A Gentleman Never Tells - Softcover

Winner of the Booksellers Best Award and the Romantic Times Award for Love and Laughter, Amelia Grey's books have sold in Europe, Russia and China. Married for twenty-five years to her high school sweetheart, she has lived in Alabama, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and now calls Panama City Beach, Florida, home.

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.