Chapter Fifteen
“Nicholas Archer is trying to seduce me,” Bea announced.
She and her friends were gathered once more in her sitting room—the unofficial headquarters of The Wallflower’s Revolt—sunlight slanting through the tall windows and catching motes of dust above the tea table.
Bea stood near the hearth, still flushed, her pale blue muslin gown creased where she’d twisted her fingers into the fabric.
Georgie lounged on the settee in a pink-striped walking dress, bonnet abandoned on the chair beside her, teacup poised in one hand.
Poppy sat cross-legged on the rug at their feet, embroidery hoop balanced against her knee, her soft yellow day dress already speckled with stray threads.
It was meant to be a meeting. It had become a confession.
Georgie choked violently on her tea. Poppy dropped her embroidery hoop on the rug.
“What?” they both screeched simultaneously.
Bea turned to face her friends, fingertips pressed to her temples. “He told me. Directly. That he intends to seduce me. And then—and then—he somehow managed to kiss me.”
Georgie stared, the look on her face half-horrified, half-impressed. “Did you slap him?”
“No,” Bea muttered. She was still wondering at herself about that. Why hadn’t she slapped him? If anything deserved a slap in response, it was that kiss.
“Did you bite him?” Poppy asked, far too hopefully.
“No,” Bea groaned. Honestly, she hadn’t thought of it at the time. Not a half-bad idea. Something to consider for next time. Not that there would be a next time. Because while she might have to pretend to allow him to court her, she certainly didn’t have to allow him to kiss her again…ever.
“What did you do?” Georgie asked, blinking in confusion.
“I kissed him back,” Bea admitted, expelling a long sigh.
“Oh,” Georgie breathed, eyes widening.
“Oh?” Poppy echoed, obviously scandalized.
“Yes,” Bea admitted. “But only briefly. Quite briefly.”
Georgie leaned forward, pursing her lips. “So let me ensure I understand this correctly. Nicholas Archer kissed you and you enjoyed it enough to kiss him back?”
“Briefly!” Bea repeated.
“Too briefly to know whether you enjoyed it?” Georgie pressed, a sly smile on her lips.
“He infuriates me,” Bea insisted. “His politics are wrong, his humor is uncivilized, he’s smug and glories in it—and yet—”
“He’s an excellent kisser,” Georgie supplied, another wicked grin on her face.
Bea scowled. “You’re not helping.”
“Very well,” Georgie said, setting her teacup aside and smoothing her skirts. “If you’re determined to be a spinster—”
“Wallflower,” Bea corrected.
“Then why not kiss him?” Georgie shrugged. “I mean it. If it’s enjoyable. Be discreet. Have fun.”
Poppy gasped so hard she nearly inhaled a needle. “Georgiana! You cannot possibly mean that.”
“I mean exactly that,” Georgie replied. “Why shouldn’t Bea enjoy herself a bit? You don’t have to marry the man to enjoy him.”
Bea opened her mouth, then she closed it and scowled again. “I cannot possibly enjoy myself with Nicholas Archer.”
“I believe you,” Georgie hummed, giving her a slow wink.
Bea groaned again. “Stop looking at me like that. This is not about kissing. Or seduction. Or…his ridiculous mouth.” She rubbed her forehead vigorously. “We have more important concerns.”
Poppy perked up. “Such as?”
“Such as everything.” Bea drew a breath, straightened her back, and fixed both her friends with a determined stare.
“Our revolt,” she continued. “Have you two forgotten? Parliament convenes again next week. There are rumors the shipping reform bill will be voted on earlier than expected. If the Tories block the bill, everything I’ve worked for will be undone.
I need to influence public sentiment…hard. And swiftly.”
Georgie nodded. “Which means—”
“Which means,” Bea interrupted, “my caricatures must be sharper than ever. Devastating. Unignorable. And as usual”—she grimaced—“my best material comes from my father and Nicholas themselves.”
Only things had changed. The vent had gone quiet since the courtship began—Nicholas came to visit her now, more often than Father. Her movements were too managed. If she wanted information, she’d have to take it the dangerous way: from Nicholas himself.
Poppy snorted. “Well. At least Lord Vanover is giving you…fresh inspiration.”
“You’re calling him Nicholas now?” Georgie asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
Bea glowered at both of them. “I have no time to be distracted by seductive whispers and fingertips trailing down my neck and—” She clamped her mouth shut, then added, “And other nonsense.”
Georgie exchanged a knowing look with Poppy.
Bea ignored it. She stalked over to her escritoire, grabbed her sketchbook, and held it like a shield. “We need a plan. We need strategy. We need outrage distilled into ink. And if Nicholas thinks one stolen kiss is going to convince me to marry him, he is very much mistaken.”
Georgie tilted her head. “Out of curiosity, have you attended any new Tory gatherings? Since Lord Vanover began courting you, I mean.”
Bea waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course, I—” She stopped.
Poppy frowned. “Any dinners? Salons? Political suppers?”
Bea opened her mouth again. And closed it again. “Well,” she said slowly, irritation creeping in, “not formal ones. We’ve…spoken.”
“Spoken,” Georgie repeated. “Where?”
“In the park. On a walk. Once on a veranda. At night.” Bea’s brow furrowed. “Privately.”
Poppy’s eyes widened a fraction. “So not a single drawing room? Not one room full of overheard conversations and indiscreet opinions?”
The silence stretched for several seconds.
Bea felt it then. The shape of it. The truth she had somehow missed.
“He’s kept me alone,” she said quietly. Not accusing, but realizing.
Georgie leaned back, lips pursed. “That does seem…convenient. For Lord Vanover, at least.”
Heat flared in Bea’s chest—annoyance, sudden and unsettling, but not at Nicholas alone. At herself.
“I allowed it,” she said. “I let him distract me.” Her jaw tightened. “By God…that stops. Immediately.”
Georgie picked up her teacup again and tilted her head, eyes dancing. “So, no more kissing?”
Bea hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “Absolutely not.”
Poppy arched a brow. “You’re certain?”
“Positive,” Bea said firmly. “I will not be swayed by flirtation. Or charm. Or the width of his”—her cheeks warmed treacherously—“shoulders.”
“Oh dear,” Poppy murmured. “You’ve mentioned his shoulders more than once.”
“Enough about Nicholas,” Bea declared. “I have work to do. Caricatures to draw. A nation to sway.” She clutched her sketchbook tighter, her jaw setting like iron.
Nicholas Archer could promise seduction until he turned blue, she vowed silently. He could whisper wicked things until her bones melted. He could even kiss her senseless.
But she would not—would not—allow any of it to pull her from her mission.
This was not a romance.
It was a revolution.