Chapter Twenty-Three
Bea had successfully delivered another cartoon. Just now, she’d sneaked out, tucked the folded drawing into the usual pamphlet, and dropped it into the slot at the printshop. She should have felt triumphant.
Instead, her cheeks warmed at the memory of last night, the stolen moments in her darkened bedchamber when her thoughts had drifted, unwisely, inexcusably, back to Nicholas.
To his mouth. His hands. The way he had looked at her as if he could see straight through every layer she presented to the world.
She’d be lying if she didn’t admit to herself that she’d created another caricature so quickly in order to draw Nicholas’s attention away from the Langford drawing.
He’d been far too perceptive when he’d asked her about it.
She’d cleared her throat and glanced away, then hurriedly disembarked from the carriage before he’d had a chance to say anything more.
Of course, last night, she’d been far more preoccupied with the memory of Nicholas’s mouth on her breast, driving her mad, than the discussion about B. Adroit.
Fine. She was a woman with desires, not a marble statue.
There was nothing sinful in wanting what any warm-blooded creature might.
And Nicholas was handsome enough to haunt a woman’s imagination.
Nearly irresistible, if she were honest. But none of that meant they were suited.
Nor that they would marry. And it certainly didn’t mean she agreed with his politics any more than she ever had. She still had a mission to accomplish.
The drawing she’d just delivered was deliciously sharp—Nicholas drawn as a smug fox in a perfectly tied cravat, whispering sweet nothings into the ear of Britannia with one paw while the other slipped coins into the pocket of another fox dressed like a duke, one who bore a startling resemblance to her father.
The caption read: A pretty mouth and prettier lies.
Who profits from the seduction of a nation?
She’d thought of it after listening to her father read her the riot act after she’d returned home yesterday afternoon.
She’d been forced to sit in silence—her hair and clothing still no doubt mussed—while both of her parents told her how disappointed they were in her ‘unfortunate outburst’ at Lord Hillary’s salon.
They’d apparently got wind of it from a friend who’d stopped by for tea while she’d been out in the park with Nicholas. How terribly helpful.
First, they’d forbid her to attend another one of Lord Hillary’s salons.
Then they’d threatened her with a shorter courtship if she ‘couldn’t control her words.
’ Of course she’d promised them both she would be more than able to control her words.
She would have promised them anything in order to escape their diatribe for the quiet stillness of her sitting room.
She’d sat in silence for a while before deciding that her father would be the perfect target for her next drawing.
She’d added Nicholas almost as an afterthought.
Perhaps he would believe she had nothing to do with the cartoons if he were the subject of the very next one.
A tenuous plan, but in the moment, it was all she had.
Bea straightened, turning away from the printer’s shop, and brushing a curl behind her ear.
The cartoon was, objectively, rather brilliant.
Though it did come with a twinge of guilt, now that she’d had longer to consider it.
Because in a matter of hours, the man she had just dismantled in ink would arrive to collect her for another outing. An outing she had agreed to. Worse—one she was looking forward to. The contradiction pressed uncomfortably at her conscience.
Which was a problem…because if she was going to face Nicholas again—if she was going to spend time with him—then she would need to be cool. Careful. Entirely in command of herself.
Of course, she was absolutely not planning to kiss him. Not today. Not again. She’d had enough fun. It had been enjoyable, to be certain. But she didn’t particularly care to be a woman who would expose a man’s politics to public scrutiny and then lose her composure in his arms.
Not to mention, yesterday their antics had hardly stopped at kissing.
And she tended to agree with Nicholas when he’d pointed out that it probably could never just be kissing between them.
He was right. And she suspected Nicholas would make that line far more difficult to hold than it had any right to be.
Which meant she needed to be on guard.
Determined.
Unflappable.
Even if the man’s mouth was… No, his mouth was irrelevant.
She pulled her borrowed cloak tighter and quickly walked away from the shop.
There would be no seduction today. No kissing. No shoulder touching. No hands anywhere they did not belong.
Bea repeated all of this sternly to herself when Nicholas arrived that afternoon, punctual as always.
He’d brought the coach again today. Of course he did. No doubt he was eager for them to repeat the scandalous things they’d done yesterday.
“There shall be no kissing today,” she informed him in what was probably far too loud a voice the moment the coach door closed behind them.
“Noted,” he said, with that same self-satisfied grin she’d seen too often lately. “Actually, kissing wasn’t my plan for this afternoon.”
“Oh, really,” she muttered, knowing full well her voice dripped with skepticism. “What else were you planning?”
“Parliament will be back in session soon. The first vote,” he continued, “will be on the trade restrictions for the East Indies. I thought we might discuss it.”
Bea tilted her head, studying him. Of all the directions he might have taken the conversation, that was certainly not the one she’d anticipated.
“Discuss it?” she echoed. “You and I?”
“Yes.” His tone was so simple, so maddeningly unruffled, that her pulse tripped. “Would you like to?”
She stared at him, searching his face for mockery…but there was none. His eyes were steady, thoughtful, sincere.
Sincere about her opinion.
A flutter of something sharp and unfamiliar tightened beneath her ribs.
Here he was again, asking her thoughts on a matter of state—not as a novelty, not as flirtation, but as though her opinion belonged naturally in the conversation.
Again. Manchester. The reform bill. And now this.
Conversations he had not merely begun but continued.
It was becoming a habit of his, asking, listening, remembering.
Caring.
Too often, in her own home, her words were indulged or tolerated. Rarely were they engaged. But Nicholas was looking at her again as though every syllable she might speak mattered.
This time, she knew exactly what the feeling was. That was the problem. It was the sensation of being met—not humored, but answered. Of being seen not as an inconvenience or an ornament, but as possessing a mind worth engaging.
Nicholas chuckled softly, the warm, intimate sound that always seemed to slip beneath her defenses. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Bea. I know your secret.”
She sucked in her breath. “Pardon?” Surely, he couldn’t possibly mean—
“How much you care about politics.” Another chuckle.
She closed her eyes and expelled her breath in relief.
When she opened her eyes again, his face had turned serious. “You don’t have another secret…do you?” There was that probing gaze again.
“What? No. I—” She cleared her throat. “Of course not.”
“Good. Then”—he spread his arms across the back of his seat—“I would love to hear your thoughts. About any of the votes coming up.”
Her gaze narrowed once more. She tilted her head. “How? Why?”
Nicholas’s mouth curved slowly. “Because when you speak,” he said, “I find I want to hear every word you say.”
Bea inhaled sharply, her heart slamming so violently she was certain he must hear it. It was absurd—completely absurd—that such a simple admission could undo her. Her fingers curled reflexively into her skirts, as if she needed to hold on to something.
He actually wanted to listen.
To her. About politics?
It was dangerously intoxicating.
She forced herself to blink, to breathe, to reclaim her wits. If he wanted to discuss politics…she was game.
“How do you intend to vote on the restrictions?” she asked. If he insisted on discussing it, she might as well ask what she truly wished to know.
Nicholas met her gaze. “I’m voting for the reform bill, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Bea frowned. She couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly. “What?”
“I’m voting for the restrictions,” he repeated calmly.
“To protect colonial laborers and limit private profiteering. It isn’t perfect, but it’s something.
I completely agree with what you said about indifference being the real problem.
I admit I hadn’t entirely made up my mind, but you made excellent points to Sir Edwin. ”
Bea stared at him as though he’d begun speaking ancient Greek. “But that’s not how my father is voting. That’s not how the Tories are voting.”
Nicholas met her gaze. His expression was smooth, unreadable. “Do you believe I always vote the way your father does?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “Obviously.”
“Well,” he replied with a slight grin, “you’re wrong.”
She hated the little swoop in her stomach. The shift in her chest. The uncomfortable flicker of…respect.
“But you work with him,” she insisted. “You listen to him.”
“I do work with him,” Nicholas agreed. “And I listen, but at the moment, I’m trying to persuade him to reconsider.”
She snorted. “Parliament’s stone steps are more yielding than my father once his mind is settled.”
Nicholas only smiled. “I’ve managed more difficult feats.”
Bea opened her mouth to argue, but stopped. This didn’t make any sense. She’d listened to them, endlessly, through the grate in her bedchamber, and Nicholas always…always agreed with her father. She’d never heard him disagree with him. Not once. Not ever.
But then again… Now that she considered it… She’d never heard him explicitly agree with him either.
Oh, God.
She swallowed hard, her heart thumping in her chest. Because suddenly, horribly, she remembered the cartoon she’d dropped off this morning.
The fox.
The bribery.
The insinuation of corruption.
The caption: A pretty mouth and prettier lies.
Her stomach sank.
She had drawn Nicholas as precisely the sort of man he had just said he wasn’t.
Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her gown, guilt washing over her in a hot, disorienting wave. She had misjudged him. Misrepresented him.
Hadn’t she?
The thought snagged, sharp and unwelcome.
Because the alternative was far more unsettling. Was he lying to her now? To court her favor?
Her chest tightened at the thought.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she countered.
His frown was immediate. “Why would I lie to you about it? You can see my record. It stands for itself. I’m more moderate than the Tories. In fact, I can prove it to you.”
She didn’t have time to ask what sort of proof he meant.
Just then, the coach slowed, the rhythm of the wheels changing, the familiar scrape of stone replacing gravel. When it stopped, she looked out and felt her breath catch. They were before the very steps she had just mentioned—directly in front of the Houses of Parliament.
“Would you like to see inside?” he asked quite jovially, as though he were offering her a tour of an art museum, not a political institution.
But seeing Parliament, the inner workings of the place she most often dreamt about, was too much of a temptation even for her. Despite her obvious interest, her father had never offered to show her this place.
All she could do was nod.