Chapter Six
Nicholas was not, by nature, an impulsive man. He liked a good plan. A solid strategy. A worthy opponent. And Lady Beatrix, in all her vexing, sharp-tongued glory, was a battlefield unto herself.
He leaned against the wooden casing of his bedchamber’s open window, coat unbuttoned, the breeze licking at his shirt collar, and thought again of the way she’d looked tonight in the veranda’s moonlight—her eyes flaring when she challenged him, her lips parted on a breath of shock when he’d countered with ease.
Every bit of her had radiated defiance, intellect, allure.
And her mouth.
Hell.
He closed his eyes and let his head tip against the pane. Patience, Vanover. He hadn’t come this far to be undone by a pair of clever lips and a spine made of steel. But it was proving to be...tempting.
He’d always known Lady Beatrix was different.
But this Season—this particular evening—had confirmed what he hadn’t yet admitted to himself: he wanted her.
Wanted her wit and will and impossible fire.
Wanted her in his bed, yes, but more dangerously…
wanted her everywhere else too. Inconvenient, perhaps… but undeniable.
Of course, he suspected she had a secret.
She was far too interested in the workings of politics.
Personally, he believed she might well have been the one who’d leaked a few of the Tory secrets to the Whigs of late.
He couldn’t prove it, of course, but he wouldn’t put it past her.
The other men thought she attended her father’s political salons for the social diversion.
But Nicholas knew better. Lady Beatrix didn’t give a toss about social calls.
She was there to listen. To catalogue. To understand what was being planned.
And that, perhaps more than anything, made her more desirable.
She would make an excellent wife for a man with political ambition—steady at his side, sharp of mind, capable of speaking with authority on matters most women were expected merely to smile through.
She would understand his interests, challenge his thinking, and never require him to simplify the world for her comfort.
That was the first reason he wanted her.
The second was far less respectable.
He harbored no illusion that Lady Beatrix would be won without a battle.
The catch, of course, was that Nicholas had no intention of playing the fool.
He had been a lover. A seducer. And perhaps too many things in between…
but never, never a romantic. Not even when the lady in question hurled exquisitely barbed insults that made his blood hum.
And he already knew she would do everything in her considerable power to thwart him.
He grinned to himself. Why did he like the thought of that even more?
A rap at the door pulled him from his untoward thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, still staring out at the starlit darkness.
Godwin, his ever-efficient butler, stepped inside. “Pardon the interruption, my lord, but the Duke of Winston awaits you in the study.”
Nicholas blinked. “The duke?”
“Yes, my lord. He said it was a matter of some importance.”
This was odd. Winston rarely sought him out directly—certainly not at Archer House. Their dealings were almost always conducted on the duke’s terms. In the duke’s study, no less. Nicholas pushed away from the window, tugged his coat straight, and nodded.
“Tell His Grace I shall be down directly.”
Godwin bowed and vanished.
Nicholas took one last breath of cool night air, rolled his shoulders once, and strode from the room.
The study was all dark walnut paneling and subdued lamplight. Winston stood near the hearth, a tumbler of brandy in one hand, his other resting lightly on the mantel. He’d obviously helped himself to the drink. He was not a man who liked to be kept waiting.
Nicholas stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Your Grace.”
Winston turned. “Vanover.”
Nicholas eyed him carefully. He didn’t smile. Something told him this wasn’t about politics. He crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a modest splash of brandy, and gestured lightly with the glass. “Unexpected call. Everything well?”
Winston’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Everything’s about to be.”
Nicholas took a sip and waited.
The duke straightened and faced him fully. “I won’t waste your time. I’ve spoken to my daughter this evening.”
Ah.
Nicholas said nothing, but one brow might have lifted slightly.
Winston went on. “I informed Beatrix that it is high time she married.”
A pause. No fanfare. No request. Simply a fact presented with the sort of confidence only dukes and madmen managed.
Nicholas set down his glass with deliberate care. “Indeed.”
“She’s of an age. And because she’s proven must stubborn, I must step in. She’ll marry. You, if you’ll still have her.”
This time Nicholas’s brow definitely lifted. “May I ask why you’ve suddenly decided this is urgent?”
Winston tugged at his lapel. He always did so when he was uncomfortable. Which was extremely rare. “It’s come to our attention that she is becoming the object of gossip.”
Nicholas refrained from pointing out Lady Beatrix’s marital plans had been the subject of gossip for years. Was it possible her parents hadn’t heard the rumors until now? Perhaps, but unlikely.
“I see,” he replied simply.
Winston gave Nicholas a dry once-over. “My wife assures me Beatrix tolerates you.”
Nicholas’s mouth quirked. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” The duke moved to the nearest chair and sat, the casual assumption of authority wafting off him like cigar smoke.
The man truly thought he was in charge of everything.
He had no clue that Nicholas would never marry his daughter or anyone else’s daughter unless he wanted to.
It was only convenient that what Nicholas wanted and what Winston wanted just happened to be the same thing.
Nicholas leaned one hip against the desk. “And how did Lady Beatrix receive this…news?”
Winston waved a hand dismissively. “She has no choice in the matter. Her time of frolic is over.”
Nicholas exhaled once through his nose, slow and controlled. “She’s not a woman easily cornered.”
“She is a girl whose father has run out of patience.” Winston leveled him with a stare. “You are still interested, I assume?”
Nicholas held the older man’s gaze. “I am.”
The duke inclined his head. “Good. I’ve already told her to expect you tomorrow afternoon. Take her riding in the park. Be seen. Do your part.”
With that, Winston rose, tugged once at the hem of his coat, and made for the door.
“Your Grace,” Nicholas said before the duke could exit. “If I may ask—what did Lady Beatrix say when you told her?”
Winston’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes sharpened. “I’d be lying if I told you she was pleased with the arrangement. She has been given her freedom for far too long. But if there’s anyone I trust to bring her around to the idea of marriage, it’s you, Vanover.”
Then he was gone, the thud of the door behind him a final, absolute sound.
Nicholas stood still for a long moment after the duke departed, the silence folding around him like a closing fist. He lifted his glass, watching the brandy catch the lamplight, his mind spinning, not with doubt…but with the inevitable chaos to come.
Lady Beatrix was not a woman who accepted commands. Certainly not from her father. And most definitely not from him.
If Winston believed she would simply acquiesce, he was mad. And if Nicholas believed she would accompany him to the park tomorrow with docile agreement, he was madder still.
He tipped the glass to his lips and let the burn settle. Then he exhaled a low, rueful laugh.
“Hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “She’s going to have her back up.”
Lady Beatrix would not meet this undefended.
No—she would arm herself. She would gather allies.
She would assemble her inner circle, sharpen her intellect, and construct a plan as intricate and devastating as a military campaign.
By the time she was done, he’d be lucky to survive the opening volley.
He set down the glass, straightened, and squared his shoulders.
If Lady Beatrix Winslow was preparing for war…
He had best be ready to meet her on the battlefield.
And God help him. He was looking forward to it.