‘I shall take that as a compliment. I would hate to be considered conventional.’
Her body trembled slightly with her laughter and it made him wonder if she would tremble with passion too. It had been a reckless and ill-considered decision to put her on his horse whilst he still sat on it. As a gentleman, Bennett probably should have offered the horse to her and walked home. He certainly should not have dragged her against him and shared his coat with her. What he had originally intended as an act of polite chivalry was now almost torture. Whatever had possessed him to do so when such things were simply not done, he could not fathom, aside from the fact that he had felt the most overwhelming urge to protect her. Leaving her alone with his horse had been as unacceptable as ignoring her and letting her walk.
Of course, then she had been shivering with such violence that it had caused him genuine concern. Now that she was all soft, friendly and warm from the heat of his body, he knew he would be doomed to thinking about how well her rounded bottom fitted between his thighs and how her hair smelled of spring flowers for the rest of the evening—and probably most of the night too. Each time she spoke, her soft breath warmed his chest through his clothing and he wished that there were not quite so many layers of fabric between her lips and his bare skin. Or so many layers between his bare skin and hers.
He definitely needed a wife!
Bennett had never been so grateful to see Berkeley Square as he was when he rounded the corner. Even the mist cleared beneath the glow of the streetlights.
‘I should probably walk the rest of the way,’ she said, straightening and making them both suddenly self-conscious of their brief impropriety. ‘I don’t want to cause you a scandal.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, more stiffly than he intended. Whatever spell they had been under was now broken. The familiar awkwardness swamped him until he could not think of anything else to say, so he steadied her with his arm as she lowered herself to the ground. Her body was trim and small beneath his hand. But rounded and soft and achingly womanly in all of the right places. Bennett wanted to run his big, clumsy hands all over her.
‘I shall see you at dinner,Your Grace.’
And the way she said that made him want to kiss her smart, impertinent mouth.
Chapter Six
The perfect young lady never snorts or guffaws—or, heaven forbid, draws attention to herself when amused. If she finds something particularly humorous, she will always have the good grace to cover any unbecoming outburst with her fan...
The reading salon was an experience. That was the only way Amelia could think to describe it. The spacious drawing room was positively teeming with ladies, aside from the brave few gentlemen who had graced them with their presence. The Duke was not yet one of them. The Dowager and Lady Worsted held court in the centre of the room and the other ladies clamoured to be seated as close to them as they could, like chickens frantically pecking at freshly thrown corn and twice as noisy. There must be close to twenty people crammed into the room, which led Amelia to believe that it was not quite the ‘intimate and cosy meeting of like minds’ she had been promised.
Several extra chairs had to be brought in to accommodate everyone and, sensing that it was likely to be a very long night, Amelia commandeered one of them and positioned it in the far corner of the room, where she judged few would notice that she intended to while away her time reading something worthwhile. She had tucked a pamphlet on the horrors of child labour inside a copy of Lord Byron’s poetry, but Sir George had pulled his chair close to hers, so the factory children would have to wait.
‘Is it always this crowded?’
Sir George scanned the eager faces and then smiled. ‘To begin with no, but then Bennett began hunting for a wife and all at once we were overrun with eligible young girls who declared an overwhelming interest in the written word. This, my dear Miss Mansfield, is a gathering of a few genuine literary stalwarts, the diehard hopefuls and what is left of thePotentiallist.’
Now the rush to sit closest to the Duke’s mother made perfect sense. ‘Who are the lucky five still in contention?’
Sir George crossed one leg over the other and made himself comfortable. ‘Why don’t we have a bit of fun? You strike me as a very clever girl. See if you can work out who the remaining five are, and if you guess them correctly I shall tell you a bit about each lady.’
‘I do love a challenge. But if I guess them correctly I would like to be rewarded with some interesting gossip about the young lady rather than a dull biography.’
‘Agreed.’
‘All right, then, let me see...’
After reading his silly book, Amelia had a wealth of information about what the Duke would find acceptable when selecting a bride. If any one of these ladies was still on the list, then her demeanour and manners would be perfect. Good posture and a subtle sense of fashion were a prerequisite. The perfect bride would never draw unnecessary attention to herself in bold colours or showy confections. That meant that the young lady wearing the unfortunate frothy dress in a vile shade of orange was definitely just hopeful. Next to her sat a regal blonde in an understated gown that was slightly deeper than powder blue. The colour must have been specifically chosen to complement her fine eyes. Aside from the clothing, the girl also kept subtly glancing towards the doorway. She was looking out for him. ‘That one is aPotential. Two chairs left of Her Grace.’
Sir George chuckled, clearly enjoying their game. ‘Indeed she is,’ he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘That is Lady Bulphan’s granddaughter Priscilla. Good breeding there, or so I am led to believe. Flawless reputation. Even-tempered.’
‘That is hardly interesting gossip. She sounds dull.’
‘Oh, she is, my dear. Dreadfully dull. There really is nothing else to say about her.’ Sir George was clearly unimpressed with Priscilla. ‘Except that her father is also a member of Liverpool’s cabinet and a valuable political ally.’
‘The lady with the reddish blonde hair next to Lady Worsted is also one from the list.’
Sir George shot her an impressed glance. ‘What gave her away?’
‘She is hanging on the Dowager’s every word like a loyal puppy, yet Her Grace is merely requesting that the footman needs to bring in more chairs.’
‘That is Lady Eugenie. She is the daughter of a marquis and very eager to please. Now that you come to mention it, with all those ringlets she does resemble a spaniel. I had never noticed it before. You are very astute, Miss Mansfield. Rumour has it that Lady Eugenie’s grandmother was a simple farmer’s daughter, although, as yet, there is no proof of such a scandalous association.’
‘Good gracious—a farmer’s daughter! I am surprised the Duke even speaks to her.’
‘Ah, but her father is the ambassador to Holland and England does a lot of trade with the Dutch East India Company.’
