one interchangeable and banal façade and he barely bothered flicking them a glance. But Miss Mansfield was quite different, so his eyes lingered. For a start, and even though she was wearing a very large, very dull bonnet, there was nothing plain about her. The dark, catlike eyes were framed with ridiculously thick sooty lashes. Two bold black slashes formed her eyebrows and her full mouth was quite the most impertinent shade of red. If it had been appropriate, which it wasn’t, and if he had the talent for it, which he most definitely did not, it was exactly the sort of face that might have inspired him to flirt with the lovely owner of it. Therefore, Bennett inclined his head politely because that was the correct thing to do.

‘Miss Mansfield.’

And she just about inclined hers in return.

‘Your Grace.’

Then, as an afterthought, she bobbed him a lacklustre curtsey. It was customary when curtseying that the woman also dipped her eyes in deference to the illustrious person she was curtseying to. That was the correct form, after all, and everybody understood it. Everyone, apparently, except Miss Mansfield. She held his gaze in the most disconcerting way before turning towards the others. There was certainly no attempt at deference in that pointed stare. In fact, if he was not mistaken, he was almost certain he saw a flash of some other emotion hiding in those chocolate depths, although he could not quite put his finger on what it was. Despite her blatant disregard for etiquette, Bennett could not stop watching her as she was introduced to his mother and Uncle George.

‘Do you read, Miss Mansfield?’ his mother asked.

‘Amelia reads everything she can get her hands on,’ Aunt Augusta answered in her stead. ‘And she reads aloud with tremendous skill. It is most entertaining. She has a talent for bringing the words and characters on the page to life.’

‘Then you will be an asset to my reading salon. I do hope that you will join us. Every Wednesday evening a select group of us gather to read and discuss writings that have had a profound effect on us. It makes no difference whether you like fiction, poetry or academia—we are an eclectic bunch and it is a lively way to spend the evening. And it is my only chance to properly entertain at the moment while my son is so busy in Parliament.’

When Miss Mansfield smiled he noticed that it made her unusual eyes prettier.

‘I should like that very much.’

Perhaps Bennett was imagining it, but she definitely greeted them with more enthusiasm than she had him—although why he was put out by that he could not quite fathom. Uncle George was instantly smitten with her and had no problem in showing it. ‘I am positively charmed already, Miss Mansfield, and would be thrilled if you sit with me at dinner. It has been far too long since I have enjoyed the company of such a delightful creature over a meal.’

‘Be wary, Miss Mansfield,’ his mother cautioned, smiling affectionately at the man who had been a surrogate father to Bennett for so many years. ‘I am afraid George still thinks that he is in his prime. He will spend the entire meal flirting with you outrageously or telling you scandalous stories that are completely unsuitable for your delicate young ears.’

‘You wound me, Octavia!’ His uncle pretended to be affronted by this suggestion, which made all of the ladies laugh instantly. Bennett had always envied his uncle’s easy way with the female sex, but this time he found that talent irritating. Unfortunately, judging by the charmed expression on her pretty face, Miss Mansfield was similarly smitten with Uncle George.

‘I shall look forward to it.’ She positively grinned at the old rogue in return. It was like being blindsided by a sunbeam; everything about her lit up. Her rosebud mouth curved mischievously, transforming her face into a thing of complete beauty, two adorable dimples appeared on her perfect cheeks and those big brown eyes grew warm and inviting. ‘It has been far too long since I heard a genuinely scandalous story over dinner.’

A dinner that would be severely delayed at this rate unless Bennett intervened and put an immediate stop to all of this nonsense. He snapped open his pocket watch again and frowned to make the point. ‘I will get Lovett to show you straight to your rooms as dinner is in less than an hour.’ Which gave him enough time to conquer the small mountain of paperwork lying unattended on his desk. ‘If you will all excuse me.’

To his own ears his voice sounded a bit clipped, yet for some reason he was decidedly out of sorts. Bennett forced a polite smile before turning on his heel and heading purposefully back to his study. He felt the oddest tickle of awareness, which instantly raised his hackles and made him glance around. He caught Miss Mansfield openly staring at him again and not in a good way.

Bennett was not prone to vanity—he did not have the time required to dedicate to such an endeavour—but he knew that he was considered quite handsome by most women. He was used to female admiration and, on occasion, even blatant flirting. He was a duke, after all, and a very eligible one at that. However, Miss Mansfield was regarding him as if he was some sort of scientific specimen that she did not fully understand. People just did not do that. Not to him. If they did, basic good manners dictated that it was done covertly and he was blissfully unaware of their scrutiny. It was most disconcerting. Bennett scowled as he marched onward towards his study, for the first time in as long as he could remember feeling very uncomfortable in his own skin and ever so slightly offended.

* * *

Amelia had two good frocks that were passable to wear to dinner. Neither filled her with enthusiasm. Out of sheer defiance she picked the one with the lowest neckline, grabbed her finest shawl and pinched some colour into her cheeks and lips to give herself some confidence. The Aveley residence on Berkeley Square was the grandest house she had ever set foot in and she hated the fact that she found it more than a little bit intimidating. From the moment she had walked up the marble steps towards the imposing black double front doors, the sheer opulence of the place had taken her breath away. But inside? Well, that was a completely different level of exquisite altogether.

The floor in the hallway was a striking chessboard of black and white marble. An ornate and sweeping staircase drew the eye upwards to a painted ceiling that had literally left her awed by its beauty. The artist had turned it into a window to Heaven. Cherubs floated amongst clouds, gazing down at the viewer below in angelic serenity. Amelia had really never seen anything like it. If the shock of her new surroundings was not enough, she had blinked in surprise when she had first glimpsed the owner of all of that splendour. The Duke of Aveley looked nothing like the haughty, beady-eyed and paunchy aristocrat she had imagined him to be.

Like the angels suspended above her, this man appeared to have been created from the brush of the most talented of artists. He was broad-shouldered and golden. That was the only word for him...golden. Over six feet of manly magnificence had stood in front of her, completely at odds with the arrogant pomposity that had apparently spewed from his pen. Aveley had thick, slightly wayward blond hair, weaved with threads of wheat and bronze, intelligent cobalt eyes and a tempting mouth that drew her eye just as effectively as his wonderful ceiling did. The female part of her, which she always tried to ignore, had reacted in the most peculiar way. Her pulse began to race, nervous butterflies began to flap in her stomach and her knees felt decidedly weak. If she did not know better, Amelia would have said that she was all aquiver, which was a ludicrous but apt description for the way she’d suddenly felt. He was a square-jawed, straight-nosed delight to behold. Exactly the sort of fairy-tale man she had once dreamed she would live with happily ever after before the harsh realities of life had taught her that there were no such things as fairy tales.

And then he had looked at her as if she was exactly what she was—little more than a servant and nothing of any consequence—bringing her crashing soundly back to earth with a thud. For the briefest of moments Amelia had felt a rush of pure, unadulterated disappointment before she’d shaken herself and reminded herself that she was a fool to have expected anything less. She knew better than to judge a book by its cover, no matter how splendid that cover might first seem, and she was not usually prone to silly fluttering or even sillier ideas that involved a titled man in her future.

At the time, her uncharacteristic reaction to him had bothered her immensely but, after a small period of reflection in her luxurious new bedchamber, she now understood that she had simply been completely overwhelmed. Not just by the handsome, pompous Duke, but by her surroundings and the prospect of being amongst proper society again for such a prolonged period of time. It had been a long journey and she was quite tired. It was hardly surprising that she was a little out of sorts and she had been surprised that the pompous Duke had not looked anything like she had imagined. It was rare that a title did not immediately disappoint. She had not been expecting someone who resembled Adonis, therefore she could forgive herself for her brief moment of disbelief and the understandable nervous reaction that followed. Equilibrium restored, she stiffened her spine and walked with purpose.

A footman directed her down a long corridor to a formal dining room at the end, where she was seated in the middle of a grand table set for five. Sir George was the first to arrive and plonked himself down in the chair opposite her and instructed a servant to fill up both of their wine glasses with a flick of his hand.

‘How splendid, Miss Mansfield, that I have you all to myself. I dare say you are burning with curiosity and have a hundred questions about this house and its family that you want to have answered. Unfortunately for you—’ he took a healthy glug of his wine and grinned conspiratorially ‘—I have a very loose tongue when under the influence of even the merest drop of alcohol; therefore I suggest you grasp the opportunity to take advantage of that fact before the others arrive and I have to behave myself.’

Already he was her favourite person here and she had known him less than a few minutes in total. ‘The house is very impressive. Has it always been in the family?’

Sir George rolled his eyes in irritation at the apparent banality of her question. ‘It was designed for the fourteenth Duke by none other than Robert Adam himself. It is also the biggest house on Berkeley Square. Surely that is not the best thing you could think to ask me about—I, who have an intimate knowledge of this illustrious family and all of their goings-on? Bennett’s father was my elder brother, after all.’

There was a look of challenge in his face that encouraged her to be bolder. ‘Is the Duke a close friend of the Regent?’ If he was, it would confirm all of her worst suspicions about the man.

Sir George took a thoughtful sip of his wine before answering. ‘Bennett is one of his advisers—however, the King’s son is not particularly good at taking his advice.’

‘That does not answer my question, Sir George.’ If the pompous Duke was a great friend of Prinny’s, she would find every second in his company loathsome.

To his credit, he laughed at his attempt at evasiveness. ‘If the point of your question was to find out whether or not the Duke of Aveley holds the Regent in high regard, then I have to tell you that to say that he does not would be tantamount to treason and would place his position in the Cabinet in jeopardy. However, to answer you in a roundabout way, I can say that my nephew, like his father before him, is a statesman and to be an effective statesman you have to be a diplomat. As such, I believe he uses that diplomacy to his advantage in order to get things done for the good of the country. He does not socialise with the Regent very often, if you get my meaning, and when he does it is only at events that are important to the state.’

The fact that her host did not gamble or carouse with Prinny made him only slightly less offensive. It was no secret that Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister, put a great deal of stock in Bennett Montague’s opinions—which made him her natural adversary. Liverpool was unsympathetic to the plight of the poor and preferred to repress dissenters rather than negotiate with them. ‘The newspapers claim that the Duke will be Prime Minister before he is forty.’

‘Oh, dear!’ Sir George chuckled as he swirled his wine around in his glass. ‘Please do not say that in front of Bennett. He has every intention of taking that office before he is thirty-five and even that is too long a wait for his ambitions for the nation.’

Further prying was prevented by the arrival of the Dowager and Lady Worsted. The Duke’s mother took her seat at one end of the table and Amelia’s employer sat down next to her. ‘Where is Bennett? I am famished.’

Sir George glanced pointedly at the clock on the sideboard. ‘It is still two minutes before seven. He will arrive exactly on time, as always.’ He gave Amelia another amused conspiratorial glance. ‘I set my watch by him. He is far more reliable than all of the other timepieces in the house.’

As they made polite conversation, Amelia could not help tuning into the gentle rhythmic ticking of the clock and counting the seconds going past. Surely the man was not such a dull stickler that he would be so precise? But he was.

Chapter Two

It is essential that a good wife has a basic knowledge of politics. As your hostess, she will need to ask pertinent questions designed to stimulate worthy discussion between your male guests...

—The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide to

Selecting the Perfect Bride by Bennett Montague,

Sixteenth Duke of Aveley

As the big hand finally touched the hour, the Duke of Aveley strode into the dining room as if he owned the place, which she supposed, in all fairness, he did. Amelia flicked a glance at Sir George and could see her own amusement reflected in her new friend’s eyes.

‘Good evening, everyone.’ The Duke sat himself down and snapped open his napkin with almost military precision. ‘Lovett—we are ready.’

At his command, the servants began to swarm around the table with the first course, a delicious thin soup. However, and no doubt just to vex her, Amelia’s heartbeat became more rapid at the sight of him again. He really was quite splendid to behold. It was such a shame that the interior was not as wonderful as the exterior. A bit like a beautifully iced cake that was old and dry beneath its fancy casing.

The Duke did not bother with unnecessary social chit-chat. ‘Mother, I have looked at the list of invitations that you gave me. Whilst I believe that I can manage the Renshaw ball and the Earl of Bainbridge’s soirée in December, I am afraid I cannot spare the time for any others in the coming month.’

‘That is a great shame, dear,’ his mother said with obvious disappointment. ‘Are you sure that you cannot squeeze in a fleeting appearance at Lady Bulphan’s? Your presence would be quite a coup for her and I did promise her that you would. Priscilla was so looking forward to seeing you.’

‘I am afraid not. It is a particularly taxing week at Parliament. Besides, I will still see Priscilla at the reading salon. I am sorry.’ Amelia noticed that he did not look particularly sorry at all. He was more interested in his soup than the invitation.

‘Who is Priscilla?’ Lady Worsted asked her sister.

‘She is Lady Bulphan’s eldest granddaughter and one of the young ladies on Bennett’s Potential list.’

As everybody else around the table apparently knew what this was, Amelia felt obliged to ask her employer for clarification, although she was well aware that, as a companion, she really had no right to ask. ‘The Potential list?’

Lady Worsted smiled innocently, but there was definitely a spark of something mischievous in her wily old eyes. ‘It is Bennett’s list of prospective candidates for the future Duchess of Aveley. He has been working his way through it these past two years. The last I heard, there were ten in the running.’

‘We are down to five now,’ his mother explained helpfully as she tilted her bowl to one side to spoon up more soup. ‘He hopes to have narrowed it down to the final choice by late spring—but you know how these things are.’ Clearly she did not think that such a thing was a tad odd—but then again her son was a duke.

‘Is there a particular front runner?’ Lady Worsted glanced at Sir George and smiled. The pair were clearly sharing an ongoing joke that the Duke’s mother was not included in.

‘We had high hopes of Lady Elizabeth Pearce but, alas, she did not pass muster,’ said the Dowager on a sigh. ‘It turned out that she was prone to temper tantrums and not nearly as level-headed as she had led us to believe.’

Good gracious. He even conducted his own affairs in line with the edicts outlined in his silly book. Amelia had never heard anything so ridiculous. ‘Are the five front runners aware of their rivals for the coveted position?’

Both Lady Worsted’s and Sir George’s eyes widened at her subtle use of sarcasm, but the pompous Duke’s focus remained on his food.

‘Of course,’ his mother replied, looking amused that Amelia would think otherwise. ‘Bennett is very careful not to pay particular regard to any one of them. They are all treated equally and will be until he has made his decision.’

‘He is scrupulously fair.’ Sir George nodded in agreement although the hint of a smile hovered on the corners of his mouth. ‘He always dances one dance with each of them at every ball, never the waltz, of course, lest it give them ideas.’

‘Heaven forbid.’

‘And every Thursday each girl receives an identical bouquet of flowers.’

Amelia nearly choked on the soup. ‘Identical? How very...romantic.’ Lady Worsted gave her a light kick under the table. ‘I am sure that they are delighted to be singled out for such special attention.’

Not that Amelia had any suitors, but if she did she would expect the man to be wooing her and her alone. If she ever got wind that her imaginary beau was sending identical bouquets to another four ladies, she would use the stems to give him a sound thrashing before showing him the door. ‘Are all five passing muster?’ She wanted to giggle so much that she had to bite down hard on the inside of her mouth to stop a giggle escaping.

Sir George was also definitely on the verge of laughing. He dipped his head and slurped a big spoonful of soup into his mouth clumsily just to give himself an excuse to choke on something. His splutter caused the man in question to gaze up and stare, perplexed, at the slight commotion, giving Amelia the distinct impression that he had not been listening to their conversation at all. Probably because he was so important.

In his own mind.

The Duke cast a critical eye down the table and, satisfied that everyone was finished, signalled to the butler to clear the soup bowls away.

‘Bennett is very particular,’ Lady Worsted said, patting her nephew’s arm affectionately. ‘Isn’t that right, Bennett? You wouldn’t want to be saddled with the wrong sort of wife?’

It took a few seconds for Bennett to respond to the question because he really hadn’t been following the conversation. The final paragraph of his speech to the House of Lords tomorrow lacked something and he had been mulling over different sentences that would finish it off with a flourish. That was probably poor form, he realised. While Uncle George and his mother were used to his complete immersion in government matters, he had not seen his aunt since last Christmas and she deserved his full attention for one brief family dinner.

‘I do apologise, Aunt Augusta; I was a little preoccupied. Would you repeat the question?’

‘We were discussing your Potential list and I commented on the fact that you wouldn’t want to be saddled with the wrong sort of wife.’

Bennett was so bored with that chore. In many ways he wished it all over with so that he could get on with his work without having to bother with all of the silly social engagements that wasted his evenings and ate up his valuable time. However, as his father had repeatedly instilled in him, the Dukedom needed a strong bloodline if it was to continue to serve the nation properly. And if he was going to be Prime Minister, he needed to be married. A bachelor, his father had often lamented, did not instil the great confidence in people that such an illustrious office required. He needed to find a good wife, of sound aristocratic stock, who would be an asset to his political ambitions. Someone above reproach, who knew how to behave accordingly and who had family connections that would provide him with more allies in the house so that he could finish what his father had started. Bennett tried to appear interested for the sake of good manners, so trotted out one of his tried-and-tested sayings. ‘Indeed. Marry in haste and repent at leisure.’

As the servants swiftly reset the table for the next course, Bennett sensed Miss Mansfield’s eyes on him again. He turned to her politely and then instantly forgot the art of making polite dinner conversation the moment he took his first proper look at her.

Why he had not noticed her the moment he’d stepped into the room was a complete mystery to him now. Without the barricade of the enormous bonnet, he could see that she had gloriously dark, shiny hair. So dark that it was reminiscent of the polished ebony keys on his mother’s pianoforte. The sort of hair he would like to unpin from its tight chignon and run his fingers through to see if it actually did feel like silk—as he imagined it would. She certainly resembled nothing like an old woman’s companion. Companions usually blended into the background. Miss Mansfield rendered the background and foreground completely inconsequential. Her choice of gown for dinner was merely the icing on the cake. It was too boldly coloured for a start. The forest-green silk stood out in stark relief against the subtly striped cream wallpaper, emphasising her pale skin and graceful neck. Bennett tried not to notice the barest hint of cleavage that the square neckline suggested, forcing his eyes to remain resolutely on her face. Unfortunately, that meant that he had no choice other than to stare into those dark, mesmerising eyes and at that lush red mouth.

‘I have been reading your book,’ the enticing red lips suddenly said, startling him out of his unexpectedly errant and out of character musings.

‘Indeed?’

When he had first put pen to paper, out of complete boredom after being snowed in at Aveley Castle one Christmas, he had had no concept of how desperately society craved sensible guidance on the art of courting. Now, almost a year since his scribblings had first been published, he was quite used to receiving the effusive praise of his many readers. To begin with he had been quite dismissive of the book’s success. It was just a collection of advice that he had received from his father. The book had been a memorial, of sorts, and he had certainly not thought anybody would care about it overmuch. It was merely a way for Bennett to ensure that his father’s wise words were saved for perpetuity and it served to maintain the correct focus while he searched for his own bride—an aide-memoire, as it were. Then, as time passed and more and more copies of the thing were printed and sold, he had realised that his many readers often had genuine questions, so he tried to be accommodating. As a politician, he owed it to them. It was his civic duty to educate people—another of his father’s edicts that he had taken to heart. Besides, at least it would give him something to talk to this alluring creature about without appearing to be a completely mute fool. ‘Have you found it helpful in any way?’

Her brown eyes widened in what he assumed was surprise while she stared at him for several seconds. She had tiny flecks of copper in her irises that burned like fire, he noticed, then chided himself for his peculiarly poetic mood.

‘I have certainly found it insightful,’ she finally said, her face devoid of any emotion that would give him a clue as to whether insightful was a compliment or a criticism.

‘Miss Mansfield is not currently looking for a husband,’ his aunt interjected, looking decidedly amused. ‘So I dare say your advice is wasted on her.’

‘It is a very long journey from Bath to London and I had finished the book I had brought with me. Lady Worsted gave me her copy because she thought that it might help to pass the time.’

‘I see.’

Although he really didn’t. Bennett had the distinct impression that he was missing something. There was the merest hint of censure in the word thought, as if it contained some hidden message that he was not receiving and nor was he meant to. Was she suggesting that she found his writing boring? And who was she to judge him, anyway?

Perhaps sensing his unease, Uncle George changed the topic to a more comfortable subject. ‘Have you made any progress with the House of Commons on taxation?’

Bennett shook his head, instantly frustrated. ‘They are still resolutely against extending income tax to pay for the war debts and are far more interested in shouting at each other to make any progress on anything. Those fools cannot see further than their noses. It is preposterous to think that the nation can continue to borrow vast sums of money when we are not making enough to effectively pay it back.’

‘It is grossly unfair to expect honest working men to pay even more money into the government’s coffers when many struggle so hard to make ends meet as it is. Already they are taxed to the hilt. To add to their burden is unjust. The Members of Parliament are right to oppose it.’

To Bennett’s complete surprise, those words were uttered by Miss Mansfield. And quite vociferously too. Typically, like most people, she was completely missing the point. ‘The bulk of taxation should not come from the poorest, Miss Mansfield, and under my proposals nor should it. It should come from land and from the profit from trade. The Members of Parliament are voted into office by the wealthy landowners and merchants who would pay the most under the scheme, and so are naturally resistant to it. Therefore, the MPs continue to oppose it merely to secure their own political futures.’

She blinked at him and then her dark eyebrows drew together as she contemplated his words. ‘Whilst I do agree that those who have more should pay more, you have to understand that the costs of taxation are unfairly passed down to the poor by their unscrupulous masters regardless. Wages are cut, workers are forced to work longer hours and the prices of essential commodities, like flour or sugar, are raised as the merchants try to recoup their lost profits. Without proper legislation to protect the most vulnerable in our society, all that income tax did was make the rich want to stay richer whilst it forced the poor to become poorer. We cannot repeat that experiment.’

Bennett tried to moderate his irritation at her emotional grasp of politics. ‘They might do those things in the short-term, Miss Mansfield, but things will level out eventually, you will see. Income tax is a necessary evil, I’m afraid.’

‘And in the meantime would you doom thousands of people to suffer unimaginable poverty? That is indeed evil.’

Chapter Three

Marry a woman who thinks before she speaks. It will save you a great deal of time having to correct her...

Amelia had been too forthright. She was prepared to concede that at least. She had clearly insulted the pompous Duke over dinner, although his politeness was too ingrained for him to have chastised her for it. Instead, Lady Worsted had stepped in and changed the topic to the Renshaw ball and both Amelia and their host had remained seething and silent for the rest of the meal, their difference of opinion hanging like a dirty sheet between them for all to see. Afterwards, Lady Worsted had given her a lecture on keeping her thoughts to herself and had insisted that Amelia apologise for her outburst once his aunt had smoothed the way. That was just as well because Amelia really could not bring herself to do so quite yet, especially when she was not even slightly sorry for challenging the man on his narrow-minded views. How typical of an aristocrat like him to have no concept of how his decisions would affect the masses! Just like her father, the Duke expected everyone to blithely accept his laws and decisions, no matter how bad the effect.

However, calling him evil was a step too far. Even for her. If he wanted to, he could send her packing immediately and she would not be able to do any of the things in Town that she’d planned. Worse, if Lady Worsted had dismissed her for her impudence, she would not even be able to scrape enough money together to survive for a week. Most of her wages went straight to the soup kitchen because Amelia did not need them. As Lady Worsted’s companion, she was amply fed, had a roof over her head, fresh sheets on a comfortable bed and enough hand-me-downs to clothe herself more than adequately. Why would she need the money?

However, her lack of it and what that might mean should her current circumstances be brought to an abrupt end was certainly food for thought. The very last thing Amelia ever wanted was to be homeless again. Or dirt poor. She really needed to learn to hold her tongue, no matter how hard that might actually be in practice. She might not like her employer’s nephew, but she thought the world of Lady Worsted. Lady Worsted had taken a chance on her when nobody else would, plucking her from a life of poverty and giving her a home. Lady Worsted found her pithy comments and sarcasm entertaining and was gracious enough to gloss over the unfortunate stains in her past. If her employer wanted her to hold her wayward tongue in front of her nephew and apologise to him for her perceived insult, then Amelia was duty-bound...no—honour-bound...to do that.

It made no difference that the pompous Duke clearly had limited, if any, experience of what life was like for the majority of the nation’s subjects. It was not Amelia’s place to educate him. Even if she tried, she doubted he would listen. His hereditary beliefs were too ingrained and he clearly felt, like all aristocrats, that they had a divine right to govern the rest of the country simply because they had been born. This evening he had given her that look when she had dared to question him. That look that men always gave women when they wanted to put them back in their place. That look that said that she was incapable of understanding his line of argument, based solely on the circumstances of her sex. As if being in possession of a womb rendered her somehow more stupid than all humans who were born without one.

Ha! Amelia was better informed than most men and probably cleverer than them too. Not only had she read every learned treatise she could get her hands on, she had also experienced life from both sides of the same coin. She had been rich and cosseted and she had been poor and insignificant. Both states had shaped her personality and had given her more insight into the human condition than anyone else she could think of. His Royal Highness the Duke of Pomposity could not compete with that hard-won knowledge. If she had been born a man, she would run for Parliament herself. If ever an institution needed more wisdom, more empathy and more vision, it was that one. Just thinking about all of the injustice they perpetrated in the name of governance made her livid.

Too agitated to even think of going to bed, Amelia decided to head for the kitchen for some warm milk to help her sleep. Then she carried the steaming mug back out towards the deserted palatial hallway and allowed herself a few minutes to simply take it all in.

Although she had not set foot in her father’s London residence in a decade, she had a clear, indelible memory of the place. She only had to close her eyes to see the highly polished wooden banisters that she had surreptitiously slid down when nobody was watching, the sparkling chandelier in the entrance hall, the comforting smells of beeswax and polish that always reminded her of happier times when they had lived as a family. Back when she was little and her father still adored her mother—before he had found a way to annul their marriage in order to get a son—she had thought their house in Mayfair the loveliest house in all of England, but it paled in comparison to this. This was a level of luxury that Viscount Venomous would truly envy.

Amelia looked up at the wonderful ceiling and spun in a slow circle. She loved to draw and, although her attempts at art were pathetic in comparison, she could not help but appreciate this clever artist’s work. Every single cherub was different, flowers and leaves were dripping out of their chubby hands, but from this angle it was difficult to comprehend the total effect of the painting. A quick check of the hallway confirmed that she was still alone, so she quickly deposited her cooling milk on an ornamental table and lay down in the middle of the floor. Only then did she fully understand what the picture was trying to show.

The four corners of the high ceiling were filled with the flowers and fruits produced in the four seasons. Vibrant green holly, winter berries and bare twigs represented winter in one. Copper leaves, golden corn, horse chestnuts and acorns for autumn, spring daffodils and cherry blossom bloomed in another corner, then finally fat roses of every colour depicted summer. The cherubs were joyfully grabbing handfuls of nature’s bounty to sprinkle on the world below. It was whimsical and delightful, the tiny details sublime, and she could have stared at it for hours. It was exactly what she needed to alleviate her sour mood.

* * *

Bennett read through his speech one last time before he cast it aside in irritation. It was good, of course, because he had a way with words, but he was still not completely happy with it. Or perhaps it was not his speech that was vexing him? He was still smarting from Miss Mansfield’s scathing rant from earlier.

He had never been called evil before. He had been criticised in Parliament for being too moderate or too reforming, but he had never taken offence because that was politics. His father had been absolutely right. Change was a gradual process and it could not be rushed; it was normal for people to be resistant to it. Bennett’s first and foremost role in Parliament was to gradually whittle down opposition to change so that society, as a whole, could make progress.

Miss Mansfield had no understanding of such things. Her suggestion that he was personally responsible for making the lives of the poor more wretched than they already were was not only grossly unfair, it was downright insulting. He was very aware of their plight. In fact, he had always taken a particular interest in it. If something was not done to alleviate their suffering, then he feared that the very foundation of English government was in jeopardy. The last thing anybody wanted was a revolution like there had been in France or in the American colonies.

Why else would he be so insistent that the wealthy had to take on more of the responsibility for taxation? If the government could raise more from taxes, then that money could be used to improve society. One of his own aspirations was to see the compulsory education of all poor children in government-built schools. Many of his contemporaries were against making the masses literate, claiming that it would merely encourage more revolutionary tendencies, but Bennett firmly believed that reading was a skill that could only serve to improve their prospects in adulthood whilst making the nation greater. That certainly did not make him evil.

His aunt had spoken to him about Miss Mansfield, claiming that she had been dealt a bad hand by life and that she was a truly wonderful young lady when you got to know her. Bennett was yet to see any evidence of that, but it was obvious that Aunt Augusta was very fond of the chit, so for that reason alone he would be benevolent towards her. However, he was not going to be quite so polite the next time she offered her unsolicited and tart opinions.

No, indeed! Next time he would give the woman the sound dressing-down she deserved, no matter how devilishly pretty she looked.

A quick glance at the clock on the mantel told him it was past midnight, again. He had to be back in Westminster by eight. If he was not going to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon debate, he really needed to get some sleep. All of these late nights spent working until the small hours were beginning to take their toll. Unfortunately, these were trying times for the government and his workload was immense. Something had to be sacrificed in order to get it all done and at the moment that something was sleep.

Wearily, he unfolded his stiff body from his chair and stared at his discarded hessians next to his desk. Despite the fact that he knew that propriety dictated that he should put them back on, he could not bring himself to. They were new boots and they hurt. The polished leather was still so stiff that they pinched and rubbed in all manner of places. Besides, it was late and none of the servants would comment on his lack of footwear. Lovett had them all far too well-trained for that. In fact, if he chose to walk around the house completely naked except for a strategically placed fig leaf, none of them would dare to bat an eyelid. That thought made him smile, and smiling made his face ache. Clearly his smiling muscles were protesting at being used. It felt unnatural—which probably meant that Aunt Augusta had been quite correct when she had said that he was looking far too serious for a young man. He made a mental note to smile more. Perhaps it was vanity, but his esteemed father had not smiled a great deal, so by the time he was forty he’d appeared very dour indeed—even when he wasn’t.

But serious politics was not exactly a cheerful endeavour. And it was completely absorbing. His father had groomed him to serve in government. We are Montagues, boy, he would say, and we were born to shape this country. Later, when his father had realised that he was ill, Bennett’s training for the highest office had begun early. By the tender age of fifteen, he was ready and eager to step into his father’s footsteps. His final conversation with his father had been a solemn promise to continue his family’s political legacy. Bennett had taken the oath seriously and had worked tirelessly since to do the right thing. So tirelessly that he was always tired.

Perhaps his mother was also right and he needed to get out more. Bennett could not remember the last time he went out for a ride or walked in the park or even visited Aveley Castle, the place he loved more than any other. He made another mental note to take a weekend off soon. He deserved a little time to relax. He was also tired of being cooped up in his carriage. Tomorrow he would ride to Westminster. The exercise would do him good. He glanced at the stiff hessians again and decided to be rebellious for once. Tonight, propriety could go to hell. Picking them up and tucking them underneath his arm, he headed off to bed.

He was so tired that he did not see the woman lying spread-eagled at the foot of the staircase until he almost stepped on her. The sight gave him quite a fright.

‘Miss Mansfield! Are you injured?’

Convinced that she had had an accident, Bennett dropped to his knees at the exact same moment that his aunt’s companion sat bolt upright in alarm. Their foreheads bashed together with such force that Bennett actually thought that he saw stars. He fell back onto his bottom, clutching his sore head and glaring at her as she clutched hers.

‘Did you fall?’ he snapped harshly.

Still rubbing her own forehead, she shook her head. ‘I was just admiring your ceiling.’

‘And to do that you needed to prostrate yourself on the floor?’

‘The floor offered the best perspective. I did not hear you coming, else I would have immediately alerted you to my presence.’ She glanced furtively at his abandoned boots, lying haphazardly at his side where he had dropped them in his panic. ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace! I did not mean to alarm you.’ She did look suitability mortified, he supposed. ‘For a big man you walk with unusual stealth.’

‘My boots pinch,’ he found himself explaining and then stopped himself. The fact that he was not correctly dressed was by the by. She was the one who had been in a position that was improper. People just did not sprawl over the floor to look at a picture. Under any circumstances.

Beneath his fingers he could feel a bump beginning to form under his skin. An unstatesmanlike bump that would, no doubt, look quite ridiculous tomorrow when he delivered his speech. Without warning she moved closer, looking concerned, and began to gently pat around the swelling on his head herself. The close proximity was unnerving. Bennett could not remember the last time that somebody had touched him without his consent. Every morning his valet shaved him and he briefly touched the gloved hands of the ladies he danced with. That was about as much human contact as he could manage. He usually preferred to keep a good foot or more of distance between himself and another person, just in case they accidentally brushed against him...

Except, as the faintest whiff of something deliciously feminine and floral wafted up his nose and she smoothed her soft hands over his skin, he found that he was quite enjoying her ministrations. Her face was inches from his and her brown eyes were regarding him with gratifying distress. It made him feel almost special.

‘You should probably put something cold on this or you will have a terrible bruise. I did not realise that I had such a hard head.’

Her own forehead was not undamaged. Without thinking and against his own better judgement, Bennett felt compelled to trace his fingers lightly over her matching bump. ‘So should you. Clearly we both have hard heads.’ Her skin was warm and smooth like velvet. He had the sudden urge to explore every bit of it and a peculiar yearning in the pit of his stomach that was most unlike him. Self-consciously, he dropped his hand.

She sat back then and smiled at him, obviously not feeling anywhere near as awkward by the intimacy as he did. ‘Instruct your valet to rub some soap or butter into your boots. It softens the leather. Failing that, I have heard that if you fill your shoes with potato peelings that helps to stretch them a bit.’

‘I will.’

‘And witch hazel is particularly soothing on a bruise. I am sure that the servants will be able to fetch some.’

‘Indeed.’

Bennett had a reputation for being a great orator. His speeches were the stuff of legend, but suddenly he could not string a full sentence together or think of another sensible thing to say. To cover his discomfort, he rose to his feet, wishing that he was not standing in front of her without his boots on, then offered her his hand to help her up. When she took it he felt an odd tingle shoot from his fingers, up his arm, ricochet off his ribs and head straight for his groin. Her hand felt so small in his and when she was upright again he noticed that her dark head barely reached his shoulders.

Odd.

At dinner she had appeared so formidable, yet she was in fact so petite. And he was still clasping her hand like an idiot. A monosyllabic idiot. Stiffly he released it and promptly stuffed his own wayward hands behind his back, where they could do no more mischief, and stood racking his brain for something—anything—to say.

Miss Mansfield mirrored his pose and stared briefly at the floor, drawing her plump bottom lip through her teeth as she did so. It made him wonder what she would taste like. When she did look up it was through her lovely long lashes and he could have sworn he saw the faintest tinge of a blush on her cheeks. Alarmingly, he wanted to touch it.

‘I would like to apologise for my tone earlier—at dinner. I can be a little passionate about certain causes, and the plight of the poor is one of them. I did not mean any personal offence.’

Those soulful eyes of hers robbed him of any coherent response. Bennett wanted to accept her apology gracefully. In his head he could see the words that would be perfect for the task and clear the air between them.

I accept your apology, Miss Mansfield. No offence was taken. It is admirable that you take an interest in worthy causes.

Except he was having trouble getting his lips to form the words because they appeared to be strangely preoccupied with latching themselves on to hers.

He really did not quite know what had come over him to be contemplating such an obvious breach of propriety with his aunt’s latest companion. Dukes could not go about kissing young women willy-nilly in their own hallway, or anywhere else for that matter. It simply wasn’t done. So he nodded. Just the once. Stiffly. Like the most uptight and pompous prig and cringed inwardly at his over-starched formality.

‘I have an important speech tomorrow.’ He barked this out with such force that he saw her blink repeatedly as she stared back at him, a little alarmed. He could hardly blame her for that. At certain times in his life he had really wished he had Uncle George’s easy way with people. This was one of those times. She had just tenderly checked his injury, given him tips on how to stop his boots hurting his feet and apologised for her outburst at dinner and all he could manage was almost granite stiffness.

In a last valiant attempt to make amends, Bennett attempted a smile. Once again, his facial muscles did not want to comply and he feared that it appeared to poor Miss Mansfield to be more of a grimace. Then, to his complete horror, Bennett found himself turning briskly on his ridiculously large stockinged feet, his hands still gripped firmly behind him like an admiral inspecting the fleet, before marching up the stairs as fast as he could without breaking into a run. All the while he could feel the discarded hessians mocking him from the hallway below—Perhaps you really should have put us back on?

Chapter Four

The perfect young lady never, ever leaves her chaperon...

Amelia’s bedchamber faced strategically outwards onto Berkeley Square, so it was easy to judge when the coast was clear. Lady Worsted and the Dowager were safely in their carriage bound for Bond Street and would not be home until late afternoon. She had seen Sir George leave a good hour earlier, cutting quite a dash as he walked out of the square, bound for his club. She had not seen him at all today, but she had heard his carriage leave at an ungodly hour, so she presumed that she now had the entire place to herself—give or take about forty servants.

Feeling a bubble of excitement, she hauled her old clothes out of the bottom of her trunk. Finally, she was able to go and visit her old friends at the soup kitchen.

A few minutes later and her transformation was complete. The presentable Miss Amelia Mansfield, gentlewoman’s companion, was gone and plain old Amelia stared back at her from the looking glass. The familiar outfit brought back a whole host of unwelcome memories—hunger, cold, tiredness, hopelessness—but it also gave her strength. She was more than these old clothes, always had been and always would be, but at least now she could use them to help others suffering from the dreadful disease known as poverty.

Judging the back door to be the best exit for a woman who looked like she did, Amelia hurried down the ornate staircase and darted back towards the kitchen. With any luck, nobody would see her.

‘Miss Mansfield?’

Lovett, the butler, appeared out of nowhere and regarded her with open curiosity. There was nothing for it; Amelia had to explain her appearance. Sort of.

‘I am off to do some charitable work with the poor.’

The butler looked her up and down, taking in the shabby grey dress that had been washed once too often, the ratty woollen shawl and the old and scuffed boots. ‘Are you sure? If you go to help them looking like that, they might take pity on you and offer you charity instead.’

His face might be deadpan, but his tone was definitely sarcastic. Even so, for some reason Amelia was certain that she had found herself an ally. ‘Where I am going, people are suspicious of fine clothes.’

‘Then I am not altogether sure that I approve of you going there. Where is this place you can only go dressed like a vagabond?’

She seriously considered lying but already knew that the wily butler would immediately become suspicious and might well send a footman to follow her. ‘Covent Garden.’ It was almost the truth.

One of Lovett’s eyebrows quirked upwards. ‘Who would require your charitable efforts there? The market traders perhaps? Or one of the theatre owners? I doubt the brothels or gaming hells need the help of a gently bred young lady.’ He tapped one foot impatiently and Amelia found herself squirming in the intensity of his gaze.

‘If you must know, I am going to help out in a soup kitchen in the Church of St Giles.’

The butler’s reaction was instantaneous and quite explosive. ‘Seven Dials! The most degenerate slum in the entire city? Are you quite mad, Miss Mansfield? His Grace will hit the roof if he finds out that I allowed you to head to the Rookery!’

‘Please don’t tell the Duke, I beg you. I can assure you that I shall be perfectly safe, Lovett. I know the people there and they know me.’

Unsurprisingly, he did not look convinced. ‘Seven Dials is filled with criminals. Thieves and crooks the lot of them.’

‘Which is exactly why I shall be perfectly safe there, dressed like this,’ she said reasonably. ‘Nobody has anything worth stealing and all of the thieves and crooks go to Mayfair or Bond Street to practise their trade.’

Lovett’s mouth opened to correct her and then closed as he regarded her quietly. ‘I have never thought of it like that. I suppose you might be right—but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to let you go there alone. Soup or no soup. His Grace will have a fit. You are not to leave the house.’

‘I am a grown woman and it is my afternoon off to spend exactly where I so choose. Like you, I am a servant. I doubt anyone tries to tell you what you can and cannot do in your free time. At least I am using mine for a good cause. It will be much easier for both of us if you keep it to yourself.’

The butler watched her for several seconds and, to her complete surprise, acquiesced immediately. ‘Very well. Just this once I shall keep it between us. But I shall expect you home well before it gets dark or I will tell His Grace and then there will be hell to pay.’

Relieved that he had relented so easily, Amelia beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Lovett. I shall be back by four. I promise.’

‘Will you be coming in through the back door, Miss Mansfield?’ When she nodded he smiled and gestured her to the passageway behind the kitchen. ‘This is the door to the servants’ stairs. Go up two flights and veer left. The third door brings you right out near your bedchamber.’ That confirmed it. He was her ally. Amelia stood on tiptoe and kissed the man on the cheek.

* * *

Seven Dials looked exactly like it had when she had left it a year before. The narrow streets were still filthy, the doss houses and dwellings were still barely fit for the rats to live in and the dank smell of despair permeated everything. As she had predicted, nobody gave her a second glance in her ragged clothes, although one or two did stare at her boots covetously. Boots, even battered ones, were a rarity here.

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

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.

Silently, he wound his way skilfully through the quiet streets, clearly intent on ignoring Amelia completely. It was difficult not to enjoy the feeling of being held so close to him. Not only did the position ward off the biting cold, but he felt good under her palms. This was not the body of a pampered aristocrat. It was firm and strong. There was muscle beneath the fine clothes that she had not expected to be there. He also smelled deliciously of something male and spicy; the subtle aroma seemed to come directly from beneath his fitted waistcoat and shirt, teasing her nose and making her forget all of the reasons why she disliked him.

‘Why were you in Piccadilly?’

His curt voice rumbled against her ear and broke the sensory spell that had apparently bewitched her. She knew where she stood when he was being pompous; it made him easier to deal with, so the lie came smoothly.

‘It has been such a long time since I have been back in London, I went on a long walk to see what has changed. I lost track of time.’

He was silent for a moment, then she felt his chest rise and fall on a deep sigh. ‘Whilst you are a guest in my house, Miss Mansfield, I must insist that you do not go out alone again. You have my express permission to take a footman with you whenever or wherever you go. These streets can be dangerous for a woman alone.’

The delivery might have been a bit brusque, but the sentiment was sweet. ‘Thank you. I shall do that going forward.’ No, she wouldn’t. A footman would tell him where she had been.

Another awkward silence prevailed.

‘How was your speech?’

‘Irritatingly postponed for another week. Apparently, Parliament needed to have a tantrum today, so all important business has had to be delayed. Again.’

His tone, for once, sounded conversational. If he could be friendly, Amelia supposed she could too—in the spirit of their enforced truce.

‘A tantrum? That is an interesting turn of phrase.’

He sighed again and the last remnants of his tension seemed to disappear. ‘From time to time, or, to be more precise, at least once a week at the moment, the members of both houses feel the need to noisily vent all of their frustrations with the world. When they do, it descends into chaos because so many throw their hat into the ring to shout their opinions loudly.’

‘You sound as if you disapprove.’

‘I heartily disapprove. It is a waste of everyone’s time. Such exchanges never achieve anything. However, it is exactly that sort of nonsense that the newspapers report, so many members play to the gallery in order to get the publicity. That defeats the object of Parliament, in my opinion. It should be a place for educated debate, compromise and purpose—not a circus. It makes it impossible to get anything meaningful done.’

‘What got their dander up today?’

‘The King’s spending habits, or, more specifically, the cost of his extravagant folly in Brighton.’

The papers were filled with outrageous claims about Prinny’s Pavilion, detailing the vast cost entailed in building each part and questioning the need for it in the first place. Yet here was one of his cabinet calling it a folly. ‘Do you disapprove of that too?’

‘The country is drowning in war debts and international trade has virtually collapsed, therefore I can find no justifiable reason why His Royal Highness needs another building for his pleasure.’

His words shocked her. Had he really just criticised the monarch?

‘I can see that I have rendered you speechless, Miss Mansfield.’ He sounded quite pleased with himself at the feat. She peeked up at him from the cocoon of his coat and saw that he was almost smiling.

‘I must confess I am surprised. You are part of his government.’

‘I am part of Lord Liverpool’s government and, as such, our first and foremost duty is to serve the nation—not the monarch. We had a civil war about it a few hundred years ago now, you might recall. I believe we executed the King as a result.’

That was definitely sarcasm, something else about him that surprised her, but a language that Amelia was happily fluent in. ‘But do you serve the nation, sir? Many accuse Parliament of merely feathering its own nest and those of the wealthy gentlemen you represent.’

‘Firstly, I sit in the House of Lords, Miss Mansfield, so nobody has elected me. The only master I loyally serve is my own conscience. I do what I believe is best for the nation, so that England might prosper and its subjects will be happy.’

‘However, as a member of the aristocracy, your personal sympathies will be influenced by the plight of your peers because you have no understanding of any other sort of life. You have never experienced poverty or degradation, for example, so I doubt you have as much sympathy for the plight of those less fortunate as you do for your own people.’

‘My own people? I believe that I serve the people of Britain, madam—those are my people. And it might surprise you to learn that I have eyes and ears, Miss Mansfield. I do see what goes on around me and I am not immune to the poverty and degradation I believe that you are alluding to. My proposal for income tax, for example, which you took particular offence to last night, is a direct response to the plight of the poor.’

As his tone was conciliatory rather than combative, Amelia decided to give him the benefit of the doubt before she ripped his silly proposals to pieces again. ‘How so?’

‘The main problem of taxation in this country is that it is so piecemeal and indirect. Successive governments have taxed everything from windows to sugar and you are quite right; those taxes have had an awful effect on the poor. What I am proposing is a complete overhaul of the entire system. Unfair and indirect taxes would be scrapped and the manner of collecting them, which has been so abused by corrupt officials, would also change. Taxation would be centralised, collected by salaried government tax inspectors and based solely on an individual’s personal wealth. Those who have more should pay significantly more.’

When he put it like that it sounded reasonable, but she was not prepared to let him know that just yet. ‘Is that what your postponed speech was about?’

‘No. That is about the declining state of public health, another cause that the Commons prefer to ignore. I want Parliament to invest some money to clean up the slums.’

‘Does their foul stench offend your aristocratic nose?’

‘Actually, madam, the unnecessarily high death rate offends my aristocratic sensibilities. If the streets were cleaned, and the unfortunate residents were not forced to live in such squalor, I believe that fewer of them would tragically die so young.’

Amelia was shamed by her own uncharitable assumptions. ‘Then I am sorry for what I said about your aristocratic nose.’

A deep chuckle reverberated through him and then her, sending little tingles to the furthest corners of her body in a very pleasant way, and she found herself unconsciously leaning a little closer to him before she stopped herself. Amelia could not remember ever feeling quite so comfortable in such close proximity to another person, let alone a male person—a titled male person with big strong arms. Had she ever been so intimately held by a man? If she had, it clearly had not had such an intoxicating effect on her, else she would have remembered it. Yet it felt strangely comforting and strangely right.

They rode in silence while he manoeuvred the horse around a crowd into a completely deserted street beyond. Frozen mist had begun to fall, giving the alleyway an eerie, otherworldly air that made everything else apart from them seem fuzzy. Even the noisy hustle and bustle of the rest of the city was muted. It felt as if it were suddenly just the two of them. All alone.

‘I did not know that you were familiar with our capital. How long has it been since you were last here?’ His soft, deep voice encouraged her to draw closer still, perhaps because they were in such close proximity that he barely had to speak above a whisper.

‘Just over a year ago now. I grew up here.’ Amelia winced at her candour. She probably should not have told him that. Lady Worsted had been quite specific in her insistence that Amelia should not make things awkward by mentioning her past to anyone. It made his next question inevitable.

‘Where?’

Two streets away from you, in a grand house with servants. ‘From the age of twelve I lived in Cheapside with my mother.’ They had, for a very short while, while her father plotted and schemed to get his marriage to her mother annulled.

‘Does she still live there?’

‘She died a few years ago.’

‘Ah—I am sorry to hear that. I know how painful it is to lose a parent. My father died when I was fifteen. I still miss his guidance.’ That was a surprising admission from a man who was so stiff and reserved. He had feelings, then? She had wondered. ‘So that is why you became a companion? You were alone in the world?’

How did one explain her odd situation? Technically, no. I still have a father, although he is determined to forget that he has a daughter, especially now that the law says that he hasn’t. The lie he had offered her was easier than the truth. The truth was so awful it made her angry just to think about it and Amelia had long ago promised herself that she would not give Viscount Venomous the satisfaction of rousing her emotions. ‘Yes. I went to work for your aunt. She has been very good to me.’

Another intimate chuckle rumbled behind his ribcage, which played havoc with her pulse. ‘Aunt Augusta is a wonderful woman—although she can be a bit of a challenge. I think she has frightened off at least six companions since she was widowed. There has been a new one every few months. Apparently, you have proved yourself to be most resilient to have weathered almost a year. How have you managed it?’

Amelia found herself relaxing again as this topic was easier to talk about. The rhythmic motion of the horse’s trot, the warmth seeping back into her bones and the gentle timbre of his soothing, deep voice was becoming hypnotic. So hypnotic that at some point she had rested the full weight of her back against his chest so that his body could form a protective heated cocoon about her. It might be a tad improper, but it felt far too good to move just yet. ‘Lady Worsted finds me amusing. She says that I am a breath of fresh air.’

‘You are certainly nothing like any of her previous companions. They were all very straitlaced and sensible—which is probably why Aunt Augusta frightened them off. Much as I adore her, she can be difficult, outspoken, and has a tendency to be naughty whenever she gets the chance. I never quite know what she is going to do or say next.’

‘I think that is why we get on so well. I also have a tendency to be a bit unpredictable. I act first and think about it later. I am not particularly straitlaced and sometimes I am not very sensible either.’

‘Hence you were out alone, in the dark, without a chaperon. I am sure if my aunt heard about this she would be angry that you had put yourself at risk.’ There was no irritation in his voice this time; it had been replaced by a gentler chastisement that was designed to appeal to her conscience rather than a direct order.

‘I will try not to do it again,’ she said, hoping he would believe her. She had another meeting to attend tomorrow with the factory workers, if she could get away, and they were always desperately short-handed at the soup kitchen.

‘That is not the answer I was hoping for. I want to hear the words I will not do it again.’

‘Now you are splitting hairs. That is exactly what I just said.’

He laughed at her cheekiness. ‘I am a politician, Miss Mansfield. I know full well the power of words. The way something is phrased tells me a great deal about a person’s intent. Just now, for example, you specifically used the words I will try. There is a vast chasm of difference in the meaning of try and will; therefore that leads me to believe that you have no intention of listening to me at all on the matter.’

‘Perhaps...’

‘Another response that confirms your lack of commitment. Now I see why you and Aunt Augusta get along so well.’

His easy sarcasm made her giggle. ‘Are you suggesting that I am...how did you put it? Difficult, outspoken and naughty?’

Yes, he was and he quite liked those traits, bizarrely. Perhaps because she was a lady’s companion who’d grown up in Cheapside and was, therefore, completely off-limits. ‘You are certainly unconventional, Miss Mansfield; I will give you that.’

She was also playing havoc with his nerve endings, cuddled against his chest, compliant for once and nestled in his lap; those nerve endings were getting lustful ideas again. The temperature might be close to freezing, the fog creating glistening ice crystals on the brickwork they passed, but Bennett was hot.

Very hot.

All over.

‘I shall take that as a compliment. I would hate to be considered conventional.’

Her body trembled slightly with her laughter and it made him wonder if she would tremble with passion too. It had been a reckless and ill-considered decision to put her on his horse whilst he still sat on it. As a gentleman, Bennett probably should have offered the horse to her and walked home. He certainly should not have dragged her against him and shared his coat with her. What he had originally intended as an act of polite chivalry was now almost torture. Whatever had possessed him to do so when such things were simply not done, he could not fathom, aside from the fact that he had felt the most overwhelming urge to protect her. Leaving her alone with his horse had been as unacceptable as ignoring her and letting her walk.

Of course, then she had been shivering with such violence that it had caused him genuine concern. Now that she was all soft, friendly and warm from the heat of his body, he knew he would be doomed to thinking about how well her rounded bottom fitted between his thighs and how her hair smelled of spring flowers for the rest of the evening—and probably most of the night too. Each time she spoke, her soft breath warmed his chest through his clothing and he wished that there were not quite so many layers of fabric between her lips and his bare skin. Or so many layers between his bare skin and hers.

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