Chapter Thirty-Three
Nicholas had been to the Duke of Winston’s town house for political salons dozens of times. It always looked the same. White stone gleaming, polished brass knocker, the discreet hum of elite political life moving like a current just beneath the surface.
Tonight, though, as he handed his hat and coat to the butler, the front hall seemed colder. The paintings sharper. The air thinner.
Or perhaps it was simply him.
The weight of the folded vellum sat heavy in his coat pocket, even though he had memorized the letters and had not needed to look again.
He should not have come. That would have been the sensible thing. But Nicholas had never been sensible where she was concerned.
Over the last few hours, he’d had time to think.
He’d done nothing but. And one thought continued to haunt him.
The drawings. They’d been vicious…personal.
And Bea had given herself to him after she’d drawn them.
It was true that she’d only just recently discovered he wasn’t a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, but still.
How could she have drawn him as that fox after Hillary’s salon…
after the time they’d shared in the park?
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t know. But he intended to find out.
He entered the grand drawing room to a familiar hum of voices: lords and MPs clustered by the hearth, a scattering of wives and daughters pretending to talk of music while their ears strained toward politics.
Winston was in the corner arguing with Chelmsford.
Hargrave was pontificating near the pianoforte. It was a typical Winslow salon.
Except for the one thing the entire group had already surely noticed.
Lady Beatrix was nowhere to be seen.
Nicholas scanned the room once. Twice. A third time, more slowly.
An irrational surge of irritation flowed through him. At what, he could not say. Her absence? The secrecy? The fact that she had melted into his bed, left him with nothing but a ribbon in his hand, and vanished? The fox drawing loomed in his mind.
He crossed the room. The Duchess of Winston drifted over to meet him.
“You’re looking for her,” the duchess said under her breath. It was not a question.
“Yes,” he replied.
Her expression softened. “She’s…unwell.”
He gave her a disbelieving look.
“Fine,” the duchess amended. “She’s hiding.”
“Upstairs?” he asked.
The duchess nodded. “Her suite. She told us she was fatigued and declined to join the guests this evening.”
“Does her father know she’s hiding?”
“Her father thinks she’s sulking about politics,” the duchess said. “And frankly, he’s too busy bullying half the cabinet to inquire further.”
Nicholas nodded once.
The duchess touched his sleeve lightly, uncharacteristically gentle. “I don’t know what happened between you, but she’s frightened.”
That word hit Nicholas like a blow.
“I would never hurt her,” he said.
The duchess nodded.
He left then, slipped out of the drawing room, ignoring Winston’s booming voice calling, “Vanover, join us!”
Nicholas climbed the staircase quickly. His pulse thudded. With each step upward, his anger weakened, leaving something rawer behind, something he couldn’t entirely explain, even to himself.
Her door was closed when he reached the landing. Somehow, he knew it was hers, a pale blue panel with a brass handle, unguarded, unremarkable, but it felt like Bea.
Nicholas exhaled once. Then he knocked.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, softer. “Bea.”
Silence.
He pressed his palm to the door. “Bea, please.”
A soft rustle came from inside.
He pushed the door open.
The sitting room was dim, lit only by a small fire and one candle on a writing desk. The faint scent of her perfume—a hint of lilacs—lingered in the air. And there she was, standing by the window, arms wrapped around her body as if she were bracing herself against a storm.
She didn’t turn.
His chest tightened painfully. “Bea.”
“Please leave,” she whispered.
“No.”
She closed her eyes, shoulders trembling.
He entered quietly, shutting the door behind him. “You’re hiding from me.”
She let out something like a laugh, thin, brittle. “Of course I am.”
He moved closer. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know what to say.” Her voice cracked. “And you have every right to be furious.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said honestly.
That made her whirl around.
Her face was pale, eyes rimmed red. She had not cried—Beatrix Winslow did not cry—but she had come perilously close.
He hated that he had caused it.
She swallowed. “You know.”
He nodded.
“And you came regardless.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her voice rose in panic. “To condemn me? To tell me how foolish I’ve been? How arrogant? How wrong? To remind me that my little drawings could ruin my family? That I’ve mocked everything my father believes in?”
Nicholas exhaled slowly. “No.”
She pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, then dropped them. “Then why are you here?” she whispered.
Nicholas stepped closer, until only a few paces remained between them. “Because I needed to see you.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“You hate my politics,” he said softly. “Or at least what you believed were my politics.”
“I do,” she said instantly.
He blinked. Then, very quietly, “But not me?”
Her chin wobbled. She shook her head. “No.”
He nodded once. “That is good to know, but those drawings. They were personal. And filled with hate.”
She let out a sob and covered her face with both hands. “I’m so sorry, Nicholas.”
He stood still, hands by his sides, wanting to hold her and not trusting himself to move. “Don’t apologize for thinking. Don’t apologize for having convictions. You’ve never owed anyone that.”
She shook her head, dropping her hands. “Not for that. For hurting you. Not that it matters, but I drew them before I knew how you’d voted. I need you to know that my feelings for you no longer match the sketches I drew.”
His jaw flexed. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the pain. A cold weight settled in his gut. His emotions were a swirl of contradictions threatening to overwhelm him, as if he were a ship adrift in a stormy sea.
Bea winced. “I knew you’d feel betrayed, but I…I didn’t understand how deeply I’d wounded you until I saw your face just now.”
“Bea—”
“No,” she said, voice shaking. “Let me speak. Please.”
He fell silent and nodded.
She drew a shuddering breath. “I have been cruel. I know that. You were an easy target. Handsome, self-possessed, favored by every political mentor in London. You said it once, and you were right… You were—” She swallowed. “Everything I resented.”
He didn’t flinch. But he clenched his jaw.
“Then I spent time with you,” she whispered. “And you made me feel… There is no other way to describe it other than you made me feel like what I said mattered. Like my opinions were worth something.”
He inhaled sharply.
“And then I kissed you,” she whispered even softer.
He closed his eyes briefly, pain tightening his mouth.
“And now,” she said, “I cannot bear the thought that you feel trapped or deceived or manipulated by someone you trusted enough to—”
“Stop,” he said roughly, squeezing his eyes shut.
“No,” she insisted, voice breaking. “I release you.”
His eyes snapped open. “What?”
“You’re free,” she said, tears finally spilling. “You don’t have to marry me. You don’t have to acknowledge anything that happened between us. No one will ever know. Mother suspects something, but Father didn’t even realize I’d been gone.” She made a strangled, scoffing noise.
Nicholas stared at her, stunned into silence.
She pressed both palms against her chest as if holding herself together. “Please. Please, Nicholas. Don’t marry me out of pity. Or obligation. Or because we were foolish. If I’m with child, there are things I can do—”
“Bea—”
“But if—” Her voice cracked. “If you have ever cared for me at all, please don’t tell anyone I’m B. Adroit. My father would never forgive me.”
The words struck Nicholas like physical blows.
She thought he might expose her. That was her concern? She thought he might destroy her.
Nicholas stared at her as if he’d never truly seen her until now. A slow, brutal ache spread through his chest—so deep it felt like the beginning of grief. His hand lifted on instinct, reaching for her, reaching to wipe away the tears—
And then it stopped in the air.
Because he finally understood.
Beneath everything they’d been—every stolen breath, every fierce look, every promise he’d made with his mouth on hers—she still believed he might use her like a weapon.
His fingers curled, empty. He let his hand fall.
He shook his head, disbelieving, but the movement wasn’t mild now—it was a man trying to refuse a truth his body had already accepted.
“Bea…” His voice came low and wrecked. “If you thought I would do that to you. If you believed, even for a moment, that I would reveal your secret to cause you harm—”
Something in him went very still.
Then his words shot through clenched teeth. “You never knew me at all.”
Her breath caught, a swift, startled intake she could not disguise. Her mouth trembled.
Nicholas looked away for the first time, jaw working, hand gripping the back of a chair as if he needed something to hold on to.
“I would never expose you,” he said, each word clipped with unmistakable pain. “Not for ambition. Not for revenge. Not even to save my own name. I would die before I let anyone hurt you.”
The truth of it rang through the room.
Her tears fell freely now.
He still didn’t touch her.
“Do you understand me?” he asked quietly. “I will take your secret to my grave. Even if it costs me my standing in Parliament.”
Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
He let out a long, ragged breath, then turned and crossed to the door.
Before he opened it, he paused. “I didn’t come here to condemn you,” he said softly. “I came here to tell you…” His voice faltered. “I love you.”
She gasped, unable to speak.
Nicholas’s hand lingered on the door handle.
Then he said the last thing he could manage without breaking. “But that was before I knew you don’t trust me.”
And even though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, he turned on his heel…and walked away.