"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

As the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve I looked around and took in all the couples who were ringing in the New Year with passionate embraces.

Then I looked to my left, watching as Katja walks away, her long legs carrying her slim figure through the crowd quicker than the fireworks burst above the Thames. After four years together I'm slightly stunned that it has taken her this long to realise that an engagement ring from me will never make its way onto her hand, but then I remembered the slap she whipped across my face. Maybe four years had given her false hope; with hindsight, I should have ended it sooner.

I guide my way through the masses of people, going in the opposite direction, wanting and needing to escape the frivolity that this night had become. The fireworks burst in rainbow coloured drops against the inky night sky, the crackling and whirling filling my ears as smoke blurs my vision.

I'm quite in awe of New Year's Eve in London, this being only the fourth time in all my thirty-two years that I've seen in the New Year outside Scotland, all those being the years I'd spent with Katja.

The further down the river I walk, the quieter my surrounds become, and my shoulders begin to relax under the heavy coat that swamps me. I feel my phone vibrate against my hand in my pocket, the first of many messages that'll be received in a flurry in the next five minutes. I let the phone store all the messages that I'll no doubt delete in a mass exodus in ten minutes, as I veer away from the river bank taking a shortcut to Knightsbridge.

Pubs, bars and club doors are bursting with revellers drinking themselves into a three-day stupor as the celebrations continue into the heart of the capital. I keep my head down, my overgrown dark blonde hair hiding my blue eyes so that I won't be forced into eye contact as I dodge yet another drunken couple making out.

Why people would want to be that affectionate in public is beyond me, but as Katja screamed earlier, I seem to be incapable of showing any emotion. Blame it on my cold hardened heart or perhaps my father's continuous adultery and my parent's subsequent divorce, but love has always seemed pointless in the grand scheme of things. Then again, many people would blame my shortcomings on the fact that I never did come to terms with my inherited Title and fortune, and so I meet everyone with wariness and apprehension.

Avoiding another smooching couple I turn the next corner only to be winded as I'm body slammed by a young woman fleeing a nearby restaurant, her arms juggling a coat and a clutch bag which falls as she steadies to balance herself.

"Sorry," I hear the woman sob, although I'm sure the crying isn't linked to her apology.

She drops to the cold, wet ground, retrieving the contents of her bag as her short party dress rides upwards to reveal her tanned legs. I bend to help her, searching her face for answers as to what has upset her so much. The loose curl of her dark hair masks her face although I catch a glimpse of mascara-stained tears streaking her cheeks.

Our hands touch as we both reach for a hotel key card. She pulls away from me as if my touch burns her and she leaps to her feet as I hear a man behind her shouting what I presume is her name. Her eyes meet mine as she takes the card from my outstretched hand, the pale blue colour almost silently thanking me as she turns to meet the other man

"Ella," he sighs as he nears the woman. "Can we please go somewhere quiet and talk? I need to explain."

"Explain how you happened to end up sleeping with my best friend?" Ella shouts as others on the street turn to watch the spectacle unfold. "Come on then, Sam. Explain."

I stand awkwardly as the man tries and fails to explain his actions, instead, looking as guilty as he surely was. The way he plunged his hands into his jean pockets told me he wasn't in the least bit remorseful of his actions. I suppose Ella also realised this, retaliating by launching the hotel key card she held at the man's head.

He swore and ducked to avoid the incoming missile, a flash of anger gleaming from his eyes as he picks up the discarded plastic before turning his gaze on Ella.

"Jesus, Ella," he spits. "Are you seriously shocked that I'd cheat on you when you do shit like this?"

Ella moved quickly, her fist thumping against the man's chest as he tried to push her away from him. I moved forward and inexplicably wrapped my arms around Ella's waist, lifting her from the ground as I turn and place myself between the warring couple.

"You are completely mental," the man points at Ella before walking away. "We're finished. Over."

"You think?" Ella shouts sarcastically after her ex-boyfriend as she attempts to flee my grip. "You can let me go now."

I hadn't realised how close I'd held her against me until she was an arm's length away, wiping angry tears from her face. I search my pockets for a handkerchief and hold it out for her. She smiles weakly as she takes it from me, dabbing the material along her stained face before returning it.

She straightens her dress, blood flushing her cheeks as she notices how much shorter her dress was compared to how it should be. She tucks her curled shoulder-length hair behind her ears as she pulls her coat over her shoulders, shivering in the bitter British winter. I see how unsteady she is in her heels, suspecting that she may have had one drink too many.

"Are you ok?" I ask her, fully aware that my concern for her is extremely out of character.

She shoots me an angry glare, one that tells me that I may have asked the wrong question.

"I'm fine," she sighs eventually, a shallow laugh escaping her rose coloured lips. "Except, there goes my place to stay tonight. He's got the damn key card. And the name of the hotel."

I follow her gaze up the road, the ex-boyfriend having long disappeared into the crowded night.

Ella looks vulnerable under the street lamps, kicking one foot nervously against the other as she bites her lip with embarrassment. She doesn't exactly look like a seasoned city-goer, her dropped shoulders telling me that she was probably a country girl lost in big, bad London.

My every instinct was telling me to walk away, not to get further involved, that Ella would probably be ok by herself. Then three words kept leaping out at me: Ella, probably, herself.

I was already too far involved for my liking, and knowing her name no longer meant she was a stranger. She was Ella. The fact of the matter was that Ella didn't even know that the name of her hotel so asking for the address would be pointless. And she was going to be alone on a street corner, in that dress on New Year's Eve without anyone else. That was just asking for trouble.

"Do you need a place to stay?" The words leave my mouth before my brain registers what I'm saying.

Ella looks sceptical of my offer, her head tilting to one side as she determines whether or not I'm a psychotic axe murderer. I wasn't, obviously. I have an upper-class accent honed from my time at Eton and Cambridge, my clothes are handmade and business-like while my shoes are Italian leather and too expensive to ruin. I didn't have the inclination to be any sort of murderer, let alone an axe-wielding one.

Ella seemed to hit on the same conclusion as her body relaxes, her lips curving upward into a grateful smile.

"That'll be great," she nods. "I'm Ella by the way."

She holds a delicate hand out for me and I shake firmly, hoping to convey that this is more a business deal rather than anything else. The metal bracelets at Ella's wrist jangle as she re-tucks her hair behind her ear, waiting for me to introduce myself to her.

"Jack," I state, finding my manners at last. "I live over in Knightsbridge, but it's a bit of a walk, especially in those heels."

Ella laughs at the face I pull as I take in the true height of her shoes. In the silver stilettoes, she's only an inch or so shorter than my six foot one, so minus the six inches of help I'd put her at roughly five foot six barefooted. I can't help but think that Ella would look better the more natural she was.

She had curves in all the right places and a perfectly defined waist. Her hair was a natural dark chestnut colour while her blue eyes were paler than mine on her heart-shaped face. The make-up around her eyes made her look older than I believed her to be and shadow her face, but she still manages to look beautiful.

"I think I have enough money for a taxi," Ella starts rooting in her bag and then her pockets as she produces a twenty-pound note.

She hands me the money but I steadfastly refuse to accept the paper from her. I shake my head, bringing my phone from my coat pocket. I bypass the seventy-two text messages and go to my list of contacts as I search for 'Hartman,' pressing the call button once I find the number.

"It's me," I turn away from Ella as I start to speak. "Outside Pissarro. We'll make our way down to Parliament Square. Ten minutes? Ok."

I cut the line dead and turn to Ella.

"So, what do we do for ten minutes?" Ella asks as she pulls her jacket tighter around her.

She begins to walk the length of road to Parliament Square, her legs shaky on the uneven pavement as I follow three steps behind. I count the number of times Ella shivers, her full head of curls shaking wildly each time in a way that mesmerises me. I shrug out of my coat, hanging it on my arm until I finally catch up with Ella by the Churchill statue.

I drape the heavy tweed fabric over Ella's shoulders as she mouths 'thank you' to me, not that I needed gratitude. I may be void of emotion with a heart made of stone, but at least my mother raised me to be chivalrous. I am, at the end of the day, a gentleman if nothing else.

"Whoa," Ella stumbles backwards, resting herself against the base of the statue. "I've never been this close to Big Ben before. It's amazing."

It was slightly adorable how she gazed wide-eyed at the tower as if she were seeing it for the first time. Then it occurs to me that it possibly was the first time. I assumed she'd seen photographs of Elizabeth Tower and the clocks, as most visitors and tourists had; it was too iconic a landmark not to be recognized, but there's a difference between seeing it in a picture and seeing it in person.

I began to wonder about Ella as I watched her watch the clock ticking. Where had she grown up? Where did she live now? What are her likes and dislikes?

I already knew she was single and that she was currently without a best friend. From all accounts, she had violent tendencies and she was in awe of a hundred and fifty-something-year-old clock.

"Why are you staring at me?" She asks as I'm brought out of my daydream and back to the present.

Ella doesn't look at me, her interest still on the clock that reads twelve-fifty-two.

"I wasn't staring," I try to defend myself but I know it was a lie. I had been staring.

People and traffic pass us by, no-one taking a second glance at Ella and me together. From their point of view, we must have looked like every other couple that passed, out celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of another.

The clock chimes at one in the morning and I hear Ella sighing heavily.

"This isn't how I imagined tonight going," she laughs, but I still catch the sadness in her voice. "It's weird what life throws at you, isn't it?"

A car horn blows, alerting me to the black town car on stop before us, the windows darkened so that no-one could see in or out. A tall man dressed in a crisp black suit emerges from the driver's side, his jacket unbuttoned casually as he nears us.

"Mr Courtenay," Hartman greets me before turning to Ella. "Ma'am."

Hartman opens the rear passenger door and ushers Ella in, closing the door while giving me a knowing smirk.

"Just helping a damsel in distress, Hartman," I mutter to the driver as I reach for the handle of the opposite door.

"I didn't say a word, Sir," Hartman counters playfully. "Home, Sir?"

With a nod of confirmation, Hartman's smile widens.

Once I'm sitting comfortably in the plush leather seat I feel Ella inclining towards me, her head resting on my shoulder as her knees rest against mine. Usually, I'd shy away, even if it meant I'd be pinned up against the door, but tonight was different. I couldn't decide why but I knew it somehow had something to do with Ella.

So far, of what I'd seen, she wasn't much like any girl I knew. To begin with, she hadn't thrown herself at me. I groan as I recall the night I met Katja.

It had been at one of the society parties four summers ago just after my grandfather had died. As the closest living male relative, I had inherited my late Pop's Title and country pile, making me one of the most eligible bachelors at the party. Within ten minutes of my arrival, Katja, a tall, leggy German model, had claimed me for herself. She linked her arm through mine and hadn't really left my side from that night to this.

As far as Ella knew, I was just Jack. I was a random guy she met one night. I had no past, my present was as much a mystery to her as she was to me, and my future was pretty linear. Ella had no expectations of me, and that's what made her different.

Intriguing.

The car comes to a stop, waiting for the large garage door to open before Hartman pulls in off the road. The engine dies, and as if instinctively, Ella wakes from her brief sleep, wiping the tiredness from her eyes. She looks around curiously and then assesses her surrounds. She reaches for the handle on her side of the back seat, recoiling slightly from the stark brightness of the garage.

Leaning against her closed door Ella lifts her feet high enough that she can undo the clasps of her shoes and carries them in her arms as we follow Hartman to the lift that takes us directly to the penthouse apartment.

We ride up in silence, Ella and I within touching distance of each other at the back wall while Hartman presses all the necessary buttons on the control panel.

Usually, it takes less than a minute to go from the basement garage to the top floor, but tonight it seemed like a lifetime in slow motion. Eventually the doors open and I let out a breath that I didn't know I'd been holding.

I walk into the dimly lit lobby, flicking the lamp on the sideboard on as I dropped my phone and wallet into the glass bowl. When I turn to find Ella, I see that wondrous look on her face again, her eyes bright on everything she sees.

"Uh, Jack," her voice is shaky as she moves towards me. "This is where you live?"

I can't say her reaction to my apartment didn't shock me; in fact, it was the usual reaction people gave when they stepped out of the lift and into the lobby. A glass window cut into the back wall of the kitchen at the heart of the floor meant that we had a direct view of the reception room and to the cityscape outside. Everything about this flat screamed modern and minimalistic, from all the glass surfaces to the white walls that met us at every turn.

I resist the urge to ask her if she likes what she sees, suspecting that she'd be like everyone else, but then I remember that so far everything about her has made me think the opposite.

"Do you need to call someone?" I ask as I begin to walk to the kitchen. "Should you let someone know what's happened? Or at least tell them that you're staying with a complete stranger."

When I turn to find Ella she isn't behind me. Looking through the glass I can see that she isn't in the lobby as Hartman points behind me into the reception room. Ella is stood at the floor to ceiling glass windows that encircle the reception area, her eyes trained on London.

"Ella?" I try to catch her attention.

"You're not a stranger," Ella smiles as she turns to face me. "You're Jack. But, yeah, I think I should at least phone home and let them know."

She starts walking towards the kitchen bar slowly, her eyes flashing around the room as she takes in all the details. There's a piano tucked into a corner, more for decoration purposes than anything. There's no fireplace, meaning there's no mantelpiece to clutter with family photographs. Due to all the glass, the extent of my furniture is the two large sofas that take up the majority of the reception room, and the long breakfast table that runs alongside the length of one of the walls. There is a more formal dining room, but it hasn't had much use in the past seven years. All in all, the living space of my apartment was bare minimal and void of any personal touch.

I pass the cordless phone to Ella who looks slightly bemused at the electronic device. Granted it didn't look like much of a phone in the traditional sense, but the buttons gave the game away. She dials carefully, still confused by the handset, then places the phone to her ear, her curls again tucked behind her ear.

"Hi, Mum?" Ella bites her lip, bringing the blood to the surface and deepening their colour. "Yeah, I'm ok. Mum? Sam and I had a fight. It's over."

She waits for a reply, and in that time I see tears well her eyes as she tries to fight them back.

"No, Mum," she answers to a question I don't hear. "I'm staying with a friend. His name's Jack and he lives in Knightsbridge. No, Mum, he's nice. Yes, I promise. Ok. I'll be home tomorrow. Night. Oh, and Mum? Happy New Year."

As she pulls the phone from her ear her eyebrows frown until she hands the phone back to me, the call timer still rising. I press a red cross in the upper right corner and the phone line goes quiet.

"Would you like something to drink?" I ask, rather flustered by the fact that I have a beautiful stranger in the place and I don't know what to do.

Ella shakes her head. "No, thank you. I'm just really tired."

I nod, understanding that it has been a long night for us both. Now that Ella's mentioned it, I'm feeling rather beat myself. I place the phone back in its cradle on the kitchen counter and motion for Ella to follow me.

I debate whether or not I should let Ella sleep in the master bedroom or take the guest room. The master bedroom was mine, but it was rather masculine in taste and dark, my sanctuary being the only room in the house with any sort of colour. But then again the guest room wasn't much better. I had been told that it looked like a mental institute ward, the white walls too bare and stark to be considered homely. After drunken nights out, people had thought they'd woken up in a hospital and it wasn't until they came to the lobby that they realised they hadn't.

Without reason I go to my bedroom first, leading Ella into the centre, thankful that my room was decluttered.

"So," I say but not sure what comes next. "There's a bathroom through there and there are extra pillows in that cupboard," I point around the room. "If you need something to wear, I'm sure you'll find a shirt or t-shirt in one of those cupboards. I'll be across the hall if you need anything."

I know at this point I should leave, but I'm rooted to my spot. Ella watched me awkwardly, expecting me to leave.

"Right," I mumble as I start to walk backwards towards the door. "Well, goodnight, Ella."

"Goodnight, Jack," she smiles at me. "See you in the morning?"

I nod and shut the door behind me. I lean against the wall and begin muttering to myself. How could I come across as such an idiot? And why did I care so much? I swear to myself and trudge to the guest room. I shut the door behind me, faced with four walls of white. Now I was in here, I understood what everyone else had meant when they spoke of this room. It was bleak.