The soup kitchen had provided him with his best window on that world, and what he had learned there had been revelatory. It was not filled with the sick, lame and lazy. Many were undoubtedly sick and lame, but they still worked for a living. That had come as quite a shock. Day by day they toiled in jobs, working longer hours than he did, and yet they still could not afford basic food and shelter. As one old man had put it, a day’s wages would pay for one but not the other, so you had to make a choice.
The very fact that the wages were so paltry was shameful. Not a single person he’d met could afford to rent a room. Their beds were the cold, hard floors of interchangeable lodging houses or they slept out in the elements on the street. But, through that, he had also seen humour and humanity. These people helped each other, made the best of things, found things to laugh about and celebrate. The bland vegetable broth and the hard, indigestible bread was the only food many of the poor ate all day, yet it was the people of that parish who continued to raise the money to provide that food. St Giles had no wealthy donors. It relied solely on the generosity of the poor. He’d seen children so malnourished that their young eyes had sunk into their heads. Shoeless. Older than their years. Hopeless. Amelia’s description of the struggle had been an accurate one.
But it was mostly Amelia that was keeping him awake at night. That she had lived through all that through no fault of her own and come out the other side of it determined to help all of the other unfortunates made him, alternatingly, proud at her achievement and furious at her suffering. He was coming to understand her lack of respect for his title. What had the aristocracy ever done for the people of Seven Dials except ignore them?
Yet there was something about her that called to his heart; it was certainly not pity and it was more than attraction. When he had eventually fallen asleep these past two nights, he had dreamed incessantly about her. Fevered dreams that left his body hot and aching when he woke up. He felt both desire for her and a desire to simply see her. Talk to her. In all of his thirty years, he had never experienced anything quite like that, so he could not put a name to it all. Whatever it was, it confused the hell out of him.
Those feelings were made worse by her sudden reluctance to have anything whatsoever to do with him. Bennett had no idea what he had done to deserve that. At the soup kitchen, they had shared a moment. Their eyes had met and, as much as he hated to sound poetic, he had felt that their souls had met as well. But when they had left that place she seemed unable to even look him in the eye. She had scurried back to Mayfair at such a pace that he had been forced to trail behind her. Conversation had been impossible and he got the distinct impression that she had done that on purpose.
Each time he had seen her since, she had been virtually mute and was stuck to his aunt like glue. Surely she was not put out by his one attempt at flirting and winking? The way Dolly was talking, he’d assumed that she heard and saw far worse at the soup kitchen. If he had inadvertently offended, he would, of course, apologise and bring his short-lived winking career to an abrupt end. Or had he done something else to suddenly make her wary of him? Or even hate him?
The thought of the latter made his throat constrict painfully. Just thinking about the woman was sending him mad. He wanted her to like him. But then what? What difference would that make to who he was and what he had to do? He had to marry well, and there were no useful political alliances in the offing with his aunt’s companion, but now that prospect made him feel nothing but miserable. But he had promised his father that he would continue his legacy, which left him feeling torn.
Bennett craved the tranquillity of his little castle. Perhaps all he needed was a few days of relaxation in the country in order to get his head back to rights. A few days when he could be by himself and do exactly as he pleased. Or almost as he pleased. His mother had, of course, invited a few people to take afternoon tea with them on Sunday. The Potentials would be there and perhaps he could redouble his efforts to single one out, and maybe stop feeling so lonely and so obsessed with Miss Mansfield.
That aside, he was determined to make the most of his little break. Bennett could only stay the weekend. He was finally due to give his long-awaited speech on Monday afternoon, so he would leave the Castle at first light that morning. Amelia would stay with his family at the Castle for the rest of the week and he found himself both dreading and needing the separation. He was becoming far too obsessed with his aunt’s companion. Tempted by her. A week apart would hopefully allow him to focus on what hehadto do, rather than what he selfishlywantedto do. He would use the two days to sort out all of his tangled thoughts and then plan what he was going to do about everything that confused him. Or specifically about the woman who confused him.
Miss Mansfield.
Amelia.
With a huff of pure frustration, Bennett realised that he had no idea what he should call her any more. Or why he should be so bothered either way.
* * *
Lovett stretched out on the bench opposite her and kicked off his shoes. He wiggled his bony feet and grinned at her. ‘It’s nice to have some company, miss. Usually I have the carriage all to myself when I travel with His Grace; I know the journey out to Aveley Castle is only an hour or so, but I do get a bit bored on my own.’
Lady Worsted had demoted her to the coach carrying all of their luggage just before they had left. ‘With my sister and George, there will be three of us already. If the weather turns or dear Bennett decides he no longer wishes to ride alongside, it will be easier all around if you are alreadyin situ. We can hardly expect him to sit in the servants’ carriage.’
Of course they couldn’t.
Normally, something like that would not bother her; however, now that Amelia had realised that she was a little bit in love with her employer’s nephew, being consigned to the lesser of the two grand carriages that left Mayfair this morning served to effectively put her back in her place. Duke. Servant. Impossible. Perhaps now she would stop obsessing about the man who apparently had taken over all her thoughts of late.
‘Do you play cards?’ Lovett magically produced a deck and began to shuffle them like a professional.
‘As a matter of fact, Lovett, I do.’ Forcing cheerfulness into her voice, Amelia picked up her reticule and gave it a shake. The coins within jingled. ‘If it is worth my while.’ A bit of friendly gambling might just be exactly what she needed to stop thinking abouthim. It was not as if anything could ever come of it and she refused to lower herself to moping or, heaven forbid, pining.
‘Marvellous!’ The butler pulled his own purse out of one pocket and dropped it on the bench beside him and then rifled under the seat, wiggling his eyebrows as he sat back up, holding a bottle and just one glass. ‘Because I am a gentleman, you can have the glass. I’ll just drink from the bottle.’
‘What is it?’ Amelia wrinkled her nose. She hated gin and nothing on this earth would possess her to drink it.
‘His Grace’s finest port.’
‘You stole his port?’ she asked, part incredulous, part reluctantly impressed at the butler’s nerve. ‘You could be sacked for that.’
Lovett pulled out the cork with his teeth and poured the dark ruby liquid up to the very rim of the glass before handing it to her. ‘Nonsense. His Grace is well aware that I take his port. I have been doing it for years and the worst I ever get is a stern look. My skills are far too valuable. Besides, it truly is excellent stuff. Taste.’
Amelia took a dubious sniff and then a small sip. Having never tasted port before, she was pleasantly surprised to find it rich and sweet. It did not burn her throat like brandy, or make her eyes water like gin, so she took a larger sip as Lovett tipped the bottle and poured some into his own mouth. ‘I told you it was good,’ he said smugly. ‘He gets it brought over by the barrel directly from some fancy estate in Portugal where it’s made and he hardly makes a dent in it himself. And port goes off if it is not drunk quickly, and I do hate to see good port wasted.’
‘Are you sure that we won’t get into trouble Lovett?’
‘Of course I am sure. He will blame me, shake his head and look put upon—but I am too useful a servant to him for anything else to come of it.’
Amelia suddenly remembered the note Lovett had written to get his master out of the reading salon. ‘I suppose you do have a knack for pulling him out of uncomfortable social situations in the nick of time with your little notes.’
Lovett eyed her thoughtfully. ‘How do you know that? Did His Grace confide in you? Even his own mother is unaware of that little ruse.’
‘I have my ways,’ she offered cryptically and took another sip of the delicious drink whilst the butler dealt the cards. ‘I found him hiding in the garden at the Renshaw ball.’ Clearly port made one’s tongue loosen. ‘I suspect that the Duke makes a habit of hiding.’
