Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bea had not slept. She had tried. She had extinguished her candle, pulled her counterpane up to her chin, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to calm, but her body—traitorous, disloyal, maddening—still hummed with sensation.
Her skin remembered the feel of Nicholas’s hands.
Her throat remembered the drag of his breath.
Her legs…well. Her legs had memories of their own, and all of them were entirely unsuitable for a wallflower with any interest in maintaining her virtue.
And she was not even certain she did wish to maintain it anymore.
That was the most unsettling part.
Nicholas’s offer was nearly irresistible. And she was seriously considering making that choice. To go to him. To let him make her his.
By the time dawn light crept through her curtains, Bea had abandoned sleep entirely. She wrapped herself in a thick dressing gown, tied the belt too tightly, then paced her sitting room in increasingly agitated lines.
A footman delivered breakfast. She ignored it.
Her mother sent a note urging her to take a morning ride with her. Bea crumpled it.
Her father shouted something down the corridor about her being “ready for callers after luncheon.” Bea pretended not to hear.
She could not think of callers. She could barely think at all. She could only replay the night before, the flush of heat in the dark carriage, her own reckless hands, the hunger in Nicholas’s eyes when she pulled back, breathless, wanting him in a way she had never wanted anything.
And now?
Now she had precisely one option. Tell him.
Tell him she had caricatured him more savagely than any other MP, Whigs and Tories combined. Tell him she had mocked his speeches, lampooned his alliances, turned him into both a preening, corrupt peacock…and a sly fox.
Tell him she was B. Adroit.
Bea pressed her palms over her face and groaned into them.
There was a soft knock at the door to her sitting room. She could not take a lecture from her parents. Not today. Not now.
She almost shouted, “Go away,” until she recognized the cadence—one rap, two quick taps.
Poppy.
“Oh, thank God,” Bea murmured. “Enter before I combust.”
Poppy flung open the door with all the subtlety she had never once possessed. She wore a morning gown—a buttery yellow muslin with her bright hair hastily pinned and likely to fall at any moment—and she marched across the room and came to stand directly in front of Bea.
“I saw the story in the paper this morning. I came as soon as I could,” Poppy declared, hands on hips.
Bea’s head snapped up. “What story?”
“The one about—”
Another knock cut her off.
“That will be Georgie,” Poppy said with a definitive nod.
“Yes, it’s Georgie,” came a muffled voice through the door. “May I come in before someone sees me loitering like a woman whose reputation for trouble is entirely earned?”
“Enter.” Bea sighed.
Georgie slipped inside, cheeks flushed, dark hair rebelliously swirling around her face. Her pink muslin gown was wrinkled from haste, as though she’d barely paused to breathe. She shut the door carefully behind her, crossed the room, and dropped onto Bea’s settee.
“All right,” Georgie said, rubbing her hands together. “Poppy is here, I am here, and you apparently had quite a night last night. Tell us everything.”
Bea blinked at them. “How did you—?”
“The paper reported that Lord Vanover publicly contradicted Lord Hargraves. Twice,” Poppy informed her.
Bea sank onto the chair opposite her friends, feeling suddenly small beneath their scrutiny.
“Oh…it’s true.” The gossip about the incident at Lord Hillary’s house had been spread solely through word of mouth.
Apparently, last night’s incident had made the actual paper.
Unfortunate, that. Her father would be even more furious.
“And is it also true that Lord Vanover contradicted Lord Hargrave while defending you?” Georgie asked next.
Bea nodded slowly. “Yes. Also true.”
“How terribly romantic,” Poppy said, clasping her hands together near her ear and smiling dreamily.
“That’s not all,” Bea added, biting her lip.
“Do tell,” Georgie said.
“I kissed him again,” Bea blurted. “And…more.”
Two identical gasps filled the room.
“You kissed Lord Vanover again?” Georgie exclaimed. “In public?”
“Yes,” Bea said. “Well…in a carriage.”
Poppy looked positively scandalized. “His carriage?”
“No,” Bea groaned. “My father’s carriage.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Georgie collapsed sideways onto the cushions. “Oh, well. That’s something.”
Poppy sat down hard on the settee. “Your father’s carriage?”
Bea covered her face again. “I have no excuse. Well, I do actually, but it’s quite a long story.”
Georgie recovered first, propping herself up on one elbow as she regarded Bea with barely contained alarm. “It’s ever so convenient that we enjoy long stories then. Isn’t it, Poppy?’”
“Oh, indeed we do,” Poppy agreed, rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation.
Bea had always considered herself immune to such girlish nonsense as blushing, but an unmistakable flush stole up her throat.
She forced herself to straighten her shoulders and plow through a general rendition of the last few days between herself and Nicholas, including the part where she’d learned that he hadn’t voted the way she assumed he had.
“What exactly happened in the carriage?” Georgie, ever the pragmatist, wanted to know.
“We kissed a lot and then…”
“Then?” Georgie prodded.
“Then…well.” Bea gestured vaguely in the direction of her thighs, cheeks burning.
Poppy straightened her back. “Oh, my God.”
Georgie slapped both hands over her mouth. “You saucy baggage. Excellent initiative.”
“Not excellent,” Bea snapped. “Ridiculous. Irresponsible. Dangerous.”
Georgie arched a brow. “How dangerous?”
Bea said nothing.
Poppy’s jaw dropped. “Did you lose your virtue?”
“Poppy!” Bea nearly shouted, horrified.
“Well?” Poppy demanded. “Did you?”
Bea wilted. “No. But nearly.”
The room exploded into shrill, scandalized joy.
Georgie’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Why, Beatrix Winslow, I am so proud of you.”
Bea groaned. “Please stop talking.”
Georgie leaned forward. “Be honest—how far did it go?”
Bea stared at the carpet. “Far enough.”
Georgie’s eyes widened. “Did he touch—”
“Georgie!” Bea practically yelped.
Georgie waved a hand. “Fine, fine, never mind. We’ll assume ‘far enough’ means far enough to make a grown man contemplate repentance.”
Bea groaned again. “This is a disaster. Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been all wrong about him, and he has no idea it’s been me skewering him all this time.”
Georgie eyed her shrewdly. “A minor detail.”
“It’s not minor at all,” Bea said reflexively, crossing her ankles. “He’s certain to hate me when he finds out. And what if he tells Papa?”
“He’s clearly on your side,” Georgie pointed out. “He defended you at dinner.”
Poppy nodded. “And quite heroically, I might add.”
Georgie arched a brow. “Sounds like the type of man one ought to marry if one wasn’t committed to being a spinster.”
Bea scowled. “Wallflower. And I don’t know what I’m committed to any longer. I feel as if everything I believe in is wrong. It’s as if I don’t know anything anymore.”
Georgie folded her arms. “Well, you had better start knowing things, because that man is planning to marry you, is he not?”
Bea stood and paced in front of the fireplace. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean…he was, but I have to tell him the truth before it goes any further. I must tell him I’m B. Adroit. Before he finds out on his own.”
“So tell him,” Poppy said simply.
“But what if he wants to rescind his offer?” Bea groaned. “What if he hates me?”
Georgie leaned forward. “I doubt he’ll want to rescind his offer.”
Bea paled. “What if he tells my father?”
“Won’t your father forgive you?” Poppy asked.
“For making him a laughingstock among his peers for years? Have you met my father?”
“Honestly, no,” Poppy replied with a shrug.
“Suffice it to say, I’ll be lucky if all he does is cut me off and toss me onto the street.”
Georgie nodded gravely. “Bea has a point. Satire against the government is one thing. Satire against your own father? Satire that has already stirred political unrest? Bea, B. Adroit has become notorious.”
“Exactly,” Bea whispered.
Bea’s stomach dropped. There wasn’t a world in which she could keep this secret from Nicholas. She’d thought about it endlessly. But telling him meant trusting him completely. With her safety. Her reputation. Her future.
“Oh, God.” She covered her face again and collapsed back into her chair, staring at the ceiling. “I’m doomed.”
“You’re not doomed,” Georgie said. “Not yet.”
“Yes, I am,” Bea insisted. “Nicholas is certain to be furious. He’ll feel tricked. Betrayed. Humiliated.”
“Well,” Georgie said slowly, “yes.”
Bea shot upright. “Georgie!”
“I’m agreeing with you,” Georgie said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“No,” Bea said miserably. “Tell me not to tell him.”
Poppy exchanged a knowing glance with Georgie.
Then Poppy asked softly, “Do you wish to not tell him?”
Bea opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Then she tried again.
“No,” she finally whispered.
Georgie softened. “Bea…”
“I want to tell him,” Bea said, voice cracking.
“I want him to know me. The real me. The part of me that doesn’t bow and curtsy and allow men like Hargrave to define my worth.
The part that fights. The part that doesn’t belong anywhere except behind a quill and a locked door.
” Her throat tightened. “I want him to know her.”
Poppy’s face softened. “Because you want to marry him.”
“Because I—” Bea stopped, choking on the word. “Because I feel something. And I don’t want whatever it is to be built on a lie.”
Georgie curled her legs beneath her. “Then we’ve circled back to the start. You have two choices.” She held up one finger. “One, trust him.”
Poppy held up a second. “Two, never see him again.”
Bea’s breath hitched.
Never see him again.
Never hear his laugh. Never argue with him about policy. Never see his eyes soften the way they had last night. Never feel his breath on her throat or the way his hand slid up her thigh in the dark—
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
“I don’t think I can stop seeing him,” she admitted. “And what would I tell Father?”
Poppy’s brows rose. “Well, then.”
“But I don’t know if I can trust him,” Bea whispered.
Georgie leaned forward. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Loving anyone—”
Bea inhaled sharply. Loving. She said nothing.
Georgie went on, untroubled by the silence. “Trusting anyone means handing them a knife and hoping they decide not to cut you with it.”
Bea stared at her.
“And it sounds as if you’ve already given him the knife,” Georgie said softly. “Whether or not you meant to.”
Poppy nodded solemnly. “This is only deciding whether you’re brave enough to let him keep it.”
The room fell silent.
Bea’s heartbeat thudded painfully in her chest.
“I’m frightened,” she confessed.
Georgie squeezed her hand. “Good. Only idiots aren’t frightened when it matters.”
“It matters,” Bea whispered.
“Of course it does,” Poppy said. “You’re not deciding whether to tell him you fibbed about your age or hid a letter from another suitor. You’re deciding whether to give him the truth that defines you.”
Bea rubbed her hands over her face. “What if he can’t accept it?”
“Then he doesn’t deserve you,” Georgie said instantly.
“What if he thinks I used him? What if he believes I kissed him to manipulate him? What if he—”
“What if he doesn’t?” Poppy countered.
Bea froze.
Poppy shrugged. “What if he chooses you? What if he listens? What if he understands?”
“What if he admires you even more?” Georgie added.
“That seems unlikely.” Bea blew out a shaking breath.
“It isn’t,” Georgie insisted. “He defended you last night in front of two dozen powerful men. He risked everything to support you.”
Poppy nodded. “He looked at you as if you hung the moon.”
Bea frowned. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Poppy replied, looking dreamy again. “I can just imagine it. Admit it, he’s smitten with you.”
“Him being smitten isn’t the issue,” Bea said, stalking toward her window. “I have a much larger problem.”
“You are the problem,” Georgie said cheerfully. “And the solution.”
Bea thunked her forehead lightly against the glass.
Poppy rose and stood behind her, resting her hand on Bea’s shoulder. “Listen. You’re allowed to be terrified. But you shouldn’t lie to yourself.”
Bea closed her eyes. “What am I lying about?”
“That you trust him,” Poppy said, then added gently, “at least a little.”
Bea’s throat tightened until she could barely breathe. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Then,” Georgie said, “it is time to find out.”
Bea turned to face her friends.
Poppy and Georgie both looked at her with the quiet, fierce solidarity only true friends possessed. “We are the members of The Wallflowers’ Revolt, are we not?” Georgie asked.
Bea stared at them, heart pounding. Trust him. Or let him go. Two choices. Both terrifying. Both irreversible.
“I need,” Bea said slowly, “to see him.”
Georgie brightened instantly. “Excellent. We can fetch him.”
“No,” Bea said, lifting a hand. “I need to go see him. Alone.”
Poppy nodded, approval shining. “Oh, well then, we’ll help you dress.”
Georgie stood, clapping her hands. “Yes. Something bold. Something honest. Something that says, ‘I’m about to destroy or solidify the rest of my life.’”
Poppy snorted. “So…green?”
“Green,” Georgie agreed. “Definitely green. Bea looks divine in green.”
Bea gave a helpless laugh, the first she’d managed all morning. “All right,” she said, feeling the first tremor of something like courage. “Green it is.”
Her friends flanked her like battle generals preparing a soldier for war. And somewhere in the back of her mind, beneath the fear and the shame and the longing, was the faintest whisper of hope. She would face Nicholas. She would tell him the truth.
Today would decide her fate.
For better or for worse…