B.Adroit.
She even had a name for her little adventure.The Wallflowers’ Revolt.Earlier this Season at the Willoughbys’ ball, Bea had encountered Georgie and Poppy in the retiring room, and the three of them had formed the Society For Resourceful Young Ladies Who’ve Had Quite Enough.During their first official meeting, they’d renamed their little group.The Wallflowers’ Revolt had a deliciously nonconforming ring to it.
Georgie’s escape from her elderlyfiancéhad been their first order of business.It’s true that there had been a bit of trouble when Lord Pembroke had inserted himself into the equation.But all’s well that ends well.Georgie and Pembroke were married now and quite madly in love with each other.
Of course, that’s not how Bea’s part of the revolt would end.Far from it.She wasn’t looking for love.She intended to be the first female politician in her family.The only way she could be at least.With scathing drawings printed in the paper.Only she had to make certain her parents never found out.Or anyone else for that matter.Especially her most-used subjects like the detestable Nicholas Archer.
Focusing once again on the task at hand, Bea slipped the newest cartoon—tucked neatly into the pages of a dog-eared pamphlet—into the printer’s slot.Her pulse fluttered with that delicious now-or-never anticipation.Today’s piece was her boldest yet: a side-by-side comparison of her father and Lord Nicholas Archer rendered as puffed-up peacocks perched atop bags of gold and empty promises.
She’d given Archer an especially pointy beak.Honestly,thathad been particularly satisfying.
She shut the slot firmly.The apprentice would find it in less than five minutes.By then, she’d be long gone, lost in the morning crush of Covent Garden.But even as she turned to leave, something pulled her back.A flicker of unease, perhaps.Or...hope.Because a small, triumphant part of her couldn’t wait for Nicholas Archer to see it.To read it.To recognize himself.
And possibly even wonder ifshewas the one who’d drawn him.
No.That was impossible.Nicholas Archer was just like her father.A pompous ass.Someone who expected everything he said to be immediately agreed with.Someone who would never guess awomanwas his fiercest opponent.
She hated him.Of course she did.He was a Tory.Her father’s sycophant.And her designated future.Father had never been subtle about his intentions.Archer would be a duke one day.She was the daughter of a duke.It was a logical match.A powerful one.
It was also intolerable.
Because Nicholas bloody Archer might be brilliant and powerful—but he was also the very embodiment of everything she opposed.Which just so happened to be everything her father stood for.She knew Father’s speeches by heart.Knew the cadence of his parliamentary voice.Knew how many times he’d voted against social reform, against suffrage, against anything remotely progressive.Knew it—and loathed him for it.And she loathed Nicholas Archer for the same reason.
Oh, fine.The marquess was handsome.Devastatingly so.Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair, darker eyes, and the sort of mouth a sensible woman tried very hardnotto think about.And sometimes, when she caught him watching her—really watching her—she wondered if he might find her attractive too, though she would never admit that aloud.
Sometimes…she wondered if he wanted her.Not as a pre-ordained wife.But as a man wants a woman.
Not that it mattered.She wouldn’t touch Nicholas Archer if he were the last man in London.
This was her life.Her choice.Her pencil.Her war.
And no man—no matter how irritatingly attractive—was going to stop her.
