Chapter Four
Nicholas let her go.
For the moment.
The clip of her slippers echoed in his ears long after she disappeared into the next room.
He sipped his wine slowly, watching the gap in the doorway with the focused stillness of a man who knew waiting could be as decisive as action.
The House rewarded certainty in public and punished it in private—precisely the trap his father had taught him to set for other men. And women, as the case may be tonight.
Lady Beatrix hadn’t thanked him.
Not aloud at least.
She’d looked at him like he was a match held too close to the wick of her temper. But she had spoken to him.
Interesting. It was more than he’d garnered from her in the last four years, save the occasional polite greeting or formal dismissal.
He waited half a minute more—just long enough to avoid suspicion—and then handed his glass to a passing footman. Without a word, he left the salon. Not through the parlor though. Too crowded.
He moved through the corridor, stepped into the darker, quieter side hall, and slipped out onto the veranda that lined the back of Winston’s grand town house.
Cool air met him.
And there she was.
Framed by moonlight and radiating anger. She gripped the stone banister with both hands, the tendons in her arms tight, her back straight, her hair pinned far too neatly for the fire he knew lived beneath it.
Of course he’d guessed she’d be here. She was predictable in some things. He’d discovered that when he’d begun watching her more closely probably two years ago. After all, when one wanted the upper hand, one had to learn all the secrets of one’s opponent. So, he’d made a study of her.
He even knew she had a secret.
Nicholas let the door click softly shut behind him.
She didn’t turn.
“I assume,” she said, voice low and even, “you’ve followed me to collect your debt.”
He raised a brow, though she couldn’t see it. “My debt?”
“For rescuing me from the consequences of my own mouth.”
“I’d call it intervention,” he said mildly. “You were seconds from making Hargrave apoplectic. I rather enjoy watching him breathe. I need his vote on the next bill.”
She turned then, slowly. And God help him, the fire in her eyes made his blood stir.
“Don’t play coy with me,” she said. “You made me a jest… Wrapped me in wit and defused me before I could finish making my point.”
“I saved you from social ruin,” he replied calmly, walking toward her. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask to be saved.”
“No,” he said, stopping just short of her. “You asked to be heard. But you were about to be dismissed instead.”
Her jaw tightened. “And what? You thought a glass of claret and a clever quip would fix that?”
“No,” he said softly. “But I thought it might afford you a little more time before they hang you from the chandelier. Or worse…kick you out of the salon. I suspect you wouldn’t care for that outcome.”
She studied him then. Eyes searching. Sharp as broken glass.
He let her look. Let her measure him. Let her find only what he gave.
“You don’t do anything without motive,” she said. “Not one thing.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “And yet you’re still speaking to me.”
She blinked. “You think I’m charmed?”
He chuckled then. He couldn’t help himself. “No. I think you’re suspicious,” he said. “And I find that vastly preferable to indifference.”
Her eyes narrowed, too. “Why, Vanover?” she asked, voice suddenly quieter. “Why did you step in?”
Nicholas considered his answer. Truth. Half-truth. Lie.
He chose the only one that wouldn’t cost him ground. “Because,” he said, “for all your ferocity, you’re still vulnerable in rooms like that. And you shouldn’t have to be.”
A very long pause ensued.
The night wind brushed the hem of her gown. Her fingers twitched on the banister.
He didn’t move.
She tilted her head. “You can’t possibly be trying to earn my favor.”
“Would it work?”
“No.” Her reply was sharp, immediate.
He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Then no. Of course not.”
She stared at him for a beat longer. Then turned back toward the garden, her profile distinct against the candlelight spilling through the windows behind them.
He let the silence stretch. Let her have the illusion of space. Then, quietly, “You should be careful, Lady Beatrix.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Of what?”
“Of drawing too much attention to your words,” he said. “Some of us might start to wonder how you know so much about the inner workings of Parliament.”
Her breath hitched. Barely. But he caught it.
He watched her shoulders rise.
“I read the Times,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Like any well-educated wallflower.”
His lips twitched. “You’re no wallflower.”
“I’m twenty-two and unmarried,” she shot back. “Society’s decided. I’m on the shelf.”
He chuckled. “Then I pity the shelf.”
She turned sharply at that, lips parted in surprise.
He gave her the smallest bow, turned on his heel, and walked back inside.
Let her chase that quip in circles for a while.
He would wait.