The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,39
means one needn’t cleave to a strict Debrett’s hierarchy.”
She tugged at her curl. The one he had touched. It made him long to reach out anew, stretch the soft ringlet in his fingers, then cradle her face with both hands and give her the kiss he would have stolen if her aunt had not returned at that moment.
“So we will be sitting together?” she asked. “Since one needn’t cleave to hierarchy?”
“Probably not, as I’m still considerably—” He cleared his throat and looked around. The footman had just left the room. Great-Aunt Wynchester had started to snore. Lawrence lowered his voice all the same. “About what happened earlier…”
Miss Wynchester lifted her delicate brows. “Nothing happened earlier.”
Fair enough. He tried again. “About what almost happened, then.”
Miss Wynchester’s return gaze was direct and unflinching. “What almost happened?”
She knew, he realized. She knew good and well and was trying to force him to say I almost kissed you because I have lost all self-control and cannot trust myself whilst in your company. A kiss would be just the beginning.
“Are you in love with Miss York?” she asked.
He drew backward. “Love is not relevant to business decisions.”
“So Miss York is…good business?”
He clenched his jaw. She made it sound so cold! Which, he supposed, it was. But it was how things were done.
“Faircliffe was a highly respected title for generations,” he explained. “My grandfather was arguably the most esteemed of the line, but an apoplexy caused my father to inherit at a young age. He spent the subsequent decades dismantling every advantage our predecessors had fought to attain.”
Lawrence fought a wave of memories better left suppressed.
“If my father could undo two centuries of high regard with a series of poor choices, then it is my duty to restore our lost stature with a series of correct choices.”
“And Miss York is the right choice?”
“She is,” he said firmly. “For myself and for future generations.”
“You’ll have a circus together?”
Lawrence could not picture that at all. “We will not. But I’ll be able to give my children a sterling reputation, financial security, and societal approval.”
“Is that what children want?”
“It’s what they need.” He swallowed hard. “It’s what any father who cared about his offspring would strive to give them.”
“What about a better world outside of the home?” she asked. “Do children want that?”
“I strive for that as well.” This was much safer ground. “It is my hope that Miss York’s father and I will champion complementary issues in our respective chambers of Parliament. Indeed, one of my pet projects for reform is excluding children from workhouses and other means of exploitation, such as their use as chimney sweeps.…”
Lawrence was deep into this familiar territory when he realized he’d been speaking for five minutes straight, and the usually inquisitive Miss Wynchester hadn’t said a word.
Was he boring her? This was a topic he dared not bring up outside of Westminster for a reason. It was hardly the stuff of flirtatious dinner parties.
He trailed off and made an apologetic face. “I beg your pardon. One cannot help becoming passionate about such subjects.”
Miss Wynchester’s eyes flashed. “Then please allow me to take a counter position.”
He lifted his palm.
She gave a sharp smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Poverty is not limited to children. By generalizing the adult poor as rabble who eschew ‘honest work,’ you paint a picture wherein it is only children who do not deserve exploitation and unpaid labor—”
“Pardon me,” he interrupted. “You do not understand how Parliament determines—”
“I’ve determined you don’t understand.” She pushed to her feet.
“I shall smarten myself up for the party.” She scooped up her basket and stalked away from him without a backward glance. “I ‘understand’ your people value looks over brains.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. How he wished he hadn’t botched everything! He and Miss Wynchester both wanted the same things. But Parliament was a slow-grinding machine. He was the one in a position to do something about it.
“You’re wrong,” Great-Aunt Wynchester said flatly.
He glowered at her. “What did you say?”
“She knows more about Parliament than you do.”
He straightened. “I scarcely think—”
“Obviously.” Great-Aunt Wynchester glared at him. “My niece, on the other hand, rarely misses a session.”
“I never miss the House of Lords,” he informed her. “And I’ve never seen your niece at Westminster.”
“Or anywhere, I wager. Not until you failed to mind your carriage and she ran off with you like a cat with a mouse.”