“No,” he replied.“It isn’t.”
His father’s nostrils flared.“This is not the time for distractions.”
Nicholas laughed once, sharp and humorless.“Distractions.Right.That’s all you see, isn’t it?A son behaving inconveniently.A vote at stake.A headline that might bruise your standing at the club.”
VanDeVere stepped closer, voice dropping.“You will maintain composure.You will attend the vote tomorrow.And you will not allow some anonymous scribbler to derail what you have spent your entire life preparing for.”
Another fissure opened inside of Nicholas.He stared at his father.Really stared.
The man was imposing.He always had been.Broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, jaw cut like a Roman statue.A lifetime of command radiated from him like a cold, steady wind.
But for the first time in Nicholas’s life, the duke looked small.Not physically.Morally.Emotionally.
He was a man so consumed by the machine of politics he could not conceive of anything outside it.Not loyalty.Not passion.Not truth.Certainly not love.
Nicholas set his empty glass on the table with a soft click.“The vote is tomorrow,” he said.“And I will be there.”
“Good.”VanDeVere exhaled, sounding relieved.“Then see to your duties.And stop drinking like a common wastrel.”
Nicholas’s eyes hardened.“You misunderstand me,” he said slowly.
VanDeVere frowned.“What?”
“The vote is tomorrow,” Nicholas repeated.“But it is not your definition of duty I intend to follow.”
A dangerous quiet settled between them.
VanDeVere’s voice dropped to a disbelieving whisper.“You cannot be thinking of voting against the party.”
Nicholas stepped closer.“No,” he said.“I’m voting for what I actually believe.”
The duke’s face went red.“You arrogant, idealistic child.You’ll throw away everything.Everything.Your alliances, your standing, your future.You’ll make a mockery of your own bloodline!”
Nicholas shook his head slowly.“You’ve already managed that well enough without my help.”
His father reeled as if struck.
Nicholas continued, voice low and iron-hard.“How ironic, Father.You wanted a politician.You raised one.You molded me into something sharp and obedient and unbreakable.And the moment I dared to think for myself—really think—you’ve decided I’ve become defective.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” VanDeVere spat.
Nicholas smiled.It was not warm.It was not forgiving.It was the smile of a man who had been walking in the wrong direction his entire life and had finally—finally—turned toward the sun.
“Oh,” he said determinedly, “I knowexactlywhat I’m doing.”
“And what is that?”the duke demanded, his eyes flashing with anger.
Nicholas turned away from him and walked toward the window again.
He pulled the vellum from his pocket, holding it loosely in his palm.
The name wouldn’t let him look away.
Lady Beatrix Winslow.B.Adroit.The woman he wanted.The woman he lost.The woman who had changed him without meaning to.The woman who had believed—incorrectly—that he had no loyalty to anything but ambition.
Nicholas closed his fist around the vellum.“I’m choosing.”
“Choosing what?”VanDeVere snapped.
