“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 thetonwho 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 supremelyunqualifiedto 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.
