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.
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