Her Lessons in Persuasion

Book 1: School for Scoundrels

by Megan Frampton

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

Megan Frampton dazzles in the first book in her new series, A School for Scoundrels. Five gentlemen with unbreakable bonds navigate life—and love—in London. Perfect for fans of Sarah MacLean and anyone who loves BRIDGERTON! 

To Lady Wilhelmina Bettesford, the “game” of finding a husband is a competitive sport she wants no part of…until her much-younger step mama forces her to play it. So when her stepmother asks sexy barrister Bram Townsend to pretend to woo the amateur astronomer to boost Wilhelmina’s popularity, it’s up to Wilhelmina to navigate a fake courtship that will keep the family from forcing her into a marriage—any marriage—before she finally receives the inheritance that will allow her to live as she wants.

The trouble is every time Bram takes her in his arms she has a most difficult time remembering theirs is an act…the make-believe passion feels very real indeed.

Bram Townsend is a man on the way up: living for his books and his beliefs. Squiring Lady Wilhelmina through London’s dusk-to-dawn social whirl is hardly an ordeal—she’s beautiful, bright, and bold, everything he finds tempting in a woman. Their deal means he can meet the “best” people while she keeps her family at bay. The challenge is he quickly finds himself wanting her to say “yes” when she’s so determined to say “no.” She persuaded him to make this impetuous bargain, but how can he convince her to make it real?

 

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter One

London 1850

London in the evening was a dangerous place if you had money in your pocket.

It was already dark by the time Bram Townsend left his office, clapping his hat onto his head as he shut the door behind himself. An ordinary man with coins jingling in his pockets would, perhaps, hail a hackney cab to take him from where he was in the depths of The City to the fine streets of Mayfair. Far safer than walking.

That he did have money, despite his ignominious birth, made him far from ordinary. Unusual, even. Distinctive.

Bram didn’t take his good fortune for granted. He’d worked hard to become a barrister, making sure justice prevailed in England’s courts of law. He had ambitions of becoming a judge to serve justice even more widely.

He had no time for anything save his profession and his friends—four fellow orphans who’d also been at the Devenaugh Home for Destitute Boys, more famously known as the School for Scoundrels.

That was why he was walking on foot, despite the danger. His long stride and quick pace would get him to where he was going far faster than a hackney would. This evening he was on his way to meet his friends for their monthly meeting, where they discussed books and their respective lives. They’d be debating Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton tonight, and he was already preparing his arguments. Which were numerous.

Bram didn’t spend any time heeding the calls of certain women to come find his pleasure with them as he walked. He also ignored the lively chatter that spilled into the streets from pubs catering to all sorts of people—even, he knew, gentlemen who had the audacity to work for their livings as he did.

Not only would it make him later, it wouldn’t be proper. And since he already had the black mark of illegitimacy tied to his name, he took care to keep his behavior proper at all times.

“Was Gaskell using the murder to illustrate the plight of the Bartons?” he muttered. It felt, while reading Mary

Barton, that he had suffered along with Mary as her life took precarious turns.

The night was cool, the temperate warmth of the early spring day having ebbed as the sun set. Bram liked how it felt to be a bit chilled—his offices and the courts could get swelteringly hot, all the bodies, both washed and unwashed, pressing together in search of justice.

His path took him across the Blackfriars Bridge, the wind a bit colder when there were no buildings to shield him from it. He dug his hands farther into his pockets and lowered his head, making it so he almost didn’t see the altogether inexplicable figure of a woman perched on the parapet, her long cloak flapping in the wind. She wore no hat, and her hair streamed behind her, the moonlight limning her silhouette.

For a moment, his fanciful part—which until that moment he hadn’t realized he even had—wondered if she was an angel come to earth, or some other sort of otherworldly creature. A fairy, a goddess. A water sprite.

But first of all, he didn’t believe in any of that nonsense, and second of all, why would an otherworldly creature choose to alight on Blackfriars Bridge?

And then she wobbled, and he knew she was a mere mortal who was in very great danger of falling off said bridge into the cold depths of the Thames. A mere mortal who was courting great danger, and even greater notoriety.

“Stop,” he roared, rushing forward to wrap his arm just below her knees, jerking her backward as she yelped in surprise. She tumbled off, the fabric of her cloak clinging to him as she pitched backward.

She landed on top of him while he landed right on the hard surface of the bridge.

“Mmfargh,” she said as he made an equally inarticulate groan.

They both lay there still for a moment, him already cataloguing what hurt: everything.

She scrambled off him, hitting a few tender places with her elbows and knees, then rolled so she was on her knees, flinging her cloak over her shoulder.

“What,” she began, “did you do? How dare you?”

“Stop,” he said again, grabbing her ankle. “I can’t—”

“Let go of me, you ruffian!” she replied, wriggling her foot. He held on tight, clasping her ankle with his other hand as well.

“I will not,” he said, his tone low and intense. “I cannot let you do this—”

“Let me?” she said in a squeak. “Who are you to have anything to say about what I do?”

He looked up at her. “Surely it’s not worth it,” he said, groaning as he shifted onto his side. “I am certain we can find you some help. If it’s money you need, I can give you some now, and perhaps try to find you employment. If it’s

something else,” he said, thinking of his own illegitimate birth, “there are resources there, too.”

He couldn’t see her face since the moon was behind her. Was she mortified someone had seen her? Aghast she hadn’t been able to do what she’d originally intended? Relieved she’d been saved?

“Help?” she said, her tone outraged. Neither mortified, aghast, nor relieved, then. “You think I needed help? Employment?” She twisted around to punch him hard on the arm, almost making him fall onto his back again. It had the added bonus of getting him to release her ankle. “I do not need help, you interfering baboon.”

He blinked up at her. “You—?” he began.

“No!” she interrupted. Her speech was that of a lady’s, which was even more surprising. No lady would venture into either of the two neighborhoods the bridge served, and certainly not alone. That wasn’t even taking into account the whole “standing on a narrow piece of stone that would hurl you into the River Thames if you misstepped” thing.

“I was not trying to harm myself,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Which you would have known if you had simply inquired.”

His lips twitched. “So you wished me to ask if you were planning on ending your life before I saved you? What if the answer was yes, should I have said, ‘Please proceed’?” He continued speaking. “And if the answer was no, then I should have saved you? But what if in the course of answering the question your footing grew more unsteady, and you ended up falling in? You would certainly have drowned, even though I had inquired, and you had told me ‘no.’” He paused. “In that case, my intention would have been noble and appropriate, certainly, but it would have had disastrous results. I far prefer my method.”

He rolled onto his knees, wincing at the pain he felt in his back. He took a breath, then rose all the way up onto his feet, holding his hand out to the lady, who still knelt on the ground.

“I don’t want your help,” she said, and he didn’t need to see her face to know she was frowning at his hand.

“Nevertheless, I must insist you take it,” he replied, grasping her forearm and hauling her up before she realized it. “You must know it is dangerous to be out here this late at night, especially for someone like you.”

She slapped his hand away. “Dangerous because strange men might assault me?” she asked pointedly, and he winced, shoving his hand deep into his pocket.

The moonlight shone on her face, revealing her more clearly than before. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in gentle waves, though he couldn’t determine its exact color. Her eyebrows were dark wings over her narrowed eyes, and her mouth was generous, looking as though she liked to laugh. Even though her lips were currently pressed together in a thin line.

“I didn’t—I was not—” he sputtered, and she crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a fierce glare.

“You have proven that this bridge is dangerous, thank you so much,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Making him twitch with the desire to argue with her faulty supposition. “The help you gave nearly pitched me into the water!” she added.

She uncrossed her arms to withdraw a cloth from her pocket and, before he realized it, she was dabbing at his face. He was so startled he just allowed it, but of course not so startled he couldn’t continue to argue.

“Which you proved by standing on a parapet,” he said dryly, instinctively holding his head still so she could continue her ministrations. “Yes, I can see that.”

She growled in response, at which he held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I promise, I have no plans to assault you. I am merely pointing out the obvious flaw in your logic.”

“Are you always this infuriating?” she asked, now frowning at his face as she continued to dab. He had to admit it felt pleasant—albeit unusual—to be taken care of like this. “Or is it just me?”

Bram chuckled in amusement. “I’m fairly certain it is not just you.” If his friends were here, they would most definitely agree.

She was likely beautiful when she wasn’t glowering, he realized.

She was glowering now.

Her head reached to the middle of his chest, which made her of medium height for a woman. She was young, but not so young to make him believe this was some sort of wayward misbehavior of youth. She looked close to his own age of thirty, and he had to wonder what kind of woman reached her age without having somebody responsible for her. The kind of woman you should stay away from, a voice said inside his head.

Not that he had plans to go near any women at all—he had no time for them. Even though a part of him wanted to know precisely who she was and what she was doing.

The curse of being someone whose job was ferreting out information.

“Well, you’ve saved my life, so why don’t you be on your way?” She shoved the cloth she’d been using into his hand, then made a shooing motion.

“I cannot leave you here,” he bristled. “What if you try it again?”

“Thank you, Mr. Helpful.” That sarcastic tone again. “I have already told you that was not my intention. If it was, you would have to spend the rest of your life with me to prevent that. It is not as though—if that was my intention I would be deterred forever because some strange man tackled me.”

“I did not tackle you,” he replied stiffly. This woman was clearly far more outspoken than any lady he’d encountered

before, and he did not like it. At all. “I believed you were in danger—in fact, I know that you were in danger—and I merely removed you from it.”

“By tackling me,” she finished, the tone of her voice making it sound as though she’d landed a hit.

He flung his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. I tackled you. Can you please allow me to escort you from the bridge so I can ensure your safety?” He could not believe he was having this discussion with someone whose judgment was so faulty she would get herself up onto a bridge for a reason other than self-harm. Someone who would do something so untoward that might bring unwanted attention to herself.

“If you had just left me up there, I would be perfectly safe and not sore for having fallen,” she remonstrated. Apparently nearly as unwilling to give up a point of contention as he was.

So they had something in common.

Even if it was an infuriating thing.

“And what were you doing there anyway, if not—?” he asked.

“I was,” she said haughtily, “merely trying to get a better look at the Pleiades.”

Bram frowned in puzzlement. “What in God’s name are those? That? It?”

“Pleiades,” she repeated. “Sometimes known as the Seven Sisters. It’s a constellation. I am an astronomer,” she said proudly. If also derisively.

A lady scientist who saw fit to ascend to treacherous heights for her academic hobby. Definitely a person to stay away from. “Ah, a constellation,” he said in an exaggeratedly understanding tone. “I can see you would have a much better vantage point a few feet above the bridge. Not at all a surprise that you clambered on top to stand precariously atop it.”

“You are mocking me,” she said reprovingly. And also accurately. “I do not wish to be mocked. Or to stand here arguing with you anymore. I will be on my way—thank you so much for yanking me off the bridge and making me fall.”

“You fell on me,” he pointed out. “I was the one who bore the impact.” He gave her a challenging look. “There is no possibility of my allowing you to continue unescorted.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “I will not leave you, since we have established I have no plans to assault you, and I cannot assert that about anyone else you might encounter out here. Where do you wish me to take you?”

He never wished to see her again, nor anybody at all like her, but he would not break his own standards by not seeing her home safely. It was the proper thing to do.

 

Wilhelmina squinted up at him, wishing he wasn’t quite so tall and, to be honest, formidable.

Not to mention aggravating, stubborn, and pedantic.

Words that had been lobbed her way as well, she had to admit.

She hadn’t planned on hoisting herself up onto the parapet, but the clouds had scudded by the moon for just a few minutes, and she wanted to get as good a look at the Pleiades as she could. It made sense at the time for her to get as high as possible. Even though of course she wouldn’t see much more five feet higher. But it felt different.

For one thing, she’d felt wobbly once she’d gotten up there. Not the feeling she’d wanted when she began to climb, she had to admit. Sometimes her impetuous nature had her do things without entirely thinking them through. If she was being honest, most times her impetuous nature had her do things she hadn’t quite thought through.

And then he had grabbed her, making her topple backward, landing her body onto his. And then she had withdrawn a handkerchief to tend to the cuts on his face. What in God’s name was she thinking? Assisting the man who’d thwarted her plans?

It would have been far worse if she had landed directly on the stone. But if he hadn’t interfered in the first place, she would not have fallen. Though she’d still feel wobbly.

So she had to conclude that the whole situation was worse because of his interference.

“Where do you wish me to take you?” he said again. Sounding impatient. “Miss?” he prompted.

“Lady,” she corrected automatically, then cursed herself. She didn’t want this meddling gentleman to know any more about her than he already did.

Which was that she liked to clamber up on bridges and would argue with anyone who tried to alter that situation. And now he also knew she had a title.

If she wasn’t so sore from having tumbled on top of him, she’d go get up on the bridge and try it again. The moon still shone brightly, and the Pleiades were just up there, and she never got enough of staring at the stars. It was easier to focus when the sky was all she saw. It was easier just to do what she wanted rather than what she should.

It wasn’t even what she was working on for her paper, but it was nearly impossible to see the nebulae she wished to without a telescope. Which she had, but it wasn’t nearly powerful enough. Frustrating, since her father would never sanction the purchase of a better one, and she was entirely dependent on him for—well, for everything.

But if she could present her theories in a paper that would be read by other astronomers, perhaps she would be invited to study with the Earl of Rosse in Ireland. His brand-new telescope was strong enough to see nearly everything she wished to.

She sighed in dreamy contemplation of that possibility, forgetting entirely about where she was right now.

“My lady, then.” The man’s tone was amused, snapping her out of her reverie. He spoke in a cultured tone, and she

wondered just what a gentleman was doing walking the streets of London at night.

Apparently the same question he had about her. Did they share a fear of wheeled transportation? Well, no, since she did not have that fear, so that was both asked and answered.

“Allow me to phrase my question more appropriately. Where will I take you? Since I will be taking you somewhere, I assure you, my lady.” He said the last in an exaggeratedly cordial tone, one that was designed to ruffle her feathers.

Which were ruffled. Aggravating man.

“It’s a good thing you have a jaw like Adonis, since your disposition is so deficient,” she muttered.

“Jaw like Adonis?” Apparently his hearing was not nearly as poor as his personality.

She huffed out a breath, now annoyed at both of them, leaning her head to the side to peer past him in hopes of spying an escape. Drat. Only a few slow-moving wagons, likely carrying goods that hadn’t sold at the market. One single horseman galloping far too fast for the road, and a lumbering private carriage that possibly belonged to someone she knew, which meant she could not risk waving it down.

And then she saw it. Its harness jingled as it approached, the two horses keeping up a steady pace, the driver perched on top. A hackney cab, something she knew could be hailed, even though she had never done so herself.

She bit her lip and considered how to manage it, then decided to just do it. The worst outcome was that he would tackle her again, only this time he would have no defense for his behavior, so she would feel justified in screaming. Screaming would attract attention, attention she certainly did not want, but it was unlikely this random man who misguidedly thought he was saving her from self-harm would stick around for the constable.

It was a risk, since if her father found out—she shuddered to think of his reaction.

If the gentleman didn’t tackle her, he might chase after her when she was in the cab; he was quite tall, and long-legged, and she didn’t doubt that he could keep up for a while.

But why would he? she reasoned.

Once she was in a hackney, she was no longer his responsibility, regardless of what he himself might think.

There. The cab was now about three yards away. She’d have to act now, or she would have to allow him to escort her somewhere as though she was unable to take care of herself, and she didn’t want any of that.

She was Lady Wilhelmina Bettesford, infamous for her nonconformity, not to mention her impulsivity, and she refused to have to allow anyone to do anything for her.

And with that thought, she pushed past him, rushing to the edge of the street and raising her hand, waving it in the

air so she could attract the driver’s attention. “Halllooo!” she called.

She sounded ridiculous. Why hadn’t she thought to practice this before?

Perhaps because hailing a hackney cab was not one of the skills a young wellborn lady was supposed to have.

Not that she could paint a watercolor, speak more than fragmented French, or do anything but stab her finger with a needle in the course of doing needlepoint.

If she were to advise young ladies on what they should learn, she’d suggest hackney cab hailing. Along with how to decline an offer of marriage, discreetly take an extra biscuit at tea, and scratch an itch in an awkward place when one was in company. She’d had to learn all those things on her own.

The hackney cab appeared as though it was going to drive right past her, even though she halloooed again, and then the man standing beside her let loose a piercing whistle beside her, and the cab stopped with a sudden jerk, the driver lurching in his seat.

She felt a hand at her elbow and wrinkled her nose. Drat. Of course the man was able to summon a hackney. Likely he had gotten hackney-summoning lessons.

“If you had wished me to escort you home in a hackney, you could have just said,” the gentleman said, still sounding amused.

She made a harrumphing noise, but got into the carriage, watching as he slid gracefully behind her, sitting on the opposite seat.

“Well?” he said at last.

“Well, what?”

“Your address.” He tilted his head toward her. “The driver will need to know where to go. Unless you wish to stay on this bridge a bit longer?”

“Fine,” she muttered. “Tell him 55 Grover Street.”

He repeated the address in a louder voice to the driver, and the cab sprung forward, making her fall toward him.

Again.

He caught her arm, steadying her.

And then he snatched it away, likely aware she had already accused him of groping her. But honestly, what else was she to think when he’d manhandled her so?

She still couldn’t see him that well, but what she saw made her grateful she wasn’t a flibbertigibbet. Because he was remarkably and astoundingly handsome.

If one cared about such things. Flibbertigibbets did; Wilhelmina did not.

Still.

In addition to that jaw, his hair was quite dark, likely near black, swept away from his face in severe lines. His cheekbones were sharp and well-defined, while his Roman nose sat commandingly over a surprisingly sensual pair of lips.

His eyebrows were strong and dark, but it was his eyes that were the most remarkably handsome thing about him—in the dark of the cab they gleamed, and then a lamp shone suddenly in, revealing them to be a light, piercing blue.

Oh dear. Ridiculously good-looking, in fact.

“Why were you by yourself?” he asked, interrupting her assessment of him. “It is not customary—”

“No, of course not,” she interrupted. She knew she was being abrupt and quite possibly very rude. She wished she could stop herself, but when she found herself in uncomfortable situations—such as being unexpectedly hauled off a bridge—she resorted to a brusque hauteur that masked whatever painful awkwardness she felt.

Which right now was quite a lot. And he’d just sounded so . . . stuffy. Like all the people she’d ever met who had somehow figured out that being a conventional lady was the last thing she wished for. Who had judged her with a sniff and a tone.

It also explained why she’d received so few marriage proposals, despite coming from a good family with a large dowry. A relief, to be honest. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in painful awkwardness. Or, more precisely, she could do that more efficiently and comfortably if she remained unmarried, as she intended to do.

She imagined husbands would not much appreciate a woman who’d rather be peering through a telescope than admiring her spouse’s greatness.

And from what she’d seen firsthand, admiring a spouse’s greatness was approximately forty percent of a spouse’s duties. The remainder included raising children, purchasing knickknacks, and drinking copious amounts of tea.

Not the life she wanted. Though she did appreciate a good cup of tea.

“You should have just left me alone,” she said, biting her lip after she spoke.

“I couldn’t.” He spoke firmly, as if he was expressing a simple truth. “I cannot stand by while I see an injustice occurring. And I presumed—which you have been very clear I was wrong in—that you were on the verge of committing an injustice toward yourself.”

“Oh,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel quite so uncomfortable. “I suppose I should thank you.” Now that she’d had time to think about it, she could see why he had leapt to that conclusion.

“Not if you don’t wish to. ...