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 himaftershe’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.
