“More an apology in advance.”
She raised an eyebrow as she cut her food. “I’m listening.”
He took a deep breath. Hopefully he wasn’t pushing too far too fast. “The winter festival starts in the village today.”
“Cassandra mentioned it. I believe she’s planning on bobbing for apples.” The tips of her ears turned red, as if she suddenly remembered the insult she’d thrown at him that night in Edward’s study, when her father had bartered her away.
He swallowed back the memory of that day. “Yes…there’s that.” He paused. He’d planned breakfast, he’d planned his entrance, but he’d not actually planned how he was going to break the news.
Amelia took his silence as the end of his point and huffed. “Goodness, you sound like you’re about to be sentenced to the prison hulls. I’m not a total ogre. I have been to a fair before. I’ve even somewhat enjoyed one…” She bit the end off her croissant.
He was just going to have to dive in. “There’s also the town bandy match.”
“Bandy?” She was so focused on her breakfast, she didn’t seem to pick up on the tension that he couldn’t keep from his voice.
“It’s a sporting game, played on the ice.”
“Oh?” She took another bite.
“And you’ll need to play.”
Amelia began to choke, crumbs spewing onto her quilt.
He poured her some tea and waited as she gulped it down.
“I don’t play sports,” she said once she’d recovered. “I don’t know the first thing about them.”
He patted her on the knee. “Don’t worry. They’ll put you at the back. You won’t have to do anything.”
“Then why even take part? Surely we’ve a footman or groom who would do a better job.” Her eyebrows were knitted in a picture of complete disbelief, as if it were the most absurd request that had ever been made of her.
“It’s tradition, the local women versus the local men.”
“And why am I playing?”
This was the challenge because he’d brainstormed a dozen different reasons that he could give her that might inspire her to take part. Nothing seemed believable, which meant he was forced to go with the truth. “It would be good for you. It’s time you made some friends in Abingdale.”
Surprisingly, instead of a rolling of the eyes or a sarcastic quip, the comment was met with startled silence.
“You do know what friends are, yes?” he continued. “People you talk to, laugh with, visit.”
That provoked the eyeroll he’d been expecting. “I know what friends are,” she said. “I have plenty. I’ve just never particularly liked any of them.”
He shook his head. Every day there was some offhand comment that demonstrated how twisted her understanding of human relationships was. Her father, and the society that had made her, had a lot to answer for.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “Obviously, there are some people I’m looking forward to seeing again. There are a handful that are more than tolerable.”
“You’ll like the people you meet today.”
“Truly?” Sarcasm dripped off the word.
“Probably not, but I need you to pretend that you do, at least. And while you’re at it, maybe have a go at being a little less…Lady Amelia Asterly.”
She set aside the plate from her lap. “And who should I be, if not myself?”
He was walking a fine line. He should probably have stopped with the request to join the bandy game, but he was in too deep now. “Just be Amelia.…Amy? The townspeople need to see the warm, human side I know is in you.”
She frowned. “As opposed to…”
“Lady Amelia the perfect, bloodless porcelain doll. Not porcelain, though. That’s too fragile. Copper princess? Iron lady?” He shrugged.
She regarded him with deep suspicion. “Benedict Asterly, that almost felt like a compliment.”
He grinned. “It would just be nice if the locals could see an aristocrat that was nice. Friendly.”
She threw a pillow at his head. “Get out, Benedict.” He stood to leave. “Leave the bacon!”
The local fair was colorful and boisterous, rollicking and carefree—everything that had been drilled out of Amelia since she was a little girl. Children whirled past, chasing each other with sticks tied to colorful flags and shrieking with laughter.
Two months ago, the sight would have spurred feelings of disapproval. But today it left a different feeling in her chest. Something she couldn’t quite identify but which made her feel…lost.
Becoming separated from Benedict early had not helped. He’d given her a quick kiss on the lips, leaving her all fluttery and off-kilter, and then left with barely a backward glance.
Cassandra, at least, had stayed by her side.
“We’re going to beat them this year,” Cassandra said. “I just know it.”
She grabbed Amelia’s hand and towed her toward the group of women huddled under a marquee that had been set up alongside a clear patch of ice.
Fiona was the only woman she recognized. They exchanged brief smiles. Since Amelia’s initial visit to the firm a week ago, they’d established a tentative friendship. At the very least, they were two colleagues working together to use Amelia’s knowledge of London’s elite to establish a business plan Fiona could take to town. It was not dissimilar to working with new debutantes to identify potential husbands, but it was infinitely more satisfying.
“I owe Benedict a ha’penny,” Fiona said. “I never thought he’d get you here.”
“I’ll give you two ha’pennies to get me out of this.”
Fiona laughed. “And deprive myself of the entertainment of seeing Lady Amelia Asterly compete on the ice? Never.”
Amelia looked around. The rest of the women ranged in age. Two girls were clearly in their teens, and yet another was an older woman with solid grey hair wrapped into a wispy bun. The only thing the motley crew had in common was the look of determination on their faces.
“Lady Amelia,” Cassandra said very properly, “this is the women’s bandy team. Ladies”—she hesitated for a second, presumably realizing that none of the women were actual ladies—“this is Lady Amelia Asterly.”
A couple of the younger girls curtseyed. More exchanged skeptical looks.
Amelia countered with the smile she reserved for those her father really wanted her to impress. She would show Benedict how charming she could be. “It is a pleasure to meet you all.”
“Do you know how to play?” the older woman asked.
“I can skate, but no, I’ve never seen a bandy match before. I’m looking forward to learning.” She wasn’t sure she was looking forward to it at all, but she’d be run over by an out-of-control curricle before she let the women see that.
“You’ll pick it up quickly,” Fiona said.
“Or you’ll break something. This isn’t really a game for your kind.” The comment came from a dumpy woman about Amelia’s age. Her clothes were thin and patched in places. Her hands were rough and cracked, and her face was mean.
A couple of the other girls sniggered.
“Goodness, you speak as though I’m a completely different species. I assure you, my limbs function exactly the same.”
Fiona gave her a tiny shake of the head, indicating there was no point trying to reason with the woman. “Just try to get that ball”—she pointed to a fist-sized knotted ball in the center of the circle—“into that net with this.” She handed Amelia a wooden stick with a curved end.
It was awkward to maneuver. Amelia swung it from side to side and almost dropped it. She tried hard to ignore the condescending glances shared between the rest of the team. Who were they to judge her anyway?
“Don’t pick the ball up with your hands,” Cassandra said. “And don’t you use your head either.”
“I think I can manage that,” Amelia said.
“The winner is the team with the most points.”
The grey-haired lady shook her hea
d. “It’s been four years since the women have won.”
“Pardon? Four years and the men haven’t let you win? That’s not particularly gentlemanly.”
The glowering faces around her made it clear her opinion was not popular. Even Cassandra looked unimpressed.
“We prefer to work for what we have, my lady,” the grey-haired woman said. “No one gives us nothing because we happened to be born a girl.”
“Or rich,” another muttered.
Benedict had explained the political situation in the village, but she hadn’t really understood until now. All these looks, these snide comments—the aristocracy was obviously despised in this part of the country.
He’d said much of it was due to mistreatment by the Karstarks, but if that were the sole cause, they wouldn’t be so hostile toward her.
Fiona kept talking, defusing the situation. “Remember, they’ll skate at you and expect you to move because they’ll think you don’t want to get knocked down.”
“Well, they’d be right. I don’t want to get knocked down.” What sort of barbarianism had Benedict gotten her into?
“Which is why they’re going to target you. You need to stand your ground. They’ll never expect that kind of gumption from someone…who hasn’t played before.”
Hmph.
Surprisingly, it was one of the youngest that had the women huddle round and started giving instructions.
“Her older brother plays for the Bury Fens. She’s seen more bandy matches than Maggie,” Cassandra whispered, nodding toward the grey-haired woman.
The next hour was pure hell. Amelia quickly forgot about the indecency of a dress short enough to display her ankles and concentrated solely on dragging enough air into her lungs in order not to die right there on the field.
Skating up and back, up and back, occasionally hitting out at a ball with the stick, sometimes connecting, sometimes not.
The rest of her team didn’t send the ball her way unless they had to, not after the first time she’d promptly skated to the side as three burly-looking men charged right at her.
With only a few centimeters of candle left in the game—and goodness was she watching that, begging it to burn faster—the scores were tied, four all.
She stood with her hands on her hips, bent nearly double, halfway behind the line of woman attackers and the net, when somehow the men got the ball. Benedict charged down the center of the ice. Her teammates screamed her name.
Oh no. There was no one else. How was she supposed to stop him?
Benedict was skating on an angle that would see him run straight past her.
She skated right and then left, unsure of what to do and praying he’d give her the ball—he was her husband, after all.
His wicked smile was not a good omen. He was taunting her.
She bent her knees and launched herself into his path.
It was like hitting a solid brick wall.
She went down, and down hard.
Her back hit the ground, her head thwacked into the ice, and as he landed on top of her, all the air whooshed out of her lungs.
She tried to suck in breath but couldn’t move under his weight. She pushed at him.
“Bloody hell.” He propped himself up on his elbows, removing his crushing weight from her chest. “What the devil did you do that for?”
Breathe. She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at her throat.
He rolled over and dragged her into his lap. “It’s okay, princess,” he murmured, brushing hair from her forehead. “You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you. You’ll be okay.”
Amelia finally dragged in a small, tiny thread of air. And then another. And another. The blackness that was crowding the edges of her vision receded.
Benedict ran his fingers gently over her scalp.
She winced.
“You’ve a lump. It’ll be there for a day or so.” He gently set her back on the ice—the wet and cold seeping through her skirts—and turned her face to his. He looked into her eyes. Really looked, as though he were examining them.
“What’s your name?”
“Amelia.”
“Where are you?”
“The back end of nowhere.”
His lips twitched. “Why are we sitting on the ice?”
“Because you slammed into me, you giant oaf.” She shoved him in the chest. He should have just given her the darned ball.
He chuckled. “You’ll be okay. Let me know if you start to feel nauseous.”
“I will not. That’s not appropriate conversation.”
He grabbed her chin so she couldn’t look away. “You tell me if you start to get nauseous.”
She swallowed and nodded.
“Now we should probably get up.” He pushed himself to his feet and helped her up, holding an arm around her waist until she was steady on her skates.
Cheering erupted. She looked up to see Cassandra tearing down the ice toward her.
“We tied! We tied!” She went to throw herself at Amelia but was stopped by Benedict’s outstretched hand. “You were amazing,” she said.
The rest of her team joined them. “You were rather impressive,” the grey-haired woman said, reaching out a hand. “I can’t say I thought you had it in you.”
The celebration lasted the rest of the afternoon. Food was set up on makeshift tables, and the townsfolk sat on logs, wagon carts, barrels, and the small handful of chairs that had been brought down for the event.
Benedict stayed by her side the whole time, despite the steady stream of people who came to talk to him, to ask him for advice or help.
Whether it was questions about crops, or repairing a roof, or dealing with a customer who couldn’t pay their account, Benedict had a solution for everything—a solution that usually involved his assistance.
By the time the sun started to go down, he’d committed to helping Farmer John fix the fence along the southern border of his property, going through Widow Bancroft’s accounts, and showing Little Peter Podney how to parry an opponent’s lunge.
For all of his protestations that he was neither lord nor leader, it was clear the people of Abingdale saw him as such. He commanded respect, and it fit him well—far more so than the popinjays of the ton who preened and prissed under the admiration of those around them.
“Having a good time?” he asked as they stopped at a sweet stall.
“I am actually,” she said, accepting a piece of crystallized lemon from him.
“Good. You’ve got some sugar just…” He brushed the corner of her lips with his thumb, sending a shiver coursing through her. Without thinking, she stepped closer to him and his hand moved to caress her cheek.
Desire washed through her. Except it wasn’t desire. It wasn’t just a fluttering in the stomach and sudden goose bumps. This was something that wrapped itself around her heart and put down roots. It blossomed in all the lonely, empty corners inside her. Where she’d built a brittle shell of propriety and perfection, it filled her with color and flaws and other people.
It was the most pure moment of her life.
Every minute of the day had revealed something new about him. Something she’d thought could be found only among society’s upper crust. Respect. Influence. Duty.
She reached for his hand, and he interlaced his fingers in hers, squeezing gently. “I’m glad you came into my life, princess.”
The roots around her heart tightened. To hell with propriety and all the people around them. Rising to her tiptoes, she kissed him gently. She wanted so much more, and the tightening of his hand in hers suggested he did too.
But he pulled away and, judging by the very interested faces around them, it was a good thing he did.
One of the local women approached them, curtseying briefly. Benedict’s throat bobbed. He did not like the deference shown to him. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bleufleur. How are you today?”
The woman, surely not more than forty, smiled when he did, the faint lines around her eyes crinkling.
Despite the smile, she was tense. Her left hand was clenched in her skirts.
“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Asterly. I was wondering though…” She stopped, suddenly losing her nerve.
Benedict let go of Amelia’s hand and leaned forward, giving the woman his complete attention. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. “Because after the tarts you sent for Cassandra’s birthday, I owe you a favor.”
“Well, actually…I need some advice. About Bessie. And London. You’re the only person I know who has been there.”
Benedict pursed his lips for a moment and then put a hand on the small of Amelia’s back. “Have you met my wife, Mrs. Bleufleur? Lady Amelia is far more qualified to discuss women and London than I am.”
Amelia almost put her neck out turning to face him so quickly. What was he doing? She was supremely unqualified to be giving any kind of advice to villagers.
Mrs. Bleufleur hesitated. It was not unexpected. The locals had given her either looks of suspicion or shy acceptance—but none had directed more than a quick salutation her way.
“I truly feel you’ll get better insight from her.” He bent to kiss Amelia’s cheek and muttered softly in her ear. “Listen. Be curious.” He then not so subtly pushed her forward.
Left without another option, Amelia took the woman’s arm in hers and began to walk. It was not unlike what she’d done countless times along the edge of a ballroom with new debutantes, so she would simply pretend that’s where they were. “How can I help, Mrs. Bleufleur?”
The woman hesitated for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “It’s my eldest, Bessie, m’lady. I’ve always had hopes of her marrying the Pickens boy. That lad will own his father’s farm one day, and they breed prize-winning heifers. It’s a good match.”
“I take it from your need to discuss it that your daughter doesn’t share the same dream?”
The woman shook her head. “She wants to go to London to be a seamstress. I’ve told her time and time again that London’s no place for a young woman on her own, but she won’t listen to a word I say.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to agree with Mrs. Bleufleur immediately. After all, if Bessie could secure a nice life with a reasonably successful man of her station, that was the sensible thing to do. But she held off. Be curious, Benedict had said. Listen.
How to Survive a Scandal Page 14
