Chapter Ten
The curricle slowed.
Bea felt it before she registered it. Archer was easing the bays into a graceful, measured trot as he turned them off the fashionable path and down a narrower lane running beside the water.
Taller willows shaded this part of the park, their branches trailing like whispered secrets along the water.
The main carriages were several lengths behind them now, and the noisy crowd thinned to only a handful of strollers.
A more private stretch.
He was up to something.
Archer drew the horses to a stop with practiced ease. The bays tossed their heads once before settling.
He hopped down lightly—far more nimbly than a man of his height had any right to—and came around to her side.
“Allow me,” he said.
No doubt it was the same agreeable tone he used when arguing in the House of Lords, right before presenting a devastating counterpoint.
Before Bea could object, his hands went to her waist.
Warm, steady, scandalously confident hands.
She inhaled sharply. Not because of the impropriety—though there was that—but because of him, his scent. Clean starch, warm skin, and something crisp and masculine beneath it all, like cedarwood warmed by sunlight. It tightened something low in her stomach.
He lifted her down as though she weighed no more than a pocket handkerchief.
Her feet touched the ground, and she stepped back at once, though it did nothing to steady her pulse. “You ought not to touch me without warning.”
Archer’s eyes—dark, knowing—danced. “My apologies. Next time I’ll call out a full set of instructions.”
She recognized the jest for what it was—an olive branch—and declined to take it. “See that you do.”
His smile was slow and devastating. Then he offered his arm.
She accepted because refusing would have looked petulant. And because the ground was uneven. And because she was absolutely not rattled by the width of his shoulders or the strength beneath his coat.
Not in the least.
They began walking along the edge of the lake, the water glinting pale silver where sunlight met ripples.
She cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t think that you can ruin me in order to force me to marry you.”
Archer blinked, his surprise convincing enough to give her pause. “Ruin you? Whyever would I do that? Your father would call me out at first light.”
“Then why are we here…alone?”
Archer slowed but did not stop walking. “Because I was curious.”
She shot him a look. “About what?”
“About why you argue the way you do.”
That made her pause. “I argue perfectly well.”
“You do,” he agreed easily. “But you don’t repeat what others say. You build from first principles. It’s uncommon.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re fishing.”
“I’m listening,” he corrected. “Tell me, when others insist the shipping reform bill will harm small ports, are you disputing the point…or the assumptions behind the argument?”
The question landed like a thrown gauntlet.
Bea stared at him. No man had ever asked her that—not as a challenge, not as a trap, but as though her reasoning might actually matter.
“The assumptions,” she said at once. “The bill is sound. It’s careful. It’s necessary. What will hurt small ports is Parliament dismissing it without grasping what it’s meant to fix.”
Archer’s expression changed—not smug, not dismissive, but intent.
“So the danger isn’t the legislation.”
“It’s ignorance,” she said flatly. “And indifference.”
His mouth curved, slow and genuine. “Then the bill isn’t the problem.”
“It’s the solution,” she finished. “If they’d only bother to read it.”
“I see.”
She narrowed her eyes to absolute slits. “Why did we need to be alone for you to ask me that?”
He smiled faintly. “Because I want to hear what you actually think, not the version you might perform in public.”
She opened her mouth—intent upon telling him that she didn’t perform for anyone—but he didn’t allow her the chance. “No need to say it.” He lifted a hand. “Shall we begin to get to know each other with something simple? Perhaps my understanding of what you do not like about me?”
Bea flicked her gaze toward him, her wariness intact, but now threaded with curiosity. She simply couldn’t resist. “Oh? Do tell.”
“It is no secret to me, my lady,” he replied, “that you are not a Tory.”
Her brows shot up, suspicion and amusement no doubt warring on her face. “I was not aware that ladies were allowed to have political affiliations.”
“Allowed?” His low laugh curled warm along her spine. “We both know you’ve never given a toss about what you’re allowed to do.”
Bea felt the words settle somewhere they had no right to reach, loosening something she had kept carefully bound.
No one had ever said it before, this thing about her, this part she normally kept tightly tucked behind wit and sarcasm and careful propriety, albeit with the occasional outburst toward men as idiotic as Lord Hargrave.
To have Nicholas Archer see it, name it, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world…
Well. It was…unsettling. Off-putting. And entirely too perceptive of him.
She lifted her chin. “If you insist on ascribing rebellious motives to me—”
“I am merely observing,” he said smoothly. “You are not governed by fashion or flattery. You form your own conclusions. You speak them. Loudly. And often to someone who is paying attention.”
She wasn’t certain whether to be insulted or flattered.
“You think I’m a Tory,” he continued. “And that is an unpardonable offense.”
She whipped her head toward him. “Are you not a Tory?”
He did not answer at once. Instead, his gaze drifted to the water beside them, where the Serpentine lay smooth and bright, sunlight skating across its surface.
“I am,” he said at last, “a man who has learned that some truths are best revealed selectively.”
Her lips curved, unimpressed. “That was not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed mildly. “It was caution.”
She gave a quiet, derisive huff. “How very political of you.”
“Practical,” he corrected. “Your father is a formidable man with formidable convictions. I admire him greatly.” A pause—carefully placed. “I also prefer that he continue to admire me.”
That earned him a sharp look. “So, you are a Tory.”
“I am…often found in their company,” he said lightly.
“That is not the same thing.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re right.”
She folded her arms. “You’re evasive.”
They slowed without quite stopping, the gravel path crunching beneath their steps. He turned toward her fully then, close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed her shoulder…so lightly it might have been an accident.
She noticed the contact. Of course she did. But she did not step away. He would not intimidate her.
He inclined his head. “Evasive? Ah. Another thing you don’t like about me.
Very well. Let us continue to list my sins since we’ve begun so neatly.
” One finger lifted. “I choose nuance where you admire certainty.” Another.
“I associate with men whose politics offend you…even though your own father is one of them.” Then his hand fell, still not quite touching her arm but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the thin wool of her pelisse. “And perhaps my greatest sin of all…”
He paused. Deliberately. The space between them felt suddenly charged, taut as a drawn bow.
“I possess influence in Parliament,” he said quietly. “Power.” His eyes did not leave hers. “Power you—by virtue of your sex—are barred from wielding, no matter how capable you might be.”
Her breath stuttered, traitorous and unwelcome.
Then she laughed once, sharply. “You think that is why I dislike you?”
“I think,” he said, his voice low and intimate despite the open park around them, “it would be reason enough to make you resent me.”
She stepped closer, just enough that her skirts brushed his boots, just enough that his knuckles hovered beside her sleeve, so near she was acutely aware of his restraint.
“You mistake me, my lord,” she said coolly. “I do not resent power.” Her smile was thin. “I resent men who presume I am unable to wield it.”
Something flickered across his face then—approval, unmistakable and decidedly not safe.
“Ah,” he murmured. “Then I stand corrected.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The water glinted. A breeze tugged at her bonnet ribbon. His hand remained at her side, close enough to feel, not close enough to claim.
Bea had the unsettling sense that he was no longer sparring for advantage but testing how much distance she would allow him to close.
He had relented, even admitted to being incorrect. That was something. But was this only more calculation on his part? More political maneuvering?
Before she could choose her next words, he continued more gently, “Which brings me to a second point. Perhaps we should continue to further our acquaintance with what we have in common.”
“Ha.” She arched a brow. “Do we have anything in common?”
“Well.” He waited a beat, clearly savoring her silence before continuing. “We are both devoted to our beliefs. We both admire honesty. And we both have a healthy aversion to Lord Hargrave.”
“Most of Society does,” Bea replied, flicking an imaginary speck from her glove.
“Then we are practically unified,” he said solemnly. “A foundation upon which countless agreements may be built.”
“Doubtful,” she muttered.
“Hm. Very well. Another approach then.” He cleared his throat with exaggerated importance. “A most serious question.”
Bea rolled her eyes. “Must you?”
“Yes. It is essential.” He paused, straightened his back, and grabbed his lapel with his free hand. “Do you find me appealing? Physically, I mean.”
She tripped. Actually tripped—only a fraction, but it was enough. His arm tightened, steadying her.
“Lord Vanover,” she nearly choked.
“First, we’ve known each other for years. I think it would be appropriate for us to call one another by our Christian names.”
She narrowed her eyes at him again. “And second?”
“I’m still waiting for an answer. Am I physically attractive to you?”
She huffed a breath. “Arrogant,” she murmured.
“What?” he said, his tone far too innocent. “A man likes to know.”
She blinked at him. “Fishing for compliments?”
“Not at all.” His tone dropped, just slightly. “We’ve established you dislike the situation. Perhaps my beliefs. But me?” He tilted his head. “The man?” He waited a beat. “Am I truly so objectionable?”
She nearly snorted. Then she lifted her chin again. “Oh, come now. You must know you’re terribly handsome.” Her eyes flared wide and then, “I mean—”
His grin was unrepentant. “No. No. You already said it. You cannot take it back.”
She nearly growled at him. What in the world had made her say such a thing? She’d given him precisely the sort of praise a man like him should never be trusted with. A grave mistake.
Archer stopped walking. Slowly, very slowly, he turned toward her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then softly, sincerely, “Terribly handsome, eh?”
Warmth rose traitorously along Bea’s cheeks. If only one could recall spoken words as neatly as one recorked a wine bottle.
He flicked the brim of his hat, a cocky smile lighting his features. “I have been called many things in my life, Lady Beatrix. Handsome, upon occasion. But I do not think I have ever been quite so glad to hear it as I am when it comes from your lips.”
Her breath stilled.
Oh no. She’d handed him a weapon to use against her.
Not to mention he was standing too close—far too close—and she became acutely aware of the way his coat fit across his broad chest, the subtle movement of his throat when he swallowed, the faint warmth radiating from him in the cool breeze. And worse—his mouth.
She should not be staring at his mouth.
His lips curved, not in a smirk, but something quieter. Warmer. Much more dangerous.
“Bea,” he murmured.
Her name in his voice—not clipped, not sparring, but almost tender—sent a jolt through her. And he’d used the name she preferred. Beatrix was far too formal, too pompous, too… Wait. How did he know she preferred that name? Was it another thing he’d observed about her, just like her political bent?
Archer reached as though to brush a loose strand of hair at her temple. His fingers grazed her cheek, featherlight. Without thought, she leaned infinitesimally closer.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
For one dizzying heartbeat, she wondered whether he would kiss her…and whether she wanted him to.
Which was absurd.
Completely, utterly absurd.
She drew back so quickly she nearly stumbled. “We…should continue walking.”
“Should we?” he asked, clearly amused but not pressing.
“Yes,” she said coolly, gathering the remains of her dignity. “We absolutely should.”
They resumed their slow pace, though her pulse had not resumed anything resembling normalcy.
She stared ahead with forced interest at a cluster of swans drifting near the far bank.
Anything to keep from thinking about Nicholas’s mouth. Or the warmth of his hands. Or the spark low in her belly that she refused outright to acknowledge. Or the fact that she was now thinking of him as Nicholas in her head.
Focus, she told herself sternly. There were political gains to be made. Secrets to overhear. Foes to confuse. And Nicholas—with his maddening charm and dangerously appealing shoulders—might very well be the key to all of it.
But heavens, she needed to stop thinking about how his coat fit or how his eyes softened when he looked at her.
She needed to think about strategy.
Not his lips. Not his hands. Not his voice saying her name.
Strategy.
She drew a steadying breath. Say something, Bea. Anything!
“What exactly,” she blurted, “is the meaning of peonies?”
His brows drew together. “Peonies?”
“Yes,” she said crisply. “A fortnight ago…you sent me a bouquet of peonies. What sort of message are peonies meant to convey?”
A beat. Then, very quietly but with that maddening confidence, he said, “I thought it would be obvious. Unexpected. Beautiful. Riotous. Unconventional.” His gaze slid to hers. “Much like their intended recipient.”
Her breath caught—an unforgivable reaction—and she looked ahead, schooling her expression. “Oh,” was all she could mutter.