Chapter Eleven
Marriage to a politician has to be viewed as a treaty. The nation will expect you to ally yourself with one of the great families of England to maintain the high standards of the government...
T here really was nothing stodgy or reserved about his kiss. The moment his lips fused with hers, it lit a fire within her that burned too hot to extinguish. Not that she gave that much thought at the beginning. All thought was suspended while Amelia gave herself over to the wonderful sensations he created.
Amelia had been kissed before. There had been a couple of chaste kisses from intellectual young men who fervently believed in the same causes that she did. In each case, those romances had fizzled out because neither party felt the same fire for the relationship that they did for the plight that united them. Then there had been the other kisses which had been an unwelcome intrusion. A violation even. There had been quite a few of those too. Things were earthier in the slums and those who did not try to take what they wanted were invariably left with nothing. And she had been a young woman all alone and there were a great many who had sought to take advantage of that fact. Fortunately, in every circumstance, she had been able to fend off the male who tried to take from her.
This kiss fell into neither category. He was passionate—yet tender. The kiss firm yet achingly gentle. And his strong arms felt so very right wrapped around her that she gave in to the flash of desire and allowed her own arms to coil around his neck so that she could cling to him for dear life. It was only when she felt the blanket slither from her shoulders when his arms searched for, and found, her waist, then drew her hips to rest intimately against his that she realised that she was in trouble.
Serious trouble.
This intoxicating man was a duke. A duke who was hell-bent on finding his perfect duchess—a woman who would be well-bred, compliant and aristocratic. He had already reminded her that she was a commoner and therefore unworthy. That meant there was only one thing that he could possibly want from Amelia—and that was the same thing that every chancer and bounder had tried, and failed, to achieve.
Decisively, she dragged her hands to his chest and pushed him away with all of her might. She might well be a commoner now, in fact she was proud to be one, but she would not be her mother and be seduced by his wealth or his power. Or, heaven forbid, his ghastly title. The measure of a man was what he was inside and not who he was born to be. Whilst the Duke might have a bit more substance than some of his aristocratic peers, his arrogant superiority was still ingrained into his soul.
Commoner!
How typically...aristocratic. As if being common was an infectious disease that he needed to be protected from! Well, he needn’t worry on that score. He was too much like her father to even consider him. Not that he would ever offer her marriage, thank goodness. And she was not prepared to be a passing fancy for him either, no matter how much her body enjoyed his touch. Even if he were the very last man on earth, it would be a cold day in hell before Amelia would ever consider any form of dalliance with one in possession of a title.
However, that brought another problem immediately to the forefront. In her experience, the more powerful the man, the less understanding they were about being rejected. Amelia might well want to slap him stoutly on his perfect cheek, but she needed to keep her job. Humour and diplomacy would serve her much better than anger right now.
Bennett fought to catch his breath while he watched the alarming play of emotions on her lovely face. Kissing her had been a mistake. And a revelation. What had he been thinking? Perhaps, for once, he had not been thinking, which was somehow even worse. He never lost his head. Ever. He was always fully in control of every single situation and his emotions. There could be no volcanic eruption in front of Miss Mansfield.
Yet here he was, completely aroused and totally blindsided by a simple kiss with a wholly unsuitable woman. A woman who was now regarding him cautiously, her feline eyes wary and her body poised to either run away or attack. Without thinking, he took a step towards her, but she stayed him with her small hand.
‘Before we continue, Your Grace, I just wanted to be sure that I am right to believe that I am now on your Potential list?’
Bennett had not been expecting that and confusion got the better of him. ‘Um... I...’ How exactly did one politely say that, although one found a woman attractive, alluring and completely maddening, she was wholly unsuitable to be his duchess? She did not meet any one of the criteria his father had deemed essential for high office—no, which Bennett knew was essential for high office. He needed a wife who would be a political asset. A wife with impeccable breeding and an innate understanding of social etiquette, neither of which this conundrum of a female possessed, more was the pity.
‘I see.’ She took his silence as an answer, then bent down and retrieved the blanket before slowly wrapping it around her shoulders and facing him proudly. ‘That is most unfortunate, Your Grace. I am sure your aunt would be very disappointed to know that you had made improper advances to her companion.’
She was right. He had no place kissing her if he was not able to offer for her. Her polite censure made the muscles around Bennett’s ribs constrict with the fierce wave of shame he experienced at his shoddy behaviour. Unfortunately, that shame did nothing to dampen his overwhelming need to kiss her again.
‘I apologise unreservedly. You have my word that it will not happen again.’ Saying that made his throat tighten until swallowing and speaking became difficult. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he inclined his head stiffly and strode back towards the terrace and the safety of the crowded ballroom.
It was a tactical retreat.
If he had stayed a moment longer, he knew he would have been tempted to throw propriety to the wind and tell her that, frankly, he really did not give a damn about the circumstances of her birth. But he had to. He would never become Prime Minister if he scandalously married a woman so far beneath him yet, bizarrely, the vast chasm in their stations made him very sad. If she had not come from Cheapside, if her parentage had not been so lowly and her connections non-existent, if she was not so outspoken, or so impertinent, or his aunt’s servant, and if his choice of bride had not been so very important in order to continue his father’s legacy, then he had a suspicion that Miss Mansfield might well have been perfect for him.
Bennett had experienced an intellectual connection with her that was sadly missing in his life. For a few minutes he had not been the Duke of Aveley, he had been just Bennett. Free and unburdened from the constraints that his position and his career put upon him. And he had enjoyed that. If she had met just one of the criteria that his father had set down, he would have gone after her because he could be himself with her. The simple fact that he could not was devastating.
He waited several minutes before he entered the ballroom again, for propriety’s sake, although he needn’t have worried. Miss Mansfield was gone.
* * *
Amelia deftly avoided him for the next few days—or he was deftly avoiding her—which made life much easier. Her reaction to him had confused her. Not just the kiss, but the simple pleasure of being with him . She had not expected to feel that kind of connection with him, of all people, nor did she want to continue to be disappointed in his reaction when she had called him on it. She might well have intended her words to be a warning which she had wanted His Pomposity to heed, but a tiny, hopelessly romantic part of her had hoped that he might have surprised her. If he had said that he did not care that she was his aunt’s companion and a commoner, or if he had miraculously agreed that she was, indeed, on his Potential list, then she was not entirely sure that she would have had the strength to have resisted him.
Saying that she had no interest in kissing the Duke of Aveley and actually meaning it was, apparently, quite another matter altogether. She had dreamed about the stupid kiss every night since and her traitorous pulse sped up whenever she caught a fleeting glimpse of him. Clearly, a small, errant part of her personality was greatly influenced by her mother’s weakness for the wrong sort of man. Stupidly, she had developed a bit of a tendre for a man with a title—although it was definitely not his title that made him so attractive. It was everything else, inside and out. Even his stiffness was a little endearing.
Amelia sighed and pinned on her old straw bonnet. There was no point in getting upset about it. In a few more weeks she would go back to Bath and be spared the odd feeling that he ignited within her. For now, she could head back to Seven Dials. The factory workers’ meeting and a few hours in the soup kitchen would purge her thoughts of the irritatingly handsome and priggish duke and his intoxicating kisses. She needed to hear some passionate speeches to remind her of the fact that men like the Duke of Aveley were not quite as important or special as they would like to believe themselves to be. They perpetuated poverty and silenced the masses to feather their own nests. So what if he claimed to want to clean up the slums? He would never agree to the more important changes that the so-called Radicals proposed. Fair wages, fair taxation or, heaven forbid, universal suffrage. And he would treat his future wife with the same dispassion that he had shown in his writing. She would do well to remember that next time her mind wandered back to that starlit walk and unforgettable moonlit kiss.
Fortunately, there was nothing to stop her going to Seven Dials today. The house was empty. The only fly in the ointment was Lovett. The butler had made it quite plain that if he knew she was heading out alone again, then he was duty-bound to send a footman, on His Grace’s explicit instruction. If he had not shown her the servants’ stairs that first time, those instructions would have seriously curtailed her outings, but he had and she had become quite adept at using them. Especially the dark back staircase that took her to a door that led directly to the gardens. Once outside, it proved to be surprisingly easy to skirt around the back of the house, behind the stables and down an alleyway that took her into the mews and freedom.
* * *
Bennett’s speech had had to be postponed yet again, which had put him in a foul mood. The morning debate had descended into a shambles almost as soon as it had started and no amount of the Speaker calling order managed to stop the lords from braying like wild donkeys across the floor. After an hour Bennett left in disgust, intent on heading to the tranquillity of his own study in order to get some proper work done, but once again Piccadilly had been horrendously busy—thus making his foul mood fouler.
‘Will you be returning to Parliament this afternoon, Your Grace?’ The groom took the reins while Bennett dismounted.
‘I am not sure yet.’ He should go back for the afternoon session even though the idea of it made him frown involuntarily. ‘I will send word if I need to.’
Bennett was sorely tempted to stay at home. The current behaviour of his fellow politicians was not conducive to getting bills passed and the less said about Piccadilly the better. For some reason, the peace of the gardens drew him and, instead of heading into the house, he found himself wandering towards the empty flower beds. Perhaps he should ignore the guilty knot in his belly and retire to Aveley Castle for a week or two? He had certainly earned a rest. Some time away from all of his mounting responsibilities might get his life back into perspective and help to shift the odd mood that had plagued him since the Renshaw ball—or, more specifically, since he had kissed his aunt’s companion.
Who knew that such an impulsive decision would leave him so out of sorts? He had not felt fully himself in days and he certainly could not focus. He had lost count of how many minutes he had wasted reliving that brief experience and wishing that he could do it all again just to be certain that he had not imagined it.
He had barely seen her since, which was just as well, but he did need to stop thinking about her. With a groan, he sank down onto a convenient bench. This had to stop. He had also diverted far too much of his attention on thinking about not thinking about her, which was a ridiculous way for a grown man to behave. He was thirty years old, for goodness’ sake, so he really should not be mooning about as a result of one silly kiss with a woman he had no reason to be kissing. Fortunately, their paths had rarely crossed these last few days and that was exactly how he liked it.
Unfortunately, at that moment Miss Mansfield scurried across the path in front of him, completely oblivious of his presence. If he had not memorised the exact shape of her beguiling figure, he might have mistaken her for a beggar or a gypsy, so scruffily was she dressed. The dull grey frock was clearly very old and had been patched in places with mismatched fabric. The heavy black shawl had definitely seen better days and the straw bonnet was an abomination. Its only adornment was one wilted, sorry-looking orange flower that dangled listlessly to one side. If her outfit was odd, her behaviour was odder. There was a furtiveness about her movements that made Bennett suspicious. She kept glancing back at the house and then towards the stable as if she was up to no good.
He pressed himself back against the bench and out of her eyeline so that he could watch her. Only when she practically sprinted past the stables did he realise that she was heading out towards the mews, which meant that she was once again ignoring his express instruction that she should not leave his house unaccompanied.
Did the woman have no regard for her own safety?
The London streets were no place for a young lady, especially such a diminutive one. He might well want to avoid her, but he could hardly allow her to come to harm just because looking at her gave his body unwelcome ideas. Not to mention the fact that he was suddenly curious about exactly where she was heading, dressed like a vagabond. Wherever it was, she clearly wanted to keep it a secret.
Or perhaps it was not where she was going that she wanted to keep quiet, but who she was off to meet? She had told him that she had grown up in Cheapside—and she was an uncommonly pretty thing—it was not out of the realms of possibility that she was having a clandestine assignation with some unworthy young buck who did not have to behave like a gentleman. She had certainly not appeared to be a novice at kissing. No wonder she did not want to be constrained by a footman if she was off to meet another man! And no wonder she had not been interested in his clumsy attempt at a kiss! The surge of jealousy galvanised him and, before he could think better of it, he was trailing hopelessly after her, making sure that he kept far enough back that she would not be alerted to his presence.
It would have been impossible to keep track of her on the crowded streets had it not been for the abominable bonnet. The orange flower was like a beacon which he followed relentlessly like a hound after a fox, irrationally jealous and angry at his irrationality. In no time they were out of Mayfair and heading east on Piccadilly and then onto Shaftesbury Avenue. The further up that road they went, the shoddier the surroundings became and the less Bennett recognised until he was hopelessly lost. Genteel society gave way to the slums and his irrational anger was replaced by a growing sense of unease. These were not streets that any sane person would venture into without the protection of a carriage. He could think of no earthly reason why an educated young woman would willingly bring herself here, yet ahead of him Miss Mansfield was still marching with some purpose into it all undaunted, her ultimate destination still a complete mystery.
Of course, in her ragged clothes nobody gave her a passing look. She blended in perfectly. He, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb. The inhabitants regarded him warily as they stepped out of his way and he became increasingly grateful that it was broad daylight. He doubted he would have been given such clear passage through these narrow, filthy streets in the dark. What had started out as morbid curiosity was now no longer funny, and Bennett decided that enough was enough. He quickened his pace to catch up with his quarry. He would fetch Miss Mansfield smartly and drag her, if necessary, out of this dreadful place where who knew what was waiting for her. Or him.
‘Oi! You ain’t paid me!’
Two dishevelled street urchins barged past him. Hot on their heels a shopkeeper gave chase and Bennett’s attention momentarily shifted to the spectacle. By the time he flicked his gaze back towards Miss Mansfield, she had disappeared.