A Gentleman Never Tells
Read A Gentleman Never Tells Online
Authors: Amelia Grey
Copyright © 2011 by Amelia Grey
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration by Chris Cocozza
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All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.
—Shakespeare,
Macbeth
, (5.1)
Whorls of light gray mist hung in the damp air. His long strides scattered patches of dense fog that hovered above the ground. Hyde Park wasn’t a place anyone should be before dawn, and was the last place he wanted to be on an early Sunday morn with a stubborn female at his side.
As they entered through the west side, he shook his head over the fact that the wet chill of autumn hadn’t kept her in bed no matter how many times he’d tried to get her to stay a little longer. Viscount Brentwood chuckled ruefully at how temperamental she was when she wanted her way and couldn’t get it, and she wasn’t shy about letting him know when she was unhappy. They’d always had a love-hate relationship, and that hadn’t changed since their arrival in London a few days ago.
In the distance, he heard the rattle of what sounded like a cart or wagon approaching, so he moved to the side of the well-worn path. In this area of the wooded park, it was damn near impossible to see anyone or anything until they were almost upon you, unless it was a clear night with a bright hunter’s moon, and there were far too few of them at this time of year. He picked up his pace, wanting to get this shackling ritual behind him and get out of the park before full daybreak.
“Hurry up, now, Pris.”
All he got in answer was a disdainful sniff.
A minute or two later, a rumbling cart emerged out of the mist. It was being pulled by a strapping lad with a felt hat tugged low on his brow. Two young women wearing tattered wool coats and white mobcaps on their heads walked beside it. Over the clanging of milk cans and rattle of squeaking cart wheels, Brent heard feminine giggles as they passed him. They looked at him and laughed again behind their gloved hands. Even the youngster with them glanced back at him and grinned from ear to ear.
Not that he could blame them. It must be quite comical to see a man as tall and broad-shouldered as he walking a dog that wasn’t much bigger than some of the rats seen down at the wharf. Though the deeper into the park he walked, the fog swirled so heavily on the ground he was surprised they could even see the small dog at all. Her head was barely visible above the hovering mist.
“They’re laughing at us, Pris,” Brent murmured softly, his warm breath stirring the moist air.
Judson Allan Brentwood, seventh Viscount Brentwood, took off his hat, smiled good-naturedly, and bowed to the milkmaids who’d turned to watch him and snicker some more. He slurred his words as if a drunkard and said, “What’s da matter there, gels, haven’t ye ever seen a proper gentleman walk his dog in da park before? Come closer, I’ll let you have a pat or two.”
Brent bowed when the girls gasped and quickly turned away from him. Within moments, the trio and cart disappeared into the heavy mist. While holding the leash with one hand, he reached up and settled his hat back on his head. He then lifted the collar of his greatcoat against the chilling air seeping down his neck. He didn’t really mind the milkmaids and lad having a good laugh off his walking his mother’s cherished pet, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted anyone he knew seeing him walk the dog.
If it hadn’t been for his promise to his mother on her deathbed, he would have left the aggravating little mongrel at his estate in Brentwood. He had started to do just that, but at the last minute, his conscience had gotten the better of him, and he’d grabbed up the dog and put her in the carriage. But if she kept yelping before daybreak, the Mayfair town house might not be big enough for the both of them. If that wasn’t bad enough, whenever he was at home, she seemed to always find a way to be underfoot, or scratching on his door, whimpering to get inside and sleep on his bed.
His mother had always treated the dog as if she’d come from a Pomeranian lineage right out of the King’s kennel. Brent harrumphed at that thought. In truth, his mother had no idea of the dog’s ancestry, though it was mixed to be sure.
Oddly though, he was growing a tad fond of the little devil, though he had no idea why. He’d made a vow to his mother that he would take good care of her dog, going so far as to promise her to take the dog for an early morning walk a couple of times a week. That hadn’t been a problem at his estate in Brentwood, but now that he was in London, he could see how the oath to his dearly departed mother would be harder to keep.
Brent allowed the dog to take the lead and adjusted his pace to her stop-sniff-scratch-and-go routine. The horizon lightened from black to light purple and gray as daybreak fanned across the bottom of the sky. The trees and bushes thinned, and some of the fog dissipated the farther into the park they walked, gradually making it easier for him to see.
In the quietness of the morning, Brent couldn’t help but think fondly of his mother. She was a firm believer in being well read, and she saw to it her three sons were, too. She was always quoting someone. She didn’t care if it was Keats, Shakespeare, Byron, or the Bible. She had even been known to use a line or two from a dreadful horrid novel. If she took a fancy to a quote she had read, she’d find a way to use it before the day was over.
But with all her loving sternness, she carried a dark secret. A secret Brent had kept for ten years and would have kept the rest of his life if he could have. But fate stole into their lives with its own plans. He had tried to spare his brothers the nasty gossip about their parentage that was now being whispered behind fans at parties and churned around the gentlemen’s clubs in London like a deadly whirlpool. Though, most of the time, it seemed the ribald rumors and high-stake wagers bothered him more than his brothers. He was thankful his mother hadn’t lived to see the day when her younger twin sons arrived in London.
When it was clear he couldn’t stop Matson and Iverson from making the move from the Americas back to the home of their birth, he’d felt duty bound to join them. Besides, at the age of thirty, it was past time he should be looking for a wife. Over the years, none of the few young ladies who lived in the villages around his Brentwood Estate had caught his fancy, not enough to propose matrimony, anyway. He decided since he had to winter in London, he would make friends among the ton so he would be ready to peruse the marriage mart come spring when the Season started.
Suddenly the mongrel stopped and started barking viciously.
“Quiet, Pris,” Brent said. “You’ll wake the hounds of hell with all that noise. Come on, let’s get this walk finished and get back to Mayfair. I promised to take you for a stroll; I didn’t promise I’d do it for any set length of time. I have better things to do today than mollycoddle you.”
They walked a few more feet, and the dog stopped again and started snarling. Her body stiffened, and she lunged forward. Her eyes fixed on a stand of trees not far away. The hairs on the back of Brent’s neck bristled, and a prickle of something he couldn’t put his finger on moved up his back. He knew Prissy detected something more than just a rabbit or squirrel rustling the bushes.
She sensed danger.
Brent’s hand tightened on the leash. A chill skittered up his spine, and apprehension caught between his shoulders. He strained his senses to see, hear, or feel whatever was alarming Prissy. And then, through the light mist he saw a figure shrouded in a black hooded cloak walking toward him.
The dog continued with a deep, warning growl. Brent’s gaze never wavered from the person. He paid careful attention to every detail and almost immediately recognized from the slight build, moderate stride, and gentle sway of shoulders it was a woman who approached him. But before he could relax, surprise rode through him when she drew closer with the biggest damn dog he had ever seen, walking calmly, unfettered beside her.
After Prissy’s own start of surprise, his mother’s dog went fiercely crazy, barking fast and loud. She half choked herself with the leash, trying to get to the huge mastiff coming toward them.
“Stop barking, and be still, you silly little devil,” Brent mumbled, holding the dog back.
The young lady stopped a respectful distance from him and regarded him warily. He could barely make out her features, but there was no mistaking her deep blue eyes, full, tempting lips, and alabaster skin so smooth it looked ethereal in the slowly brightening sky.
She took a confident step toward him, a hint of a smile pulling at her mouth. “For such a big man, I would think you’d be confident enough to know how to handle such a darling little dog.”
Brent raised a brow. “If by darling dog you mean this spawn from the gates of hell, then pray tell me, how do you suggest I get her to be quiet?”
The corners of her beautiful lips lifted even more. “You quiet animals the same way you calm people, by speaking softly to them.”
He realized he had somehow managed to amuse her. That didn’t sit well with Brent.
“Not this one,” he said, moving the leash from one hand to the other while he continued to assess the lady.
Her smile widened, and his irritation grew.
His voice was a little more than testy when he said, “Don’t try to tell me her shrill barking isn’t piercing to your ears, too?”
She seemed to consider what he’d said before walking even closer. He watched her with deep interest. She was tall; the top of her head reached his chin. Her frame was hidden beneath her heavy cloak, but he had no doubt she was slender and not boyish in her figure. Her gaze stayed boldly on his face, and for some reason, that show of confidence sent heat pulsing through his body.
“Can’t you see your dog isn’t disturbing me or Brutus?”
Brutus?
Her dog was named Brutus?
Oh, hell.
Brent glanced over at her dog. The mastiff looked to be about the size of a small bear and stood completely still and obedient by the woman’s side, acting as if he couldn’t be less interested in the little terror screeching like a banshee at an exorcism. To make matters worse, here he was, well over six feet, holding a small, fancy dog on a leash, while one of the loveliest ladies he’d seen since coming to London was with a dog who looked capable of ending a man’s life with one bite.
Prissy, who obviously had more courage than brains, was still frantically straining to get at the larger dog. Brutus, who could easily swallow Prissy whole, remained calm and undisturbed as a windless night by his mistress’s side. It was no wonder Brent had made her smile.
The young lady removed her hood, exposing long golden blonde hair. Brent swallowed slowly. He had an immediate urge to reach over and gently glide his hand down the silken length of her tumbled locks. He watched in awe as she lifted her hair from beneath her cape, spreading it gloriously over her shoulders.
She had to know how alluring that was. And especially so to a man who hadn’t been with a woman in far too long.
A delicious quiver started in his loins.
There was just enough of a breeze to flutter a stray tendril across her lovely cheek. She quickly brushed it behind her ear.
His breath quickened as she knelt in front of him. She pulled off one short black glove and let Prissy sniff her hand while she spoke softly to her. The dog stopped barking instantly and allowed the lady to pet her head and gently stroke her back as if they were long-lost friends reunited.
Oh, yes. Brent would be silenced and soothed, too, if she were stroking his head and talking so lovingly to him.
“See, a whisper is always better than a shout.”
“I didn’t shout at her,” he felt compelled to argue in self-defense, but wished he hadn’t the moment the words left his mouth.
“No, you didn’t. But you were speaking gruffly, and that is just as upsetting to an animal.”
Upsetting?
This time Brent held his tongue and remained silent.
“Male or female?” she asked without looking up at Brent.
“Female,” he responded, his throat suddenly dry.
“What’s her name?”
He didn’t want to tell her, but as his mother was so fond of saying, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“Prissy,” he said with as much masculine bravado as he could muster, and then couldn’t keep himself from adding, “She’s my mother’s dog.”
The woman looked up at him and smiled so sweetly he almost felt hypnotized by her.
“Prissy,” she repeated. “That’s a lovely name for such a brave dog. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Pomeranian this small.”
Brent started to tell her that was because the father was of questionable breeding but silently cleared his throat instead, and then said, “And I’ve seen some big mastiffs before but, without question, Brutus wins the ribbon.”
She stared up at him again and laughed softly. The sound wrapped around him like a promise on a spring morning, while her captivating charm sent heat rushing through his body with the warmth of a blazing fire on a bitter cold night. The way she was looking at him played havoc with his lower body. He couldn’t help but wonder what this alluring woman was doing in the park so early and so obviously alone.
“My precious Brut simply didn’t know when to stop growing.” She reached behind her and patted her dog’s big head. Brutus gave her a woof of approval. “But he’s as harmless as a kitten, most of the time.”
Her speech and the expensive fabric and tailoring of her cape spoke of wealth, but no lady of quality would be in the park at any time without a chaperone or companion. She looked a little young to be a well-set courtesan, but then he supposed they were all young once. And she certainly seemed too confident for an innocent maiden. Could it be she was some lucky gentleman’s well-paid mistress? She wore no crested rings on her fingers that he could see, so he doubted she was married, but whatever her case may be, ferocious dog or no, she was living much too dangerously for a lady.
“Pardon my question, miss or madame, but is there anything wrong?”
She rose, straightened her shoulders, and looked directly at him once again. Her expression remained confident as she pulled on her glove.
He sensed a measure of hesitancy in her voice when she calmly said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”