Page 33 of A Wicked Business

Chapter 10

Mama,

I picked up the enclosed yesterday and thought you and Papa might appreciate it. I don’t know who the author is, but she has quite a way with words. I haven’t laughed so hard in some time, though many parts of it make you want to weep for the poor child. It breaks my heart to think of a girl like my darling Tilly, so alone and unwelcome by her own parents and then treated so ill by her wicked grandfather. Yet she is a plucky girl, and I hope her story has a happy ending. There will be rioting in the street, I believe, if there is not a kindly resolution awaiting her in the final chapters. I wonder if it is his granddaughter who has written the story to take her revenge. If so, I commend her heartily for the style shown in her retribution. She must be a force to be reckoned with.

I have an appointment this afternoon with the Earl of Keston. He asked me to call a month since, but I’ve been putting it off. I know he’s going to attempt to persuade me to marry his dreadful daughter and I shall have the devil’s own job extricating myself. Don’t get your hopes up, I shan’t marry her under any circumstances. In truth, she’s not a bad sort and when she is at ease can be a charming companion, but she’s so busy trying to aggravate her father and keep her suitors at bay that she’s all sharp edges and sharper tongue. I do not have the energy to tame such a termagant, and I cannot believe Tilly would do well with such a temperamental new mama. I believe she does not wish for the match any more than I do either.

Her father will not like it, however. I’m not sure how I shall handle him, but I suppose I cannot put off the inevitable forever.

Wish me luck.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Philip ‘Pip’ Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton, to his mother, The Most Hon’ble Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.

4th August 1850, Hyde Park, London.

Belinda had never been kissed before. Oh, she had read about it, read love poetry and the salacious novels that Doris adored and shared with her, and she had dreamed about it. She had dreamed far too often, of late, about what it might be like to be kissed by Mr Knight. Nothing had prepared her for the reality of it.

Perhaps if her nerves had not been jangling already, his kiss would not have caused such a tidal wave of emotion. Perhaps if she had not already swerved from despair to hysteria in a matter of minutes, she could have felt the press of his mouth against hers with more equanimity. Perhaps… but she doubted it.

Strong arms banded around her, pulling her against a body that was hard and unyielding, forcing her softer shape to mould against his. The heat of him seemed to burn through layers of fabric until she was blazing with an internal heat that seemed to begin somewhere she hadn’t even a name for. That fiery joy spread through her veins as if her blood were pure brandy and this bright new flame inside her had set it alight. His mouth was at once insistent and gentle, devouring her greedily but with a tenderness that made longing burst to life in her heart. This! This was what the poets wrote about, this was the exuberant madness that overcame heroines in torrid novels and made them throw caution to the wind, casting away reputation and facing appalling ordeals, all for the men who made them feel this mad happiness, this delirious taste of what life might be like if one was loved properly, a true meeting of hearts and souls.

His mouth moved over hers, easing her lips apart so his tongue could invade and plunder deeper, startling her into making an involuntary squeak of surprise. He engulfed the slight sound as his hands moved restlessly over her and her heart stuttered as his large, warm palm moved up to settle over her breast and gently squeezed.

Belinda gasped, sensations she could hardly comprehend setting her body flaming higher, excitement and exhilaration at being held and touched and cared for by this man. Felix paused and for a dreadful moment she thought he would stop so she clung to him harder, shamelessly pressing her body against his, pushing her breast into his hand. Her arms wound around his neck, clinging like a bindweed to some poor choking plant. His hand returned to her back, using calm, soothing strokes, but as he tried to slow her, she only pressed harder, demanded more, too overwhelmed and confused by everything she was feeling to want this to end. She feared what would happen when it was over, feared that he would not offer her the words she was too greedy to hear.

He broke the kiss, both of them breathing too hard, too fast, and she gazed up at him in wonder, her soul still soaring somewhere above her as astonished happiness filled her heart. She felt exposed and vulnerable, knowing she had shown him too much of herself but not caring if there was the slightest chance he felt even a little of what she did. Her relief in having found an ally overwhelmed her, making her emotions careen around unchecked. She stared at him, a ridiculous smile on her lips, then reached up, touching her mouth, wondering if it looked different, for it tingled so with heat and the need for more of his kisses.

Mr Knight was gazing at her too, but his expression was hard to read. Belinda’s heart stuttered with the dawning realisation that he was not floating on the same cloud as she was.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, his voice unsteady. He sounded somewhat dazed. “I ought not… Should never… That is… That was a mistake.”

Belinda had once seen two children playing in the park. Siblings. The younger sister had been playing with a puppet, until her brother cut the strings and ran away laughing, leaving his sister wailing. In that moment Belinda suddenly knew how the puppet had felt, the sudden severing of that which had lifted her up and made her feel for a brief moment as if she was not alone, that there was someone else in the world who would help to guide her in the right direction.

Fool. Stupid, stupid fool.

Though her knees wanted to buckle, and she was tempted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to take the words back, Belinda reminded herself she was a lady—an earl’s daughter, no less—and even Mr Knight could not take that dignity away from her.

“It certainly was,” she said coldly, wrapping herself in the cloak of fierce pride she always wore in the company of the men her father set in pursuit of her. “I don’t know what came over you, Mr Knight, to act in such an ungentlemanly way. If you will excuse me, I believe I will be safer walking home alone.”

“What came over me?” he said, his shock evident. “Damn it, you wanted me to kiss you!”

Belinda flushed. It was no more than the truth, but it infuriated her that, even in this, he could not be a gentleman and save her from feeling like a brazen hussy. She knew, as they both knew, that she had thrown herself at him, shown him how much she wanted him, and been told in no uncertain terms that her feelings were not reciprocated. She had been nothing but an amusing distraction for a few minutes. Nothing more. Hurt and rage burst to life, and she wanted to strike back at him, to injure him so he might know the same pain she felt, the same humiliation at being rejected not once but twice in the same morning, and with such brutality.

“I never thought I would be driven to agree with him, but my father is right, it seems. You may dress a man in the right clothes, teach him to speak in the correct manner, but it will never make him a gentleman. Your common blood is showing, but I suppose breeding always wins out in the end. I bid you a good day, Mr Knight. I beg you will not trouble yourself a moment longer over my little difficulties. I shall manage things perfectly well on my own. I do not believe we shall see each other again.”

Belinda put up her chin and walked blindly away from him, tears blurring her vision. Even after being shown so callously that she was not wanted for anything other than that which he might get from any common trollop, her stupid heart still beat with the hope that he might come after her, might beg her forgiveness, but he did not. With her parting words, she had severed any expectation that they might at least remain friends, that he might be someone she could turn to in extremis, with the hateful things she had said. She hadn’t meant them, did not believe them for a moment, but wounded creatures lashed out when the pain was too much to bear, and she was only flesh and blood after all.

Somehow, she found her way home, hurrying past Kimble whose worried voice followed her up the stairs, asking if she was well. She could not find it in herself to reassure the dear old fellow, knowing she would break down and sob if anyone showed her even a mite of kindness. So, she went to her room and closed the door and cried all by herself, just as she had done as a child. And when there were no tears left, she got up and washed her face and gave herself a stern talking to. She was a woman grown now, not a helpless child. Belinda was determined she would never be helpless again. Never again would she run herself ragged, trying her utmost to collect any tiny scraps of affection her father showed her and knit them together into proof of love. She would certainly not do so for Mr Knight, making more of a fool of herself than she already had by pining for a man who clearly felt nothing for her.

There were only two people who had ever cared for her and shown it. Kimble, who had felt sorry for a lonely little girl and tried to make up for her solitary existence as best he could, and Doris, her staunchest ally and friend. Except Kimble was an old man whose livelihood relied upon working for her father, and she could not ask any more of him than he had already given. And even Doris had a future before her if all went well with Mr Kirby. Doris’ dream of Belinda marrying Mr Knight and her marrying his secretary was nothing more than that, a childish fairytale. There were no happy-ever-afters, not in real life. Not for her, at least. The best that she could do, the very best, was to take control of her life and never again let anyone else have any power over her.

For that, she must come up with a plan of action, and she must do it at once.

4th August 1850, Berwick Street, Soho, London.

Felix had been so shocked by Belinda’s words, and by the coldness of their delivery, he’d been unable to move for several minutes. Though he was used to being viewed by some as a presumptuous upstart, little better than a crass barrow boy with a fortune to buy him entry into those hallowed places so prized by the ton, he had never had a woman speak to him so. There had been times at school when he’d had to fight those who believed themselves his superiors, but he’d inherited his father’s size and strength, and his formidable right hook too. No one had ever beaten him, had ever succeeded in making him feel less that he was. His parents had always given him the certainty to believe in himself, in his own talents and in a sense of justice and fair play that he had lived his life by. He had never believed those unkind, unjust opinions troubled him. He’d thought himself too confident, too sensible to care what a few narrow-minded snobs thought. There were plenty of noblemen and women who counted him as kin or friend and never made him feel he was less, that he was an imposter in their midst.

Yet Lady Belinda Madox-Brown had shaken that certainty with her words, and he was suddenly all at sea. Did she believe he was less than other men of her breeding? Did she look at him and see something lacking? And what did he care if she did?