Chapter Seventeen #2
“How fascinating,” he said, with a calm that made several heads turn. “I wasn’t aware Parliament’s legitimacy depended on what women are ‘meant’ to do.”
Langford stiffened. “Vanover—”
Nicholas’s gaze was cool now, his voice still mild. “If your position is strong, it can survive being questioned. If it cannot survive a question, then perhaps it deserves to be replaced.”
A beat of silence.
Then one of the younger MPs—Lord Ashby, Bea thought—let out a short laugh. “Well said.”
Another voice chimed in, “Hear, hear.”
Langford’s lips compressed into a tight line. “This is absurd.”
“No,” Bea said softly, and when she spoke, she realized she was no longer shaking. “This is debate. And despite my status as a female, I do indeed have opinions.”
Langford looked as though he might explode. Instead, he snapped a stiff bow and stalked away.
The room exhaled.
Bea stared after him, adrenaline blazing in her veins, half expecting someone to scold her for speaking too loudly. For stepping out of line. For daring.
No one did.
Nicholas turned toward her, and for the first time since she’d known him, his expression in a room filled with Tories wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug.
It was…quietly approving.
“You’re perfectly right,” he said.
Bea’s throat tightened in a ridiculous, unexpected way.
Because she had spoken before—in private, in secret, in ink.
But she had never spoken aloud like this, in a room that mattered.
And she had never expected Nicholas, of all people, to agree with her.
Bea drew a breath, forcing herself to recover. “I wasn’t prepared.”
“I know. My apologies. I wanted them to hear you.”
Bea’s heart gave an absurd little lurch.
She frowned at him, searching his face for the trick. The strategy. The angle.
There wasn’t one.
Not that she could see.
Nicholas had just used his influence—his name, his place in that room—to give her the one thing she had never been handed by a man like him.
A platform.
Bea swallowed. “Why?”
Nicholas didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted over the room—over the men who were now speaking a bit more carefully, the women who were suddenly watching her with additional interest.
Then he looked back at Bea.
“Because I’m tired,” he said quietly, “of watching the cleverest person in the room be treated like furniture.”
Bea’s breath caught. She stared at him, abruptly disarmed. Not because he was handsome. Not because he had kissed her.
But because he had seen her.
And in that moment, Bea realized something she did not like at all.
Nicholas Archer could be dangerous in more ways than one.
Soon, Lord Hillary bustled over, delight shining in his eyes.
“Magnificent, Lady Beatrix,” he whispered, as if she were an actor who’d just nailed her cue.
“Absolutely magnificent. Langford has been insufferable for weeks. I’m tempted to invite you every week.
You certainly provide some much-needed interest.”
Bea managed a tight smile. “How generous. I should like that, my lord.”
Nicholas’s hand brushed her elbow—guiding, careful. They stepped away before Nicholas whispered, “We should go before Hillary tries to put you on a dais.”
Bea’s pulse flickered again. “Are you trying to rescue me again?”
Nicholas leaned in, his mouth near her ear. “Never,” he murmured.
Her stomach flipped traitorously.
Bea straightened, regaining her composure with effort. “Very well. Let’s go.”
Nicholas’s eyes warmed, and for the briefest second she saw something in him she hadn’t expected to find.
Not a rake’s triumph.
Not a politician’s calculation.
Something steadier. Something…kind.
He offered his arm again.
Bea took it.
And as they walked out of Hillary House—past the watching faces, the whispering mouths, the little sparks of curiosity her words had ignited—she realized she was seeing Nicholas in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to see him before.
Not as an opponent.
Not as a seducer.
But as a man who, when it mattered, had stood beside her. Who had been an ally.
The coach waited at the curb.
Nicholas helped her in, his hand warm at her waist—brief, proper, maddeningly decent.
Bea settled onto the seat, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to pull herself back into the armor she wore so well.
Nicholas climbed in after her and shut the door.
For a beat, the enclosed space felt different than it had earlier. Not only charged. Not only dangerous. Intimate in a new way.
Nicholas watched her as the carriage lurched forward. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again. “You were brilliant in there.”
The simple sincerity of it hit her harder than any compliment had the right to.
Bea looked away quickly, as if the window might save her. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t…” She gestured vaguely, frustrated by the flutter in her chest. “Say things that sound like you mean them.”
Nicholas’s voice turned softer. “What if I do mean them?”
Bea’s breath caught.
The coach rolled on, wheels humming over cobblestone, the world outside oblivious.
And Bea realized—with sudden, treacherous clarity—that the most dangerous thing Nicholas had done today was not kissing her.
It was making her feel as if she mattered.
“If you should care to try your skill at kissing again, do let me know,” Nicholas drawled, his smile pure cunning.
Bea rolled her eyes. “Don’t you wish.” Despite the heat rising in her chest, she forced a laugh.
“You’ve no idea.” But this time…the wink he gave her made her toes curl.