Chapter Nineteen
Nicholas Archer had always prided himself on waking with a clear head. This morning, his head was perfectly clear.
It was his thoughts that were a problem.
They arrived one after another as he sat at his desk with a cup of coffee cooling at his elbow, the window cracked just enough to let in the spring air, and the pale light of London slanting across the polished wood.
He told himself he was thinking about Parliament.
He told himself he was thinking about Winston’s demands, his father’s expectations, the reform bill vote…only days away, the ridiculous dance of alliances that governed the entire country.
He told himself a great many things.
And yet the first image that surfaced—uninvited, vivid—was Lady Beatrix Winslow standing in Lord Hillary’s salon with her chin tipped up and her eyes bright with that same dangerous fire she carried like a concealed blade.
Not in the room.
In the center of it.
Nicholas took a sip of coffee.
It had been a risk. He’d known that the moment he’d guided her forward, the moment he’d stepped into Langford’s sermon with a smile and offered Bea to the room as if she belonged there.
Because she did.
But men like Langford did not care about what was true. They cared about what was permitted. And what was permitted, in their minds, was simple: women listened. Men spoke. Votes were counted by people with the appropriate anatomy.
And yet Bea had spoken regardless.
She’d spoken without hedging, without fluttering her lashes to soften her words, without doing that tiresome female thing where they pretended their opinions were merely decorative.
She had been bold, and sharp, and wholly, spectacularly unmanageable.
It had pleased Nicholas more than it should have.
He set his cup down with unnecessary precision and tried, for the third time, to read the memorandum on his desk.
The words blurred into meaninglessness.
Because whenever he saw ink on paper, his mind supplied a different image.
Bea’s mouth.
And what it might taste like the next time she decided—very nobly, very stubbornly—to act as though kissing him was an insult she was forced to endure.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the leather creak.
It had been a peculiar outing.
He hadn’t expected her to enjoy the salon, for one thing. Bea disliked being managed with the passion of a woman who had spent her whole life being managed.
And yet—there had been a moment, after Langford stalked off, when Bea’s eyes had flashed and her breath had caught, and the satisfaction on her face had been so bright it was…beautiful.
Nicholas had watched her then and thought, quite simply, There.
That was what she was meant for. Not meek smiles in drawing rooms. Not polite obedience at the end of a duke’s leash. But that fearless, furious truth.
He had wanted the room to hear her. He had wanted her to feel what it was like to be taken seriously. And perhaps—if he was being honest—he had wanted to be the man who gave her that.
An absurd thing to want. And Nicholas did not do absurd.
He did strategy. He did leverage. He did winning.
But when he’d murmured, I wanted them to hear you, it hadn’t been strategy.
It had been…well. It had been honest.
Nicholas rolled his shoulders, impatient with himself.
In his world, honesty was a liability. Which was why he preferred his honesty dressed up as banter. Like the banter he’d shared with Bea in the coach afterward.
His mouth twitched at the memory.
Bea, bristling with the aftershock of her own courage, trying so hard to pretend she wasn’t pleased. Nicholas, doing what he did best: prodding until she snapped, and then smiling as if he hadn’t been aiming for that exact reaction.
And then—
What if I do mean them?
He could still hear how softly he’d said it, as if the words had slipped out before he had time to examine them. Bea’s breath catching. That brief, unguarded stillness that always came just before she shoved her pride back into place.
Nicholas’s gaze drifted to the window, unfocused.
He had enjoyed that stillness far too much.
And then, of course, he’d ruined it the way he always did…with a provocation. With a wicked little invitation, a wink meant to remind her he was not some earnest reformer seeking her approval.
He was Nicholas Archer, after all.
He used words to produce his desired result.
And yet when he’d teased her—when he’d asked her to try her kissing again—Bea had rolled her eyes, yes, but she’d been interested. He’d seen it in her eyes. Felt it in the charge of energy within the coach air. The tiniest, most delicious betrayal of her own self-control.
You’ve no idea, he’d told her.
And she didn’t.
Not yet.
Nicholas dragged his attention back to his desk. He had an entire day ahead of him. Meetings. Letters. A committee session that would likely devolve into men shouting about “order” as if the word itself could solve hunger.
Not to mention he would almost certainly be summoned by his father to explain himself once the duke received word that Nicholas had escorted a young woman who had vociferously argued for the reform bill at a political salon.
He smiled to himself. How satisfying it would be when he explained to his father that the young lady in question was none other than his soon-to-be betrothed, the Duke of Winston’s daughter.
He would bear his father’s chastisement as he always did.
Because his father had taught him well. The best way to deal with him was to feign agreement.
And wouldn’t his father have an apoplectic fit when he learned that his own son, the presumed pride of the Tories, had changed his mind on the reform bill…
after listening to the arguments made by a woman?
It was true.
Nicholas had given Bea’s words considerable thought last night and had decided that far from agreeing with his father and Winston on the topic, Bea was perfectly right. Why shouldn’t the men who did all the work be allowed a voice in the decision making? It was only logical.
His father and Winston would hate it, of course. But they wouldn’t find out until the vote was taken.
The thought made Nicholas’s smile widen.
He reached for the stack of papers Godwin had placed on his desk—correspondence and the morning post.
The newspaper lay on top, folded neatly.
Nicholas hesitated.
It was not unusual for him to delay reading the papers. He rarely found them useful. They were filled with gossip and opinion and the occasional fact disguised as entertainment.
But this morning, his hand paused for a different reason.
Because, somehow, he already knew what he would find.
He opened it regardless.
And there, as bold as a slap, was B. Adroit’s latest work.
Nicholas’s gaze sharpened.
Sir Edwin Langford, rendered as if God had carved him out of arrogance and left the rest unfinished. His mouth a thin sneer. His eyes bulging with indignation. A ridiculous little crown balanced crookedly on his head as though he’d stolen it from a child.
And beneath it—merciless, elegant, perfect:
WOMEN SHOULD NOT MEDDLE.
Below that, a teetering teacup and a second line, dripping with mockery.
Nicholas stared. Then he smiled.
He couldn’t help it. The cartoon was excellent.
It was also, in a way Nicholas did not enjoy, terribly…timely.
He lowered the paper, his mind already turning.
He’d never been a betting man. But what were the odds that Bea had a public clash—however controlled—with Langford at Hillary House, and then within hours, B. Adroit skewered Langford in precisely the way Bea would most want?
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed.
A coincidence was possible.
After all, the salon had been full of men, and any of them could have carried the exchange into the street.
Some might even have taken pleasure in Langford’s humiliation.
Hillary himself would happily feed a cartoonist a dozen juicy remarks if it meant the next issue was more entertaining and his salon more popular.
But it wasn’t only that Langford had been the target—it was that the cartoon echoed his exact phrasing, the same insult he’d aimed at Bea like a blade.
It could have been anyone.
And yet—
Nicholas’s gaze returned to the drawing.
There were details here. Not merely Langford’s general pompousness, but the particular phrasing. The emphasis. The tone of it. That teacup felt personal, like a woman’s fury given ink.
Nicholas tapped the paper once with his forefinger, thoughtfully.
Bea.
Bea had been quick with her words, precise with her points, and she’d spoken like someone who had been practicing the argument for weeks. She’d looked around that room not as a guest but as an observer.
As if she were cataloging it.
As if she might later…report on it.
Nicholas had suspected for some time that Bea knew the cartoonist. She could easily be the source of information. She moved in those circles by birth. She heard things. She saw things.
And she vehemently disagreed with her father.
A woman who disagreed with the things she knew could do a great deal of damage with the right ear at her disposal.
Nicholas’s mouth tightened.
It did not help that Bea had been entirely too composed last night after they left Hillary House—after the shock, after the attention, after she’d tasted what it was like to say what she chose.
She’d seemed…satisfied.
As if she’d gotten something she’d wanted.
Nicholas folded the paper back slowly. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He looked again at the folded newspaper, as if he could see through the pages to the ink beneath.
If Lady Beatrix was feeding information to B. Adroit, it meant she was even more dangerous than he’d assumed.
Which, of course, made her even more interesting.
Nicholas’s mouth curved faintly.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly what he was doing with Bea.
Winston wanted a courtship. Society wanted a story. Nicholas’s father wanted obedience and power, and a neat alliance tied up with ribbon.
But Nicholas wanted a wife. A wife who would challenge him. One who would make him think. Exactly the way Bea had.
And he didn’t want just any wife. He wanted Bea. But he wanted her to want him. Agreeing to the forced courtship merely bought him time. It gave him access. It gave him proximity.
And proximity, with a woman like Bea, was an advantage.
Last night, he’d used that advantage to draw her into the middle of a salon and let her set a man on fire with words.
He’d also used it to convince her to kiss him in a coach.
Both had been satisfying.
Nicholas stood, crossing to the window. Outside, the square was brightening with morning. Carriages rattled past. A pair of boys chased one another with sticks, shouting as if they owned the world.
Nicholas watched them without seeing them.
He was thinking about Bea.
He was thinking about the way she’d looked when she spoke—like someone finally permitted to take up space.
He was thinking about the way she’d looked when he’d teased her—like someone annoyed to discover she enjoyed it.
He was thinking about the way she might look the next time he leaned in close and murmured something improper just to watch her pretend she didn’t like it.
He was also thinking—because he was not an idiot—about what she might be hiding.
Nicholas turned back to his desk and rang the bell.
Godwin appeared.
“Have the carriage readied,” Nicholas said. “In an hour.”
Godwin bowed. “Very good, my lord. Shall I inform the Duke of Winston—”
“No.” Nicholas’s gaze sharpened. “Not yet. I’m merely going for a ride.”
Godwin’s brow lifted a fraction, though his face remained appropriately blank. “A ride, my lord.”
Nicholas’s mouth curved.
“Yes,” he said softly, already imagining Bea’s scowl. “A simple, innocent ride.”
He picked up the folded newspaper again, eyes narrowing as he looked at B. Adroit’s handiwork.
A coincidence perhaps.
Or proof.
Nicholas didn’t know yet.
But he intended to find out.
He set the paper down, reached for his gloves, and allowed himself one last, private thought—half amusement, half anticipation.
This time, he rather hoped Bea wouldn’t suggest attending another political salon.
Nicholas smiled to himself. He had a feeling the coach would be far more interesting than a salon.
And if Bea decided that kissing him wasn’t the worst idea in the world—
Well.
Nicholas had never objected to a woman having a bit of fun.