On the walk back to the shop where their carriage had been left, Amanda couldn’t even bear to look at Stephen for fear she’d fly into a rage. Over the past few hours she’d begun to suspect why he’d brought them to Mrs. Chapel’s, and if she was right, then he was the most deceitful, pompous—
“I can’t believe they work those poor children so long and hard,” Mama said in a hollow voice as they walked down an alley.
Amanda’s throat closed up at the thought of everything Mrs. Chapel had revealed. Workers at Hanson Cotton Works endured shifts of at least sixteen hours, which often stretched far into the night, in horrible conditions. Awful punishments were administered to those foolish enough to fall asleep. Accidents were so common, they were scarcely even reported any more.
“And the apprentices are so young, too,” Mama said. “It’s appalling.”
They were called “pauper apprentices”—most of them orphans taken from the workhouses in London to labor in the mills until they were twenty-one. Some began as young as four—four!—working as mule scavengers. Mr. Hanson and his men ought to be horsewhipped.
“It’s appalling indeed,” Amanda choked out.
“That’s all you have to say?” Stephen snapped.
Oh, that tore it. She halted just as they reached the alley’s end. “Mama, I’d like a word alone with his lordship.”
Her mother glanced from Amanda’s set features to Stephen’s narrowed gaze. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I promise to leave him in one piece. That’s about all I can promise.” When her mother paled, Amanda softened her fierce tone. “Please just go on to the carriage. We won’t be long.”
Fortunately, Mama knew when to refrain from arguing with her headstrong daughter.
The moment she’d left, Amanda whirled on Stephen. “Why did you bring me to Mrs. Chapel’s?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? She doubted it. He was incapable of that.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You said you wanted to speak to my sources.”
“You said you wanted to interview me. Except that this was the interview, wasn’t it? To see how I reacted to the recitation of such horrible, despicable—”
“Yes,” he said tightly.
She trembled with a fury she could scarcely contain. “And you thought I would approve of such methods? You thought me such a monster?”
“No!” He raked his hair away from his face. “I merely . . . Other mill owners regard these practices as acceptable, even necessary to their profits. The bastards don’t care about the human cost. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to them defend their cruelties in Parliament speeches.”
“So you assumed I was as bad as they.” Her belly roiled. “You kissed me last night—several times—while thinking that I might be—”
“No.” He gritted his teeth. “You don’t understand.” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice. “I had to determine whether you were an ally or an enemy. I think I have good reason for caution.”
“Really? Have I personally given you any reason?”
“Not yet, but—”
“Not yet ? Are you waiting for me to show my true colors?”
A distinct unease crossed his face. “Certainly not, but—”
“We’re all the same to you, aren’t we? All monsters.”
“I do not think you a monster,” he bit out.
“You could have fooled me.” Before he could respond, she said, “Tell me something, my lord. Where do you think your cotton shirt and cravat were made? Or did you personally see to it that they were produced by handloom weavers in a cottage somewhere?”
“Of course not,” he said stiffly. “There are scarcely any of those left in England.”
“Precisely. Because people need cheaply made cotton goods. So somebody’s mills have to produce them. Wouldn’t it be better to support those mills that follow fair practices, rather than trying to tear down an entire industry?”
“I’m not doing that!”
“No? Without so much as a shred of evidence, you apparently assumed that my mills are as awful as Hanson Cotton Works. Have you ever even been to America?”
“I have not.” He drew himself up. “But I have trouble believing that American mills are any better than English ones.”
“My mills are better!” Amanda cried. “I can only speak for my own. Unlike you, I don’t presume to know the practices of every mill in the world. But I should hope that most owners are conscientious enough not to prey on their workers.”
“Most? I doubt that, having spent countless hours in research and observation.”
“Of the worst mills you can find.”
“Yes! The ones that need changing. It makes no sense to look at the good ones.”
“Maybe if people were to hear how things could be, they might push for change more willingly.”
He glared at her. “People only change if you shock them into it.”
“Now you sound like a mill owner who justifies his harsh treatment by saying that people only work hard if beaten.” Her voice caught. “I suppose you used the same argument to justify your manipulating me so you could find out where I stood on these matters. Instead of asking me, like a decent person.”
He looked momentarily shaken. Then his eyes hardened. “How could I have been sure you would tell the truth?”
“Why would I lie about practices I thought were, to use your words, ‘acceptable’ and ‘necessary’ to my ‘profits’? You pointed out last night that I speak my mind. Did you think I wouldn’t speak it about this?”
He met her gaze coldly. “And what about your determination to talk to my sources? You had some purpose for that which you didn’t bother to share with me.”
Drat it all, she wasn’t like him. She wasn’t! “You never asked my reasons, so I never told you. But they were innocuous enough. I wanted to find out why the English are more successful in their cotton textile production than we Americans.”
“Well, if American mills are all as perfect as you claim, then the owners of English mills succeed because they hire children and work them to death!”
“That is not why!” She thrust her face up to his. “I’ve run factories long enough to know that horrible conditions lead to accidents and losses. Such practices don’t even make good business sense. And when it comes to mistreating children that young . . .”
She choked down bile, unable even to think of a child as young as four in a mill.
Unexpectedly, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry.” When she tried to struggle free, he wouldn’t let her. “I admit I jumped to conclusions about you.” He brushed a kiss to her hair. “I just . . . worried that you were too good to be true. And I stupidly thought this the best way to find out.”
Pushing against him, she scowled. “This, and kissing me. Seeing what you could wheedle out of me by flirtation.”
“Absolutely not.” His eyes burned into hers. “The kisses had naught to do with it.”
“Really?” she said bitterly. “They weren’t an attempt to soften me up?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps I had some notion along those lines at the beginning.” He rubbed his thumb over her lips. “But our kisses rapidly became something else. An unintended complication. An unwise attraction.”
“Very unwise,” she agreed, only somewhat mollified by his assertion that his flirtations had been honest. Tearing herself from his embrace, she turned toward the end of the alley. “I’m glad to hear that we agree on that.”
He blocked her path. “I’m sorry I manipulated you, but as far as I’m concerned, our bargain still holds.”
“If you think I am going to—”
“You said I should write about the good mills. Very well, help me do that.”
That arrested her. “How?”
“Tell me about yours.”
“And you’ll listen without bias,” she said skeptically.
He flashed her a rueful smile. “I promise to try. And in exchange, I’ll see if I can’t find people who can tell you more about English mills and how they work.”
“The good factories,” she prodded. “Not the awful ones who rule their workers by fear and deprivation.”
“Yes.” He stared at her. “But first I must finish my article. And I’m hoping you can assist me.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
He seized her hand. “Help me interview the workers. I can see you have a good heart. What’s more, the workers see it, too. They may be even more likely to talk honestly to a female owner who understands their concerns and isn’t part of the English system. Working together, you and I could learn a great deal more than I could learn alone; we could put an end to at least one bad owner’s reign. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To force Hanson into cleaning up his mill?”
She sighed, still haunted by the fear in Mrs. Chapel’s voice for her family. “I do.”
“So, what do you say?” he asked, his gaze intent on her. “It’s Christmastide, a time to set things right. Will you help me with my article? Agree to a truce for the sake of the children?”
“I suppose.” Her tone hardened. “But only because you need to nail Mr. Hanson and his disgusting compatriots to a wall.”
“We need to do that.” Cocking his head, he smiled faintly. “I had no idea you had such a bloodthirsty streak.”
“Luckily for you, I can restrain it when necessary.”
“Well, you did promise your mother to leave me in one piece,” he teased.
If he thought he could jolly her out of her bad humor, he had another think coming. “That’s the only thing that saved you from my wrath,” she said, and slid past him.
“I was saved from your wrath?” he called after her. “I think I missed that part.”
As she headed down the street, his laughter rang in her ears.
Let him laugh. He would soon find she wasn’t the sort to easily give up a grudge. Especially one that involved her being manipulated by some man.
Christmastide or no, it would be a long time before she forgave Lord Stephen Corry.
♦ ♦ ♦
Five days had passed since Stephen’s argument with Amanda in the alley, and to his irritation, they were once again surrounded by far too many people. Earlier in the day, the servants had brought piles of holly, cedar, and other fragrant greens into the drawing room, and the ladies were now weaving them into garlands and wreaths in preparation for hanging them tomorrow, on Christmas Eve.
“I’m so glad you accepted my husband’s invitation to shoot, Mr. Hanson,” Yvette said as the mill owner helped himself to some cucumber sandwiches. “We do so want to be an important part of the community in our new home. I’m just sorry that the sleet forced all of you gentlemen inside.”
“I’m not sorry one bit, with such lovely ladies for company.” Hanson glanced over to where Amanda was cutting lengths of wire for the wreaths and flashed her an oily smile. “And such industrious ones, too. I’m rather surprised, my lady, that you didn’t leave all this to your servants. I should hate to see Miss Keane cut one of her pretty fingers with those wire cutters.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed dangerously before she caught herself and smoothed a smile across her face. “I’d be happy to have you cut the wires. It would be such a help, a big strong fellow like you.”
Stephen nearly choked on his wassail, even though he was perfectly aware that the point of inviting Hanson was for Amanda to have a chance at persuading the man to let her tour his mill.
Keeping an eye on the arse now heading over to help her, Stephen rose to refill his glass with wassail. These past few days, Amanda had seemed perfectly content to go everywhere with him, speak to everyone, find out everything . . . as long as her mother was with them.
Now that he’d come to know her better, he wanted more—private moments with her and a chance to kiss her again. He’d gone to the conservatory every night, but she was never there.
It was driving him insane. And that, too, drove him insane. He had no business wanting a more intimate friendship. How could it work between them?
“You do that so well, Mr. Hanson,” Amanda said sweetly. “I would dearly love to see you commanding all those strapping fellows at Hanson Cotton Works. Are you quite certain you won’t have a chance to take me about it sometime?”
Hanson ran his gaze down her in a way that made Stephen want to leap across the table and throttle him. “Perhaps on your next visit to Walton Hall, Miss Keane. With the holidays approaching, my workers don’t need anyone as beautiful as you distracting them from their labors.”
When it looked as if she might throttle the man herself, Stephen said, “How is your mother, Miss Keane? Yvette told me she has a cold.”
Amanda drew in a deep breath as she faced him. “I’m afraid so. She has taken to her bed today in hopes that she’ll be well rested for the festivities tomorrow, so with any luck we’ll see her at breakfast.”
“Speaking of Christmas Eve,” Blakeborough broke in to ask his sister, “will there be a Yule log?”
“I hope so.” Yvette wrapped some ribbon around a giant wreath. “It’s still drying out in the stable, but our servants assure me it will burn well enough tomorrow night. Why?”
“You know Edwin,” Clarissa said archly. “Everything must be perfect to keep him content.”
Blakeborough lifted an eyebrow. “And you know Clarissa. Everything must be chaotic to keep her amused.”
When Clarissa glared at him and looked as if she was about to say something cutting, Yvette said, “Edwin, why don’t you help Amanda hang this wreath on the front door?”
“I’ll help her.” Stephen hurried over to pick up the wreath. It would finally give him a few moments alone with Amanda. “I could use some fresh air anyway.”
“So could I,” Amanda said blithely, looking relieved to leave Hanson’s side.
The sleet had stopped, but the cold had not, so as soon as they were out on the portico, she shivered. “When I’d rather be outside in freezing temperatures than inside a warm, cozy room with a certain mill owner, you know I truly detest the man.”
He laughed. “I could tell that long before we came out.”
She shot him an alarmed look. “Could he, do you think?”
“I doubt it.” He wrapped some wire around the knocker to support the wreath. “I know you well enough to see it, but he’s too full of himself to notice anything but a pretty woman flattering him.”
“I hope you’re right.” She supported the wreath from below while he threaded the wire through the ribbon. “But it worries me that he won’t let me tour the mill. I wonder if he’s heard about our questioning people.”
“No, he’s probably just the sort of man who believes that women shouldn’t run factories.”
“And you?” She toyed with the ribbon. “What do you believe?”
“Do you care?”
Her gaze shot to his. “Of course.” She forced a smile. “You’re writing about me, aren’t you? I should hope I care what you write.”
But he wasn’t fooled. Sometimes when he least expected it, she looked at him as if she cared very much what he thought of her. It was the only thing that gave him hope she might one day forgive him. “I believe any factory would be very lucky to have you for an owner.”
The blazing smile she shot him made his heart catch in his throat. God, how he wished he had more time with her. The house party ended on Boxing Day, and she left two weeks later.
He wasn’t ready for this . . . whatever it was . . . to end. Which was odd, since he generally had no interest in prolonging a relationship with a woman he merely desired.
But you don’t merely desire her. That’s the trouble.
He scowled. That couldn’t be true. Mustn’t be true. She was returning to America, and he couldn’t follow. He had too much left to do here in England.
“Well, I hope you’re right that Mr. Hanson hasn’t guessed what we’re up to,” Amanda said as he opened the door for her. “He could make matters very difficult for the workers. Have you gathered enough material for your article yet?”
“I believe so, yes.” He shut the door behind them. “I was planning on working on it some more in a bit. Would you like to help?”
Pleasure suffused her cheeks a lovely pink before she masked it. “Me? What do I know about writing?”
“You were fairly eloquent when dressing me down in the alley five days ago,” he pointed out as they paused just inside the door.
Now her cheeks were positively crimson. “I was maybe . . . a bit too forceful in my opinions.”
“No, you weren’t. But I hope you’ve formed a better opinion of me over the past week.”
“Maybe a little better,” she said with a brief, almost teasing smile that sent his pulse galloping.
“So will you help me with the article? Read it over, put in some comments?”
“All right.” She glanced back toward the drawing room, and her gaze sharpened. “I’ll definitely do whatever I can to make sure that a certain individual gets his just deserts.”
A chuckle escaped him. How could he have ever thought her a hard-nosed owner? Beneath that pragmatic exterior beat a heart as wide as the ocean. “Let’s meet in the conservatory in half an hour to work on it.”
She arched an eyebrow at Stephen. “I think not. The atmosphere in the library is more conducive to writing articles. Right now I’ll tell everyone I’m going up to keep Mama company. But I’ll just check on her and then sneak back down. After I’ve been gone a bit, you can make some excuse for leaving the drawing room and meet me in the library.”
He forced a look of disappointment to his face, though inside he was doing a little dance. Thanks to her randy brother and sister-in-law, a kissing bough hung in the library, too. She probably hadn’t noticed.
“Very well,” he said, trying to sound downcast. “If you insist.”
For the next half hour, all he could think about was meeting her in private. Holding her. Taking her mouth with his. Caressing her. So when he walked into the library to find her reading a book right under the mistletoe, he exulted.
She was so engrossed in her reading that she didn’t even glance up when he entered. Closing the door behind him, he paused to look at her, and something knotted in his chest.
God, she was magnificent, even in that subdued gray wool gown she favored. Her glorious red hair was an upsweep of ravishing curls, and her freckled cheeks shone pink and pretty in the muddy light from the window. It was enough to turn a gentleman into a raving rogue.
But it wasn’t just her looks that captivated him. She was the first woman with whom he felt entirely at ease, the first woman who didn’t make him impatient to be somewhere else. When he was with her, he found himself yearning for something deeper, something more . . . permanent.
No, that was ridiculous. Right now, he yearned for one thing only—a kiss. More than one, if he could manage it. He started toward her and reached up to pluck a berry from the bough, then froze.
There were none. How could that be?
His disappointment was so acute that he spoke without thinking. “What happened to the mistletoe?”
Startled, she looked up from her book. Then she followed his gaze to the bough and smoothed her expression. “How should I know?”
Remembering what she’d said about why women didn’t pluck the bough clean themselves, he scowled at her. “Are you telling me the berries all just disappeared?”
With a shrug, she returned her gaze to her book. “The house party has been going on for days. I can’t help it if the men here take every opportunity to blackmail women into kissing them.”
“It isn’t blackmail,” he grumbled. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
“So I’m told.”
But he noticed she fought a smile as she stared down at her book. The little minx had probably plucked them all herself, just to torment him.
Now thoroughly out of sorts, he dropped into a chair across from the settee where she sat. “What are you reading?”
“Christabel, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”
“Poetry? You?”
“I like poetry. It has a steady rhythm, like music. Or the machines at the mills. It’s quite soothing.”
He shook his head. Only Amanda could find poetry in a mill. “You really enjoy running your factories and working in them every day, don’t you?”
“I do.” She got a faraway look in her eye. “I like seeing something beautiful spun from a piece of nature. I like the whoosh and clack of the flying shuttle, the hum of the spinning mule, and the haze of cotton dust that casts everything in a soft light.”
Hearing her speak of it made his gut clench. If he ever did offer marriage to her, she would never accept. Not if it meant staying in England. She too had a mission of sorts, very different from his.
“I’m afraid I can’t see them as romantically as you,” he said.
“Only because you don’t look at them in the proper light.” She held out her hand. “So, let’s see how you do view them. Is that your article?”
“Yes.” Handing it over, he sat back and watched as she looked it over.
It was a bit disconcerting. He’d never actually witnessed someone reading his work. He didn’t like it. She sighed, she marked things with a pencil, she furrowed her brow. It was enough to drive a man to drink.
When she gasped, he demanded to know why. She merely ordered him to hold his tongue until she was done.
At that point, he couldn’t sit there any longer. Rising from the chair, he strode over to gaze out the window at the icicles melting off the eaves. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. Perhaps she would hate how he’d characterized her. When he’d initially written the piece, he’d thought she might approve, but he was beginning to understand that Amanda—
“Very interesting,” she mumbled.
He glanced over at her, his blood racing when he saw her set the pages down. “You’re done?”
She looked up. “Yes.”
“And you found it interesting.” His stomach lurched. “In a good way? Or a bad way?”
“A good way, of course.” She sounded surprised that he would think otherwise.
He released a breath. “You like it.”
“I do. It’s much more even-handed than your usual work.”
Probably so. The whole time he’d been writing it, he’d heard her voice sounding in his ears, telling him to be fair. “You didn’t mind that I contrasted your methods with those of Hanson.”
“Of course not.” Her cheeks colored. “I’m flattered that you spoke of admiring them.”
She’d blushed more today than in the past five days. It brought his desire roaring to life.
Then she tapped the pencil against one sheet of paper and frowned. “But I’m confused about this part concerning a girl piecer. Jimmy Chapel is eleven, and I don’t recall our interviewing any eight-year-old piecers.”
He tensed. “That’s because we didn’t. Since you wanted me to be careful about implicating the workers, instead of using Mrs. Chapel’s son for my example, I chose to make the piecer a girl.”
Her eyes warmed. “You listened to what I said?”
“I’m not immune to criticism, you know,” he muttered.
“I see that.”
Her soft smile made him want to scoop her up and spend the rest of the afternoon ravishing her. “According to sources, there were several piecers at the mill, so I figured that would make it harder to determine whom I meant.”
“Yes, but the way you describe her is so powerful, so true.” She searched his face. “She feels very real to me. And not just a female version of Jimmy, either.”
How astute of her to notice. He thought about denying it, but he couldn’t. Not with Amanda. Not when she’d come to understand so much about him and his quest.
Possessed by an overwhelming urge to explain why this crusade was so important to him, he said, “You’re right—she’s not a female version of Jimmy.” He dragged in a heavy breath as memories assailed him. “She was a real girl named Peggy, whom I considered a friend. She died in the mills when I was eight, and I never forgot. So I do all of this for her . . . and children like her.”