For a moment, Amanda could only stare at him. She’d wondered what drove him, but she hadn’t expected this. “How on earth does a marquess’s son have a mill girl for a friend?”
“Not easily, I assure you.” Glancing away, he speared his fingers through his hair in a gesture she’d come to adore.
But she dared not let him see how she felt, or he would guess that she was falling for him. And that was hopeless.
Even if he were enough of a rebel to consider marrying a woman in trade, she doubted he would move to America. He felt compelled to do what he did here, in England.
And did she even want him to marry her? What if she let him close, and he turned out to be like Papa, trying to take things over, trying to make her mills what he wanted?
He’s nothing like Papa. Just look at what he wrote.
Yes. He’d shown he understood her, far more even than she’d guessed. It was gratifying. Intoxicating.
And a little alarming. Though it made her want to understand him, too. “How did you meet Peggy?”
He rose to roam the small sitting area like a caged beast. “My late mother used to help support a school for the children of our local mill workers. She would drag me along when she went to observe. Said it would be good for me, would teach me compassion.”
His voice turned self-deprecating. “As you might imagine, I detested going. At eight, I was starting to be rather full of myself, and I hated being forced to deal with grubby urchins whom I considered beneath me. But I was a dutiful son, so I did as I was told, though not happily. Until I met Peggy.”
A smile softened his face. “She was my age and the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—always neat as a pin, with a face like a cherub and a head full of ginger curls. She took a shine to me when she caught me stealing away from Mother one day at the school to read a book. She, too, was a great lover of reading.”
“She could read?”
“Oh, yes, she had a gift for it, a thirst for learning. And in her I’d found an ally. At first I lent her books from Father’s library. I got in trouble for that, as you might imagine, so then I took to buying her books with my allowance.”
“Your mother didn’t mind,” Amanda said softly.
“She told Father it was good for me to learn kindness to those beneath me.” He shook his head. “She never understood—it wasn’t about charity or kindness. It was about the books. None of my brothers were keen readers, but Peggy knew at once why Sir Walter Scott transported me, why Shakespeare lifted my heart. We could talk for hours just about that.
“Then one day she wasn’t there at the school. When I asked about her, I was told that her father had fallen ill, so all his children had been put to work in the mills to keep the family afloat.”
He sank onto the settee beside her, his eyes bleak. “I made a fuss about it with Father, who said it was none of our concern. Mother said she sympathized, but we couldn’t interfere with another family’s choices.” His voice grew choked. “As if there was a choice. Mill workers don’t earn enough to have choices.”
She took his hand in hers, but he hardly seemed conscious of it.
“Since I couldn’t see her anymore, I wrote her a letter, but I got no answer. For a long time, I wasn’t even sure if she’d received it. Then one day her father came to the manor. He said he thought it only right, since I’d been so kind to his girl, that I be told of . . . of . . .”
Sensing what was coming, she clutched his hand to her heart.
“Of her . . . death.” A shuddering breath escaped him. “She fell into one of the machines and . . .” He stared blindly past her. “Well, you know what happens.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, though the words were wholly inadequate. She brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “So very sorry. Eight is far too young to lose a friend.”
“Eight is far too young to die.” His angry gaze shot to hers. “And for what? Commerce? Cheap cotton shirts? It isn’t right!”
“No, it’s not.” She lifted her other hand to cup his taut cheek. “Why do you think I’m so careful with my own factories? I could never bear it if some sleepy child got hurt. It’s why I’m helping you with this article. I know how bad things can be if an owner is indifferent to the risks.”
“The problem is there aren’t enough owners like you.” He let out a ragged sigh. “Sometimes it feels as if I write and shout and pound the walls and nothing happens.”
“That’s not true,” she said earnestly. “Thanks to you and others, there’s the Factory Acts, there’s New Lanark . . . there are members of Parliament fighting for better conditions. It just takes time for things to change for the better.”
“How can you always be so full of hope? I look and see only hardship and difficulty. You see potential.”
“Because I believe most people have good intentions. They want to do the right thing. They want to help, to make improvements.”
“But when faced with men like Hanson—”
“I look to people like you.” She brushed back the lock of his hair falling into his eyes. “You’re the ones who give me hope.”
His gaze caught hers, fierce and intense and full of longing. It mirrored the longing in her . . . for a connection with him deeper than their platonic friendship of the past few days.
He obviously saw it, too, for hunger leapt in his face.
Suddenly she realized how close they sat, how tightly he gripped her hand . . . how hard she found it to breathe. His eyes deepened until they shone as glossy-dark as holly, and he lowered his head to hers infinitely slowly, as if giving her a chance to stop him.
There wasn’t a chance in hell of that. So as her eyes slid closed, he kissed her.
It started tender and soft, the merest press of lips meant to get her attention. But soon it began a slow crescendo. His tongue slid inside to toy with hers. Then his hands clasped her head to hold her still so his mouth could give and take with impudent, hot strokes that made her blood roar and her heart thunder.
Even his kisses shouted.
Ohhhh, how lovely! How she’d missed this.
A strange excitement built in her belly and she squirmed, not sure why she felt the urge to press against him . . . everywhere. But he must have felt it, too, for he cupped her breast in an intimate caress.
She froze. She should shove his hand away. Shove him away.
There wasn’t a chance in hell of that, either. So she pretended not to notice that he was kneading her breast, lightly, carefully, as if afraid she might revolt.
How could she revolt when she’d just been yearning to have his hands on her? When the sheer wonder of his fondling whipped her blood into a frenzy? Giving herself up to his caresses, she looped her hands about his neck and just held on.
His mouth grew wild on hers, and his hand grew bolder. Oh, it felt like heaven, all of it. She wanted more. She wanted everything.
After several moments of hot kisses and hotter caresses, he murmured against her lips, “I’ve dreamed for days of having you in my arms, putting my hands on you.”
“Why didn’t you do anything about it?” she whispered, arching into his hand.
“You know why.” He planted kisses along the line of her jaw down to her neck. “Your mother was always around.” Shooting her a wry glance, he said, “And you wouldn’t go to the conservatory.”
“Oh. Right.” She began to regret her stubborn refusal to forgive him for his earlier manipulations, because this sweet intimacy was incredible. Now it was nearly Christmas Eve, and they had little time left to experience such delicious . . . astonishing . . .
“You did it on purpose,” he growled against her throat. “And admit it, you plucked all those berries from the bough, too.”
“Not a bit,” she said, then betrayed herself with a giddy laugh.
“I knew it, you cheater.” Even as his hand kept fondling her breast, his eyes gleamed with darker intent. “So now it’s my turn to cheat.”
He tugged her fichu from the neck of her pelisse-robe and tossed it over the back of the settee.
“Stephen!” she gasped, but any further protest died in her throat once he started kissing his way down inside the vee of her bodice. “Ohh, you . . . devilish fellow, what are you doing?”
“Claiming my kisses,” he said hoarsely. “All the ones I would have taken if you’d left the berries on the bough.”
Her breath came in hard gasps as he unbuttoned her front-opening gown just enough to draw it open and bare her corset and chemise to his gaze.
Oh, help. “You really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said as her traitorous hands buried themselves in his hair.
He fixed her with a decidedly carnal look. “I really shouldn’t.” Then he tugged down her corset cup and chemise to reveal one breast, and his gaze dropped unerringly there.
Dear Lord. Who would have thought that having a man look at one’s naked breast would be so enthralling? The part of her that would normally urge caution had clearly gone to sleep, because she wouldn’t have stopped this for the world.
Especially when he lowered his head, closed his mouth over her breast, and began to suck.
What bliss! Her body entirely betrayed her. It pressed into him like that of a dockside tart. Her fingers clutched him tight to her breast, and her lips scattered kisses over his silky locks. He smelled of mint and bergamot, some rich scent that probably only lords used.
But his mouth was just a man’s, with a man’s boldness, a man’s eager hunger. It made her squirm and moan.
As if that encouraged him to recklessness, he eased her back down on the settee until he lay atop her, the strength and power of him surrounding her. That ought to panic her. Instead, it made her feel oddly safe.
This was Stephen, her Stephen. She trusted him with her virtue.
He kissed her again, slowly, leisurely, with heart-stopping strokes of his tongue, and it was perfect. His hand rubbed her breast while his thumb teased her nipple and his mouth made her eager for more.
Then he settled between her legs, and even through her layers of petticoats and skirts she felt an unmistakable bulge hardening against the tender flesh down there. For a moment, it tempted her to be naughty. For a moment, she relished the way he pushed against her, rousing urges she’d ignored most of her life.
Until he groaned against her lips, and her good sense finally reasserted itself. She was playing with fire. And she was the only one who’d be burned by it.
She tore her mouth from his. “We mustn’t,” she whispered. “We can’t do this.”
He froze, then muttered a soft oath, and she had a moment’s fear he wouldn’t relent.
But he didn’t resist when she pressed against his chest to put some space between them. “We have to stop this. Someone could come in any minute.”
Bracing himself up on either side of her, he stared down into her face. “So what if they did?”
She could feel the thundering of his heart against her hand. “Then we’d be forced to marry.”
At the word forced, he narrowed his gaze. “Would it be so terrible? For us to have to marry?”
That made her silly pulse leap. “Are you . . . making an offer? Because this isn’t quite how I envisioned that happening.”
A rueful laugh escaped him. “No, I would imagine not.”
Pushing himself off her, he slid to the end of the settee so she could sit up. For a moment he just sat watching as she restored her clothing. Then she began hunting for her fichu, so he rose to fetch it from behind the settee.
But when she reached for it, he kept hold of one end. “You didn’t answer my question. Would marrying me be so terrible?”
She stared up at the face that was rapidly becoming dear to her. “No.”
With a ragged breath, he released the fichu and came around to sit beside her. Unable to look at him, she struggled to repin the scrap of fabric inside her bodice.
“But it wouldn’t be what you want,” he said tightly. “Living here. With me.”
She concentrated on her fichu. “I’ve worked hard to gain my birthright. I have people depending on me, who need the work that my mills provide. So the ‘living here’ part wouldn’t be what I want.” She slanted a shy glance at him. “But the ‘with you’ part sounds . . . lovely.”
A long silence fell between them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and their slowing breaths. She could hardly believe they were discussing this. Was he really so taken with her that he would marry her? Or was this just his manly urges prodding him on?
She had to know. Twisting to face him, she said, “You could move to America. With me.”
“And what would I do there?” he asked warily.
“The same thing you do here. Try to change the world.” She seized his hands. “You can help me try to change my little corner of it.”
“And abandon all the children who have no one to speak for them?” he said harshly. “The pauper apprentices, the orphans, the lads and lasses whose families can’t feed them so they’re farmed out to the factories instead?”
She gave him a sad smile. “You wouldn’t be abandoning them. There are bad mills in America, too.” When he tried to pull his hands free, she gripped them tighter. “You could help those workers. You could help me make my own factories better.”
“It’s not the same,” he bit out.
“Why not?” When he had no answer for that, she had to resist the urge to shake him. “You aren’t the only person in England who cares about the children, you know. Other people care, too. You don’t have to take the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
Temper flared in his features. “That’s precisely why I want you to stay. So we can do it together. Make a difference together. You say it doesn’t matter whether we do it here or there, so why not stay here with me?”
“Because my mills aren’t here. And England isn’t my home.” Struggling to conceal her disappointment, she slid her hands from his and rose. “From what I can tell, England hasn’t been much of a home to you, either. But if you’d rather live here alone than leave with me, I was obviously wrong about that.”
As he shot to his feet with a shuttered expression but said nothing to contradict her assertion, she fought a sudden urge to cry. She should have known better. She should never have tried to alter his rigid principles. They were unalterable, even for her.
“It’s odd,” she said past the thickening lump in her throat. “That first night in the conservatory, I actually got the insane notion that you might teach me how to have fun.” She shook her head. “But all you really know how to teach is guilt and loneliness. And I already have plenty of both.”
“Damn it, Amanda—”
“So these are yours.” Grabbing his hand, she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out several white berries, which she placed in the center of his palm. She closed his fingers around them. “I believe I’ve paid my debt in full.”
Then she left him standing there under the naked kissing bough.
♦ ♦ ♦
That evening before dinner Stephen stood in the drawing room, watching as Amanda talked intently with Blakeborough. Was she trying to make him jealous? Or was she simply cutting her losses, now that it was clear he wouldn’t come to heel?
Stephen winced. That wasn’t fair. She was the least manipulative woman he knew. She hadn’t attempted to force him into anything, not with guilt, nor with any other weapon at her disposal. She’d merely stated the obvious—that their lives were in two different places.
And yes, it had been unfair of him to ask her to give up everything for him. But she was asking him to give up everything—his work, his home . . .
From what I can tell, England hasn’t been much of a home to you, either.
She had a point. He’d made his life here not because he wanted to, or even because he belonged here. He’d done it because he wanted to show them all that he didn’t need them. That, younger son or no, he could make a difference in the world without playing by their rules.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”
He jumped, then scowled at Warren, who’d come up to stand beside him. “Why? Because I won’t move back home and do your bidding?”
Warren took a sip of his mulled wine. “Because you won’t take what you want.”
He went rigid. “And what do you think that is?”
His brother nodded at Amanda. “Her.”
Bloody hell, the last thing he needed was Warren reading his mind. “What makes you think I want her?” he asked with feigned nonchalance.
Warren snorted. “Right. You only stare at her every chance you get, spend every waking hour with her, and watch her as if she holds the key to your future.”
Sometimes he nearly hated his brother. “Has it occurred to you that she might not want me?” he said irritably.
“No. I’ve seen how she looks at you, too.”
Not anymore. Not after their discussion this afternoon.
His brother lowered his voice. “She’s an heiress, you know.”
“And I suppose you think I should marry her for that reason alone.”
“It’s as good a reason as any.”
“If I were a fortune hunter—which I’m not.”
“True. Her brother may worry about it, but I know you better. You’re too full of righteous fervor to be a fortune hunter.”
He bristled. “I’m getting damned tired of people accusing me of that.” Seizing his brother’s glass, he downed the spiced drink, then handed Warren the empty glass. “There’s nothing wrong with having a conscience.”
“And you wonder why we haven’t invited you to join our club,” Warren muttered as he waved over a footman carrying a tray of steaming glasses.
“Because I have a conscience?”
“Because you can be a dead bore sometimes.” When that made Stephen scowl, Warren added hastily, “Don’t get me wrong: I’m proud of what you’re doing. Your articles are well written, and your speeches inspire people to do the right thing. They’ve made a stir in Parliament, whether you realize it or not, and that’s always good, given how stodgy those Tories can be. I daresay you’ve influenced more than one MP.”
Stephen just gaped at him. Warren was proud of him? He’d read the articles, heard about the speeches? He actually thought Stephen had made a difference?
“But you do have a tendency to go on and on.” Snagging a glass from the footman, his brother stirred the wine with the cinnamon stick. “You’re very single-minded. And sometimes when a man goes to his club, he just wants to relax and enjoy himself, not hear a lecture about the miseries of the world.”
I actually got the insane notion that you might teach me how to have fun.
Damn Warren. And damn her, too. Stephen knew perfectly well how to have fun. He just . . . chose not to most of the time.
“Yes,” Stephen clipped out, “God forbid you should do anything important at your club, like discuss reform.”
“No, we just talk about how to keep our women safe,” Warren said dryly.
Belatedly, Stephen remembered the real purpose of St. George’s Club—to provide a place where gentlemen could band together to protect their women from men who threatened their future or their virtue.
Stephen arched an eyebrow at him. “Who the hell are you protecting? We don’t have any sisters.”
“I have a ward.”
“Clarissa?” He rolled his eyes. “That woman can take care of herself.”
Warren’s expression grew shuttered. “Not always.”
The words gave Stephen pause. “Is there something I should know about?”
“Not a bit. I’ll look after Clarissa.” Warren drank from his glass. “You need to concentrate on looking after Miss Keane. Or doesn’t she deserve to have someone care about her, too? Are only pauper apprentices worthy of your concern?”
The rebuke stung. “Don’t be absurd.”
He wasn’t choosing the paupers over Amanda. Well, perhaps he was, a little. But only because they had no one. While she had—
He let out a breath. No one. Not really. Oh, she had her mother, but Mrs. Keane didn’t deal with the mills. And Jeremy Keane had washed his hands of them long ago. So Amanda would be going back to America to run them alone. Because he wouldn’t go with her.
Stephen muttered a curse. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but she and I have already decided we wouldn’t suit, so that’s an end to it.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Stop saying that! It won’t change anything.”
“You do tend to be a particularly inflexible idiot.”
Inflexible and single-minded and full of righteous fervor. Warren was painting a rather dour picture of him that Stephen wanted to ignore. But Amanda had said much the same. It was harder to dismiss when it came from both of them.
A masculine guffaw from across the room made him look over to see Amanda being teased by another male guest. A handsome one. By all accounts, an unmarried one. And as Warren had so helpfully reminded Stephen earlier, she was an heiress.
Stephen choked down bile. Judging from the misery on her face, she probably wasn’t getting ready to run off with anyone just yet—but one day she would. One day she’d find a husband who did care about her. Who knew how to compromise and have a little fun.
And then she’d forget him. The thought made Stephen’s gut knot.
“Either go after her or put her from your mind,” Warren said. “But whatever you do, stop drooling over her. You’re making an arse of yourself.”
He’d already done that—by hurting her. By ignoring the precious gift she’d offered. By insisting that everything had to be his way, or no way at all.
So perhaps it was time he reconsidered the convictions he’d held so dear. Because if he didn’t, he was going to lose the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry.