The Heart of a Bluestocking

by Renée Dahlia

  ‘And beauty?’

  ‘Beauty is everywhere. It’s the cheapest quality any potential wife can offer, and the old saying is true, external beauty fades. If I had to choose a wife, I’d want one who has internal beauty. Who will be beautiful to me for all time, even after her hair greys and her skin wrinkles. I want someone to share my life with. That’s what Dalhinge doesn’t understand.’ He pinched his lips together and looked warily around the carriage.

  ‘What does Dalhinge have to do with it? How much of an interfering big brother is he?’

  ‘It’s a long story, and it’s not mine to tell. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ he said. Curiosity flooded in, creating a million scenarios chasing each other around.

  ‘But you did mention it.’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘If it was that confidential, you wouldn’t have mentioned it. Do you let slip client confidential details all the time? What sort of lawyer are you?’ She grinned as his chin rose and his eyes flashed.

  ‘It’s just you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’d make an incredible detective. What is it about you that makes my words flow freely?’ he asked.

  She laughed. ‘It’s my abundance of charm.’ She meant it as a joke, but tingles in a mix of cold and hot rushed through her body as his eyes swept over her.

  ‘Yes, your charms—’ his eyes dipped, then flicked up to meet hers again, ‘—are rather distracting to rational thought.’ The intensity of his expression made her want to fan herself. She reached up to touch her heated cheeks, but instead, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

  ‘And to think, I’ve been holding my thoughts back around you. Just wait until I release all of my charm on you,’ she said.

  He shifted in his seat, a little shuffle of his hips, and her face flamed hot. Had she just agreed to undress for him? Oh my. Her fingers itched as she imagined undoing his buttons and touching that brown skin of his. She’d deliberately kept her distance from men, preferring to disarm them with outrageous words, and had never understood why so many women threw themselves at men. Oh, but she understood now. She folded her arms and looked out the window at the green hedgerow. After a while of uncomfortable silence, the carriage slowed and stopped.

  ‘Time to catch a train,’ he said. His voice croaked a little and she turned towards him. He had packed away the hamper, and was seated in a relaxed pose with half-shut eyes. Bedroom eyes, she thought, and gulped. She would have to kiss him soon to get rid of this madness that his proximity caused. Every other kiss she’d had had been a disappointing, wet experience. Kissing Ravi should be just like any other man. Soggy and gross. It should cure her of this rampant attraction.

  He stood up, opened the door and stepped out, leaving her with her thoughts.

  Chapter 12

  Ravi strode along the small platform at Kirkstead, glancing at the construction on the far side of the single track. The railway company had recently purchased extra land, and were laying another set of tracks, along with the construction of an extra platform, and a walking bridge between the two platforms. He’d heard that they were also planning an extension of the small ticket office to provide much needed facilities.

  The summer breeze drifted lazily around him, bringing the scent of hay drying in the fields beyond. He hadn’t waited for Claire. He told himself it was because she loved her independence, but truly it was because he’d been so tempted by her. He’d been disarmed by her charm, her actual charm, not only her breasts, although when the conversation had taken a bold, and unexpected, turn, the lust that smouldered inside him threatened to burst out. She made him want to be uncivilised, to gather her in his arms and spend hours exploring her, while she said outrageous things that made him smile against her skin. None of these thoughts helped in his quest to rid himself of this desire, so he paced faster. Claire was troublesome.

  He reached the end of the short wooden platform, his shoes clunking against the wood, and spun around. She stood, silhouetted by the morning light, in the middle of the platform. His body marched him towards her, drawn to her with an attraction that he should stop fighting. He halted in front of her.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he whispered.

  She blinked and took a half-step backwards.

  ‘What? Did you just say kiss me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held his hands out for her. Her gaze flicked down to them, then back to him. She folded her arms.

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘I’m asking.’

  ‘Oh. In that case …’ She leaned in the last inch and touched her lips gently to his. Finally. His body came alight as her soft lips connected to him. He reached out, slid his hands up her shoulders to the base of her skull. He cradled her head in his palms, her gold-streaked hair like silk over his hands, and settled his lips against her properly. His Claire, all violets and brightness, pressed her lips against him with a hesitant invitation. He’d expected her to be as bold as her words, but her lips softened against his with a quiet caution. A whisper told him to wait, to let her come to him, when everything in him wanted to surround her, to make her all his. A few quick breaths later, with his heart pounding in anticipation, she unfolded her arms and stepped into him. He stroked his hand down her back, resting it on her lower back. Her eyes widened and he loosened the grip his other hand had on her skull. She broke their kiss and lifted her chin.

  ‘Claire,’ he said with reverence. Her name escaped on a low groan. ‘Please.’ He could see the confusion scattering in her brain, a mix of curiosity and caution.

  ‘I don’t think this is wise.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ He couldn’t stop a grin as her throat moved with a nervous swallow. ‘But it’s inevitable. This—’

  ‘—thing?’ She tensed against him. He stroked a small circle on the back of her neck with his thumb. An almost silent moan escaped from her, so he did it again.

  ‘Yes. If you must call it that. There is a thing between us.’

  Her eyes flicked down, then she stared at him. ‘I noticed.’ Ahh, there was his bold Claire. His cock responded immediately, pressing harder against her. A blush spread across her cheeks, a mirror to the heat that flowed in his veins, pulsed with desire. He kissed along the soft skin under her eye, along the flushed skin. Her eyelashes flickered. Little zephyrs of air fluttered across his stubble. He hadn’t bothered to shave this morning for their day of travel, and now he was glad of it as sensation grew.

  ‘Ravi,’ she whispered his name under her breath.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  He swept his lips down to hers, and she met him with hers slightly parted. He licked at the corner of her mouth, and she opened for him. He paused, wanting to savour the moment, to taste her rich, fresh flavours. She rested her hands on his shoulders as he slid his fingers through her hair, until her lips moved against his. He pulled her tight against him where his other hand rested against her back, and swept his tongue into her mouth. She moaned and copied him, their tongues exploring each other. She tasted like an English Christmas pudding, warm and rich, with fruity bursts, and he wanted to devour her. He tilted his head, changing the angle and deepening the kiss. A roar and a hiss surrounded him, like nothing he’d ever experienced in a kiss. She leapt back, and his hands were forced off her. A cold emptiness replaced where she had stood. Steam swirled around him, and Claire’s laugh rang in the air.

  ‘It’s the train, not me,’ she said between gasps for air. He looked wildly around to see the monstrous steam train waiting at the platform behind him. Oh God, for a moment there, he’d been convinced that kissing Claire was so good that the roar of a steam train was just his brain reacting to the sheer passion that sparked between them. Her laughter brought him back to reality with a thud. He bowed deep to her, with a satirical wave of his hand towards the train.

  ‘Shall we board?’ He gave her one last glance, one of longing, before turning to the train and stepping aboard. He left her
standing on the platform, laughing at him, unaffected by the moment that he’d felt so deep inside. How could that be when he’d been absorbed by her? He licked his lips, the remnant of her taste on his tongue, and walked down the aisle to find a seat.

  ‘What about our luggage?’ Claire’s voice was clear and bright behind him. He turned around. A blush lingered on her cheeks. Maybe she hadn’t been completely unaffected.

  ‘The driver will deal with those,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Surely, you are accustomed to having staff who deal with the inanities of life for you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She twisted her hands together.

  ‘Never mind. Shall we take a seat?’ he asked, as he realised maybe she was as affected as him. The nervous movement, the odd question, and that delightful flushed face. She sat down, gathering her skirt around her in an elegant motion that could only have come with years of training. Perhaps that’s why the tumultuous churn in his stomach couldn’t be seen on her face, why he felt affected but couldn’t see it on her, except in a subtle colour across her cheeks. Because she’d had plenty of practice at hiding her feelings. He sat opposite her, careful to keep his limbs away from her, even though he wanted nothing more than to brush his knee against her leg, just to touch her one more time.

  ‘We can’t do that again.’ She stared directly into his eyes, her fingers winding one of her ribbons around her hand showing him the nerves that didn’t show in her bold eyes.

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘No, you can’t disagree. If you recall, we have a mystery to solve. You have a fortune to hunt.’

  ‘An interesting choice of words given your loathing of such matters in our earlier conversations,’ he said.

  She blinked once, and pinched those beautiful, mobile, soft lips together.

  ‘Fine. You have a job to do, and a financial reward to collect. We can’t do that again.’

  ‘Do what, exactly?’ He knew he was pushing his luck, but the little brother in him, that part of his personality that loved nothing more than to needle someone made him want to hear the word kiss on her lips.

  ‘Kiss.’ She pursed her lips. All he wanted to do was reach out and kiss the rounded shape of her mouth. ‘We can’t kiss again. It wasn’t wise. And it can’t happen again. I don’t want it.’ Yes. She said it twice. A rush of joy mingled with the race of his pulse as her mouth moved and her hands came alive, gesturing at him.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, lowering her chin and glaring at him. He shrugged lightly and one side of his mouth quirked up.

  ‘Let me outline this for you.’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t need you to explain to me what I want. I understand precisely what I want without requiring a man’s opinion.’ She folded her arms, and looked out the window. Oh blast, that didn’t go how he wanted it to.

  ‘I was teasing,’ he said. She lifted her nose a fraction, but didn’t answer. She didn’t move, and after several minutes, he realised that she wasn’t going to. He stood up, forcing himself to meander, not march, down the carriage to the dining car.

  Ten minutes later, he used his back to push open the door to the carriage where he’d left Claire sitting, then walked towards her. She hadn’t moved, and he couldn’t help but admire her resolve.

  ‘Would you like a drink, or perhaps the news-sheets? I collected a few things for you, since we have such a long trip.’

  ‘And you think I shouldn’t sit here, staring out the window ignoring you for the next four hours?’

  ‘It’d be more civilised, don’t you think?’ he asked. She ignored him. ‘I mean, you could just read the news for something to do while you ignore me.’ Her eyes flicked in his direction and he had to bite back a grin. He placed two glasses of apple juice on the small table between them, lay the news sheet down, and slid into his seat. ‘There is a story which may interest you. It’s about …’

  ‘Are you going to talk incessantly for the entire trip?’ she said with one eyebrow raised.

  He did grin at that one. ‘Perhaps I’m interested in your comfort.’

  ‘I don’t require comfort. And I prefer my own company to—’ She slowly turned towards him as she spoke, until she faced him.

  ‘Now, now. Don’t be cruel just for the sake of it,’ he said with a wink.

  The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘I prefer my own company to that of the overblown nature of the news-sheets. You do realise that those headlines are overstated sensationalism, written for the sole purpose of making people buy them.’

  ‘There is a clever art to it that I admire. The business of attracting busy people’s attention.’

  ‘Busy people? People who buy these news-sheets aren’t busy. They send out their butlers to buy them daily, to iron them before they sit down for hours and read the entirety. There is nothing clever in retaining a loyal client.’

  ‘Therefore, you can just throw any old scraps to a loyal client? Is that how Carlingford Enterprises treats their customers?’

  ‘I think, Mr Howick, that you should take your own advice about cruel statements. You have taken my words and twisted them into something ugly.’

  ‘You said yourself that there was nothing clever in the way the news-sheets approach their business,’ he said.

  She paused and tilted her head to one side.

  ‘If the news business was truly clever, they would teach people to read, then they could sell their daily rags to a greater number of people. It wouldn’t take much investment to grow the market,’ she said. It was his turn to pause.

  ‘Now that is insightful,’ he said.

  She shrugged his comment away. ‘It’s just basic business. Rather than compete for the market that is already in existence—the wealthy elite who buy their paper without thinking—there is massive opportunity in growing the market and having many more people to sell to. It’s simple, really.’

  ‘Yes, apart from the issue of teaching the poor to read,’ he said.

  ‘Do you believe that the poor can’t be taught, or shouldn’t be taught?’ Her eyes flashed and she leaned towards him.

  ‘There is no good answer to that question.’

  ‘Don’t dodge the question just because it makes you, the privileged son of a Lord and a royal, uncomfortable.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘—no? Not privileged or not dodging the question?’

  ‘I’m not royal. Not according to the laws of this nation.’

  ‘Fine. I see how that is a delicate subject and I’ve overstepped the bounds of your lineage,’ she said with a smile.

  He smiled too, a slow type of smile that had a little hesitation in it disguised as relaxation.

  ‘I don’t mind discussing it with you. Legally, I’m not any more royal than anyone, but of course that dismisses all of my mother’s culture and family.’

  ‘The government …’ She started to speak, but he waved his hand asking her to pause. She clamped her lips shut and raised one eyebrow a tiny amount as curiosity surged.

  ‘In many ways, I am exactly as you say, but in others …’ He shrugged. ‘My lineage can’t be changed at any rate. It is what it is, and the way other people react to me say more about them than it does about me.’

  ‘Back to my question that you continue to edge away from,’ she said. ‘The poor.’

  ‘Honestly, you have picked it correctly. Much of my life experience doesn’t include knowledge of the poor. I understand how having royalty stripped away has impacted on my cousins. They might feel poor, but by Indian standards they aren’t truly poor.’

  ‘Then you understand nothing of the daily struggles of most Londoners,’ she said.

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I have a charitable medical practice in Whitechapel. I meet these people, hear their stories, and I know that a little education will help break the awful cycle of poverty.’

  ‘Dalhinge believes that they should be given the vote first.’

  ‘But how will they vote i
f they can’t read? These people are abused by their employers simply because they can’t read the paperwork they are asked to sign. They are powerless because they are without knowledge.’

  ‘Just to be devil’s advocate here …’

  ‘Because you are a lawyer, and it comes naturally?’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused. He wanted to frame the question so that she would demonstrate more of that passion for the subject, but without pushing her hard enough that she would refuse to speak again. ‘If a few can read, and the contracts are truly that awful, won’t those people just refuse to work under those conditions and people who are more desperate will take the work?’

  ‘Perhaps that would have been a concern a decade ago during the depression years, but now there is plenty of work, so it is a good time for change. Not just a surface change, either, but a deep change that can occur only through educating a whole generation.’

  ‘The Elementary Education Act of 1880 has—’

  Claire threw her head back and laughed. ‘Would you listen to yourself. Only a lawyer would refer to actual legislation,’ she said.

  Warmth spread in his chest, a deep satisfaction that he could make her do that. No wonder he wanted to bed her, imagine if she focused all that enthusiasm on him. His mouth dried and he nearly forgot what he was going to say.

  ‘One can’t ignore years of training, it seems,’ he said.

  Her whole face smiled, from her mouth stretched wide to the crinkles around her eyes that danced with joy.

  ‘Tell me, then, how exactly does an eight-year-old piece of legislation help children who are unfortunate enough to be born into abject poverty?’

  ‘That law provided government-funded education for all children aged five to ten. The issue is already being resolved.’

  ‘Oh no. The law might say that, but without proper enforcement, a law is meaningless. The reality is that families who need every penny will send their children to work rather than to school. And until businesses who employ these children are properly penalised, then the use of child labour will continue to the detriment of their education.’