Chapter 3
Three
As Mrs. Blackwall, Miss Mannfield, and Mrs. Munch rolled away, Ambrose steeled himself for Miss Fenton’s teasing.
What was her motive for swapping places?
She was perfectly capable of driving three in a phaeton, he had seen it many times.
From her laughing eyes and flashing dimple, it was clear she meant mischief.
“Now, do not be cross,” Miss Fenton said, standing nearly where he had set her down. “It is monstrously important to keep boots free from mud.”
He shook his head. Miss Mannfield had spent the entire walk concerned for her shoes.
“Is your ankle strong enough for walking, or will you need me to carry you?” he asked dryly.
“Oh, would you? That would be marvelously chivalrous of you, Rosie.”
He rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting on the use of his nickname. Or her lack of shame for fibbing about her ankle.
“Certainly, though I shall be forced to sling you over my shoulder to accomplish the deed.” He stepped forward as if he truly would grasp her about the waist and haul her up.
Instead of being properly aghast, she colored and giggled, almost goading him to make good on his threat. It would serve her right if he did heft her over his shoulder. What a sight that would be for the few people braving the cold.
He paused and frowned. Why did she bring out the childish and petty parts of him?
“It is too cold to be talking nonsense,” he said. “We should go.”
“We might exit at Hyde Park Corner,” she said and inclined her head to the southeast.
“That is a strange way to get to Cavendish Square. I think most would go by the Cumberland gate.”
“Ah, you do know my direction.” She stepped beside him and reached for his arm.
He held his arm out stiffly. “I have been to your aunt’s house on Henrietta Street several times.”
“But you have not called recently.” She wrapped both hands about his forearm, and they began to walk toward the Cumberland gate.
“I have no reason to call,” he said.
“Not even to retrieve your property?”
Though he refused to look at her, he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I have no need for it,” he said proudly.
“Really? Then you have settled on a wife? Is it Miss Mannfield?” she pressed. “Should I wish you joy?”
“No, I do not need my notebook because I purchased another.”
“Spoil sport,” she murmured.
He smirked. It was gratifying to vex her for a change.
They walked for several silent steps. A frigid wind blew at their backs, and the path was spongy beneath their feet. It was hardly ideal weather for walking, a fact that Miss Mannfield had indirectly mentioned multiple times.
He had spent all his time with the lady trying to determine her feelings. She had insisted she did not care about the mud, but her huffing and eagerness to ride told a different story. Perhaps he should add “frank communicator” to his requirements?
For all her faults, at least Miss Fenton was open and honest about her opinions. She was that rare creature who was not afraid to be different or speak her mind. He had always secretly admired her confidence, though he recognized it added fuel to her meddling and teasing—traits he could not admire.
Miss Fenton bumped his shoulder. “I would wager a small sum that you don’t marry Miss Mannfield.”
He scoffed. “Only a fool would take that wager.”
“Because you know her to be indifferent?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly. “Because she does not suit. Not that it is any of your concern.”
He glanced at her and she smirked.
“Is it because she cannot converse on a variety of topics or is not excellent at domestic economy?”
He stopped and turned to face her. He had come to accept that she had read his notebook—she was too curious and too devoid of propriety to do otherwise—but reciting his list in conversation was beyond the pale.
“Does she read novels?” Miss Fenton tried again, ignoring his scowl. “Or perhaps her sensibilities are too delicate?” She was near laughter.
Blast her for being right. It was true Miss Mannfield had shown herself to be too delicate. Her obsession over the dirt and mud had lowered his opinion of her considerably. He could not imagine a lifetime of managing such complaints.
Being right did not absolve Miss Fenton of being impertinent.
He shook off her hands like a bothersome fly, suddenly hating her touch.
“It is bad enough that you feel no shame for stealing my notebook,” he said.
“Could you have the civility to not repeat my private, personal thoughts or speculate on the ladies of my acquaintance?” His tone was harsher than he intended, but his wounded pride made it difficult for him to be measured.
The laughter fell from her hazel eyes. She blinked and nodded. “I do apologize. I did not mean—that is, I would never repeat your list to anyone else. It was only a jest. Please forgive me.”
Her sudden contrition and promise disarmed him. To scold her further seemed unnecessary and improper, but he also could not bring himself to tender forgiveness.
He sighed. “Let us say no more about it.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement.
They began to walk once more. He did not offer his arm, and she did not reach for it. They were still some distance from the gate when he extended his arm like an olive branch. She took it with a small dimple-free smile.
“Have you heard from Grace?” Ambrose asked. When all else failed, they could always talk genially about his sister and her family.
“I had a letter yesterday,” Miss Fenton replied eagerly. “She is longing for her confinement to end. She says Jamie does not understand why she is so large and cannot carry him anymore.”
Ambrose smiled. “That boy is growing fast, soon I won’t be able to carry him.”
“Is he? With one thing and another, I have not seen him since last harvest.”
Ambrose launched into a description of his visit to Shropshire over the Christmas holidays.
Miss Fenton knew his siblings and the neighborhood and so made for a delightful listener.
She was most interested in stories of five-year-old Jamie, and Ambrose was happy to oblige.
The curious, active little boy was his favorite nephew and endlessly entertaining.
They were nearly at the Cumberland gate when a carriage entered and paused for its occupants to speak to them. The people were unknown to Ambrose, but Miss Fenton greeted them warmly and made introductions.
The two older women and middle-aged gentleman were all pleasantries and complaints about the weather. The conversation was blessedly short. As the carriage rolled away into the park, they continued their walk.
They passed under the gate and stepped onto broad Oxford Street with its rows of brick and marble buildings. The street was busy but not bustling, and a few travel-dusted carriages rumbled past them from the turnpike gate. The cold and lateness of the hour likely kept many at home.
“Well, they are sure to spread tales about us,” she said.
“What tales?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulder, brushing against his arm. “Nothing untoward. Merely speculation on the degree of our attachment.”
“You told them that we are old friends,” he countered.
“Ah, but old friends can make for new lovers.”
Aghast, he glanced down at her, only to see that cursed dimple as she smiled up at him.
“Do be serious.” He shook his head.
“I am serious. Many people marry friends from their youth. It is a reasonable speculation. Especially since I am so rarely seen alone in the company of handsome young men.”
It did not escape Ambrose’s notice that Miss Fenton thought him handsome. Or was she teasing? He was never quite sure with her.
“Of course, if they knew your requirements, they would cease speculating. I am a far cry from your ideal wife.”
“I’m aware,” he muttered. Despite her earlier contrition, it seemed that, like a dog with a bone, she could not let the subject lie.
A group of older ladies approached them, chattering loudly about the cost of muslin. Ambrose and Susanna remained silent until after the group passed by.
“While it is commendable that you wish to marry,” she said, “you are going about it all topsy-turvy. A list of requirements and candidates? The method is devoid of real feeling.”
He lifted his chin. He had relied on his feelings with Miss Popjoy. He would not repeat that mistake.
“Sentiment has destroyed many a man,” he said stiffly. “I will not let it rule me when I choose my wife. I will decide rationally.”
She tsked. “A marriage without affection? That will never do for you.”
Ambrose gritted his teeth. Her declaration was galling. Why must she act as if she had some secret insight into his desires?
“I have considered my plan carefully and I assure you that I will find a rational companion.”
“Rational companion? What about love, Rosie?”
“Mr. Hartley,” he corrected automatically.
She pulled on his arm. “Have you ever been in love?”
Did she know of Miss Popjoy? Had Grace somehow guessed the truth and shared it?
His neck grew hot as he stopped walking and turned to look at Miss Fenton. She grinned at him. The sheer impertinence! He had been too permissive in his interactions if she thought he would answer such a personal question.
A dusty mail coach rumbled past them and he waited so she would not miss his next words.
“For my sister’s sake, I allow your presumptions of intimacy.
But you go too far. Proximity as children does not grant you liberties or insights into my life.
Do not mistake past familiarity for present friendship.
We are not friends.” His voice was harsher than he intended, but he needed to put a stop to her nonsense.
“What absolute blarney.” She was not the least bit cowed and spoke with conviction instead of contrition.
“You lectured me earlier, and now you want to deny our long history? Claim I have no insight? I know you well enough to say that none of the ladies on your list will suit. You are trying to milk the pigeon.” She fisted her hands and placed them on her hips.
“Impossible woman!” He threw up his hands. “How dare you lecture me with such vulgar phrases. You are a spinster and will likely always be one. What could you possibly know about courtship or marriage?”
She took a step back like his words were a physical blow. “That is quite enough,” she said as if she were scolding a dog. She spun away from him and stormed down the street, ignoring the risk of walking without his immediate escort.
Cold guilt dripped through Ambrose. What had possessed him? He had only wanted to discourage her from familiarity, not insult her. But her mention of love had sent him into a panic. The only thing worse than the shame of his history would be if Miss Susanna knew of his foolishness.
The urge to apologize was strong, but first he had to catch her. She walked swiftly and the street grew busier, making it impossible to call out for her to stop. Every time he attempted to match her steps, she walked faster. He gave up and satisfied himself with trailing a few steps behind.
The longer they walked in this strange almost chase, the less remorse he felt.
After all, she had insisted on being improper by teasing him and talking about marriage and love.
Was it any wonder he had spoken rashly? Still, he was not a child and should not be throwing tantrums. As soon as she slowed, he would apologize.
For nearly ten minutes he walked at her heels up Oxford Street.
Several people turned to stare at them, but he did not mark them.
When she turned north toward Henrietta Street he tried once more to come even with her.
This time she did not increase her pace, and by the time they reached her street he was beside her once more.
“Miss Fenton,” he began.
“No.” She stopped walking.
“No? You won’t even—”
She held up her hand. “I have no wish to hear anything more.”
He clamped his jaw tight.
Her bright eyes bored into his for a long moment. “I want you to know that in a few months when every young lady has been struck from your list, I will take no joy in being right. For although you have made it perfectly clear that we are not friends, I wish you every happiness.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already curtseying.
“Good day, Mr. Hartley.”
She spun on her heel and strode away from him, not even allowing him to accompany her the remaining feet to her aunt’s door.
He frowned and turned away, refusing to watch and make sure she reached the house safely. Her welfare was no business of his, she had made that clear.
A mixture of anger and chagrin warred within him. He had not been a true gentleman, but blast if she didn’t bring out the beast in him. Not that his words had done anything to deter her from her brazen impudence.
Her parting words were meant as a kind of prophecy on his expectations for the Season.
He would not let her be right. With his list and plans, he would find a woman that met his requirements and would be a capable helpmate.
In time, his friends and Miss Fenton would see that his method was far superior to marrying for love.