Mansfield had no understanding of such things. Her suggestion that he was personally responsible for making the lives of the poor more wretched than they already were was not only grossly unfair, it was downright insulting. He was very aware of their plight. In fact, he had always taken a particular interest in it. If something was not done to alleviate their suffering, then he feared that the very foundation of English government was in jeopardy. The last thing anybody wanted was a revolution like there had been in France or in the American colonies.
Why else would he be so insistent that the wealthy had to take on more of the responsibility for taxation? If the government could raise more from taxes, then that money could be used to improve society. One of his own aspirations was to see the compulsory education of all poor children in government-built schools. Many of his contemporaries were against making the masses literate, claiming that it would merely encourage more revolutionary tendencies, but Bennett firmly believed that reading was a skill that could only serve to improve their prospects in adulthood whilst making the nation greater. That certainly did not make him evil.
His aunt had spoken to him about Miss Mansfield, claiming that she had been dealt a bad hand by life and that she was a truly wonderful young lady when you got to know her. Bennett was yet to see any evidence of that, but it was obvious that Aunt Augusta was very fond of the chit, so for that reason alone he would be benevolent towards her. However, he was not going to be quite so polite the next time she offered her unsolicited and tart opinions.
No, indeed! Next time he would give the woman the sound dressing-down she deserved, no matter how devilishly pretty she looked.
A quick glance at the clock on the mantel told him it was past midnight, again. He had to be back in Westminster by eight. If he was not going to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon debate, he really needed to get some sleep. All of these late nights spent working until the small hours were beginning to take their toll. Unfortunately, these were trying times for the government and his workload was immense. Something had to be sacrificed in order to get it all done and at the moment that something was sleep.
Wearily, he unfolded his stiff body from his chair and stared at his discarded hessians next to his desk. Despite the fact that he knew that propriety dictated that he should put them back on, he could not bring himself to. They were new boots and they hurt. The polished leather was still so stiff that they pinched and rubbed in all manner of places. Besides, it was late and none of the servants would comment on his lack of footwear. Lovett had them all far too well-trained for that. In fact, if he chose to walk around the house completely naked except for a strategically placed fig leaf, none of them would dare to bat an eyelid. That thought made him smile, and smiling made his face ache. Clearly his smiling muscles were protesting at being used. It felt unnatural—which probably meant that Aunt Augusta had been quite correct when she had said that he was looking far too serious for a young man. He made a mental note to smile more. Perhaps it was vanity, but his esteemed father had not smiled a great deal, so by the time he was forty he’d appeared very dour indeed—even when he wasn’t.
But serious politics was not exactly a cheerful endeavour. And it was completely absorbing. His father had groomed him to serve in government. We are Montagues, boy, he would say, and we were born to shape this country. Later, when his father had realised that he was ill, Bennett’s training for the highest office had begun early. By the tender age of fifteen, he was ready and eager to step into his father’s footsteps. His final conversation with his father had been a solemn promise to continue his family’s political legacy. Bennett had taken the oath seriously and had worked tirelessly since to do the right thing. So tirelessly that he was always tired.
Perhaps his mother was also right and he needed to get out more. Bennett could not remember the last time he went out for a ride or walked in the park or even visited Aveley Castle, the place he loved more than any other. He made another mental note to take a weekend off soon. He deserved a little time to relax. He was also tired of being cooped up in his carriage. Tomorrow he would ride to Westminster. The exercise would do him good. He glanced at the stiff hessians again and decided to be rebellious for once. Tonight, propriety could go to hell. Picking them up and tucking them underneath his arm, he headed off to bed.
He was so tired that he did not see the woman lying spread-eagled at the foot of the staircase until he almost stepped on her. The sight gave him quite a fright.
‘Miss Mansfield! Are you injured?’
Convinced that she had had an accident, Bennett dropped to his knees at the exact same moment that his aunt’s companion sat bolt upright in alarm. Their foreheads bashed together with such force that Bennett actually thought that he saw stars. He fell back onto his bottom, clutching his sore head and glaring at her as she clutched hers.
‘Did you fall?’ he snapped harshly.
Still rubbing her own forehead, she shook her head. ‘I was just admiring your ceiling.’
‘And to do that you needed to prostrate yourself on the floor?’
‘The floor offered the best perspective. I did not hear you coming, else I would have immediately alerted you to my presence.’ She glanced furtively at his abandoned boots, lying haphazardly at his side where he had dropped them in his panic. ‘I am so sorry, Your Grace! I did not mean to alarm you.’ She did look suitability mortified, he supposed. ‘For a big man you walk with unusual stealth.’
‘My boots pinch,’ he found himself explaining and then stopped himself. The fact that he was not correctly dressed was by the by. She was the one who had been in a position that was improper. People just did not sprawl over the floor to look at a picture. Under any circumstances.
Beneath his fingers he could feel a bump beginning to form under his skin. An unstatesmanlike bump that would, no doubt, look quite ridiculous tomorrow when he delivered his speech. Without warning she moved closer, looking concerned, and began to gently pat around the swelling on his head herself. The close proximity was unnerving. Bennett could not remember the last time that somebody had touched him without his consent. Every morning his valet shaved him and he briefly touched the gloved hands of the ladies he danced with. That was about as much human contact as he could manage. He usually preferred to keep a good foot or more of distance between himself and another person, just in case they accidentally brushed against him...
Except, as the faintest whiff of something deliciously feminine and floral wafted up his nose and she smoothed her soft hands over his skin, he found that he was quite enjoying her ministrations. Her face was inches from his and her brown eyes were regarding him with gratifying distress. It made him feel almost special.
‘You should probably put something cold on this or you will have a terrible bruise. I did not realise that I had such a hard head.’
Her own forehead was not undamaged. Without thinking and against his own better judgement, Bennett felt compelled to trace his fingers lightly over her matching bump. ‘So should you. Clearly we both have hard heads.’ Her skin was warm and smooth like velvet. He had the sudden urge to explore every bit of it and a peculiar yearning in the pit of his stomach that was most unlike him. Self-consciously, he dropped his hand.
She sat back then and smiled at him, obviously not feeling anywhere near as awkward by the intimacy as he did. ‘Instruct your valet to rub some soap or butter into your boots. It softens the leather. Failing that, I have heard that if you fill your shoes with potato peelings that helps to stretch them a bit.’
‘I will.’
‘And witch hazel is particularly soothing on a bruise. I am sure that the servants will be able to fetch some.’
‘Indeed.’
Bennett
