‘My boots pinch,’ he found himself explaining and then stopped himself. The fact that he was not correctly dressed was by the by. She was the one who had been in a position that was improper. People just did not sprawl over the floor to look at a picture. Under any circumstances.
Beneath his fingers he could feel a bump beginning to form under his skin. An unstatesmanlike bump that would, no doubt, look quite ridiculous tomorrow when he delivered his speech. Without warning she moved closer, looking concerned, and began to gently pat around the swelling on his head herself. The close proximity was unnerving. Bennett could not remember the last time that somebody had touched him without his consent. Every morning his valet shaved him and he briefly touched the gloved hands of the ladies he danced with. That was about as much human contact as he could manage. He usually preferred to keep a good foot or more of distance between himself and another person, just in case they accidentally brushed against him...
Except, as the faintest whiff of something deliciously feminine and floral wafted up his nose and she smoothed her soft hands over his skin, he found that he was quite enjoying her ministrations. Her face was inches from his and her brown eyes were regarding him with gratifying distress. It made him feel almost special.
‘You should probably put something cold on this or you will have a terrible bruise. I did not realise that I had such a hard head.’
Her own forehead was not undamaged. Without thinking and against his own better judgement, Bennett felt compelled to trace his fingers lightly over her matching bump. ‘So should you. Clearly we both have hard heads.’ Her skin was warm and smooth like velvet. He had the sudden urge to explore every bit of it and a peculiar yearning in the pit of his stomach that was most unlike him. Self-consciously, he dropped his hand.
She sat back then and smiled at him, obviously not feeling anywhere near as awkward by the intimacy as he did. ‘Instruct your valet to rub some soap or butter into your boots. It softens the leather. Failing that, I have heard that if you fill your shoes with potato peelings that helps to stretch them a bit.’
‘I will.’
‘And witch hazel is particularly soothing on a bruise. I am sure that the servants will be able to fetch some.’
‘Indeed.’
Bennett had a reputation for being a great orator. His speeches were the stuff of legend, but suddenly he could not string a full sentence together or think of another sensible thing to say. To cover his discomfort, he rose to his feet, wishing that he was not standing in front of her without his boots on, then offered her his hand to help her up. When she took it he felt an odd tingle shoot from his fingers, up his arm, ricochet off his ribs and head straight for his groin. Her hand felt so small in his and when she was upright again he noticed that her dark head barely reached his shoulders.
Odd.
At dinner she had appeared so formidable, yet she was in fact so petite. And he was still clasping her hand like an idiot. A monosyllabic idiot. Stiffly he released it and promptly stuffed his own wayward hands behind his back, where they could do no more mischief, and stood racking his brain for something—anything—to say.
Miss Mansfield mirrored his pose and stared briefly at the floor, drawing her plump bottom lip through her teeth as she did so. It made him wonder what she would taste like. When she did look up it was through her lovely long lashes and he could have sworn he saw the faintest tinge of a blush on her cheeks. Alarmingly, he wanted to touch it.
‘I would like to apologise for my tone earlier—at dinner. I can be a little passionate about certain causes, and the plight of the poor is one of them. I did not mean any personal offence.’
Those soulful eyes of hers robbed him of any coherent response. Bennett wanted to accept her apology gracefully. In his head he could see the words that would be perfect for the task and clear the air between them.
I accept your apology, Miss Mansfield. No offence was taken. It is admirable that you take an interest in worthy causes.
Except he was having trouble getting his lips to form the words because they appeared to be strangely preoccupied with latching themselves on to hers.
He really did not quite know what had come over him to be contemplating such an obvious breach of propriety with his aunt’s latest companion. Dukes could not go about kissing young women willy-nilly in their own hallway, or anywhere else for that matter. It simply wasn’t done. So he nodded. Just the once. Stiffly. Like the most uptight and pompous prig and cringed inwardly at his over-starched formality.
‘I have an important speech tomorrow.’ He barked this out with such force that he saw her blink repeatedly as she stared back at him, a little alarmed. He could hardly blame her for that. At certain times in his life he had really wished he had Uncle George’s easy way with people. This was one of those times. She had just tenderly checked his injury, given him tips on how to stop his boots hurting his feet and apologised for her outburst at dinner and all he could manage was almost granite stiffness.
In a last valiant attempt to make amends, Bennett attempted a smile. Once again, his facial muscles did not want to comply and he feared that it appeared to poor Miss Mansfield to be more of a grimace. Then, to his complete horror, Bennett found himself turning briskly on his ridiculously large stockinged feet, his hands still gripped firmly behind him like an admiral inspecting the fleet, before marching up the stairs as fast as he could without breaking into a run. All the while he could feel the discarded hessians mocking him from the hallway below—Perhaps you really should have put us back on?
The perfect young lady never, ever leaves her chaperon...
Amelia’s bedchamber faced strategically outwards onto Berkeley Square, so it was easy to judge when the coast was clear. Lady Worsted and the Dowager were safely in their carriage bound for Bond Street and would not be home until late afternoon. She had seen Sir George leave a good hour earlier, cutting quite a dash as he walked out of the square, bound for his club. She had not seen him at all today, but she had heard his carriage leave at an ungodly hour, so she presumed that she now had the entire place to herself—give or take about forty servants.
Feeling a bubble of excitement, she hauled her old clothes out of the bottom of her trunk. Finally, she was able to go and visit her old friends at the soup kitchen.
A few minutes later and her transformation was complete. The presentable Miss Amelia Mansfield, gentlewoman’s companion, was gone and plain old Amelia stared back at her from the looking glass. The familiar outfit brought back a whole host of unwelcome memories—hunger, cold, tiredness, hopelessness—but it also gave her strength. She was more than these old clothes, always had been and always would be, but at least now she could use them to help others suffering from the dreadful disease known as poverty.
Judging the back door to be the best exit for a woman who looked like she did, Amelia hurried down the ornate staircase and darted back towards the kitchen. With any luck, nobody would see her.
‘Miss Mansfield?’
Lovett, the butler, appeared out of nowhere and regarded her with open curiosity. There was nothing for it; Amelia had to explain her appearance. Sort of.
‘I am off to do some charitable work with the poor.’
The butler looked her up and down, taking in the shabby grey dress that had been washed once too often, the ratty woollen shawl and the old and scuffed boots. ‘Are you sure? If you go to help them looking like that, they might take pity on you and offer you charity instead.’
His face might be deadpan, but his tone was