Chapter Thirty-Six
The great hall that housed the House of Lords had never seemed so small.Nicholas stood behind the bench, fingers clenched around the stack of speech notes he’d written many nights ago, notes he now realized he would not be using.
Men filled the chamber in waves, MPs crowding benches, voices echoing off the dark leather, the sound of quills scratching, papers shuffling, murmurs rising like a growing tide.
Hargrave lounged smugly across the aisle.Winston was seated near the front, rigid with expectation, his jaw set in stone.
Nicholas felt all of them watching him, waiting for him to play his part.
His father’s voice rose in his mind—Don’t perform, Nicholas.Never give them a spectacle.
The old reflex tightened, swift and familiar.He inhaled deeply.
Today, he would not obey it.He was done being his father’s instrument.
He rose.A hush fell.
He did not read a single word from his notes.Instead, he set them down deliberately and met the gazes of every man in the room.
“Gentlemen,” he began, voice steady, echoing through the chamber.“For years I have stood here as a representative of my constituency.A frequent supporter of the Tory party.As a disciple of tradition, expectation, and duty.”
A murmur ran through the benches.
“But I realized—belatedly—that I have confused obedience with principles,” he continued.“That I have mistaken inherited conviction for personal belief.I have confused loyalty with silence.”
Several MPs stiffened.Winston’s head tilted sharply.Hargrave’s smirk faded.Langford’s eyes narrowed.
Nicholas pressed on.“Today’s vote has been framed as a question of party.A question of duty.A question of which faction will emerge victorious.”
He drew a breath.
“Let me be clear.I no longer accept that premise.”
Gasps.A wave of shock rolled across the room.
Nicholas looked up at the gallery—just briefly—and something inside him jolted.
She was there.
Hidden beneath a modest bonnet.Hands clutching the railing.Pale, tense, trembling.
Bea.
His chest tightened.
Was she crying?Or was that only his imagination?
He cleared his throat and forced himself to continue.
“I have spent years believing that the work of this chamber was a game to be maneuvered, moves to be strategized, speeches to be sharpened, alliances to be negotiated.”His voice softened.“And then…someone showed me differently.”
The gallery went still.
Bea’s fingers froze around the railing.
“She opened my eyes,” Nicholas said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he had ever allowed it to be in public.“She showed me the cracks in the foundation I defended.She challenged me.She forced me to think.She made me a better man.”
It was unmistakable now.Tears slipped freely down Bea’s cheek.
