Chapter Seventeen
Bea had attended a hundred drawing rooms in her life.This was not a drawing room.This was Parliament with better upholstery.
Hillary House glittered with polished mahogany and smug men.The air smelled of beeswax and brandy and the faintest trace of cigar smoke—an invisible border meant to keep women politely to the edges.Conversation hummed like a hive, all sharp opinions and sharper laughter, the sort that carried the unspoken message:We are the ones who decide things.
Bea’s spine straightened the moment she entered the drawing room.
She had come here for a reason.Not to be dazzled.Not to be charmed.Not to be—she glanced sideways at the man beside her—seduced.
Nicholas offered his arm without looking at her, the gesture so effortless it was almost irksome.As if escorting her into enemy territory was as ordinary as escorting her through Hyde Park.
Bea took his arm.Not because she needed it.But because she refused to give him the satisfaction of a refusal.
A footman announced them.Heads turned—some curious, some assessing, some already bored.A few women looked up from their embroidery circle across the room with the expression of people watching a carriage crash in slow motion.
Lord Hillary swept forward to greet them, radiating the kind of genial smugness that made Bea instantly want to draw him as a plump cat with a powdered wig.His moustache looked very much like whiskers.
“Lady Beatrix,” he boomed, taking her hand as if she were a visiting dignitary.“How good of you to come.And Vanover—” His grin widened.“I hope you’ve brought your famous wit with you.Our guests have been dreadfully civil.”
Nicholas’s mouth curved.“If incivility is what you require, Hillary, you ought to have invited my father.”
Bea felt the slightest jolt of surprise.
Had that been a dig at his father?The powerful Tory Duke of VanDeVere?Interesting.She’d never really heard him discuss his father before.The man was older, yet still wielded great power in the House of Lords.He rarely attended her father’s salons, preferring instead to allow his son to do so in his stead.
Lord Hillary laughed.“You’ll do, Vanover.I have no desire to be flayed alive before luncheon.”
Nicholas’s gaze flicked to Bea.“A wise man.”
Bea continued to watch Nicholas as they moved into the heart of the salon: a broad, elegant chamber with chairs arranged in loose clusters, a tea table at one end, and a low marble hearth at the other.Men stood in groups of two and three—peers, MPs, younger sons eager to sound clever, older men quick to sound pompous.Every surface held crystal glasses and small plates of pastries that no one seemed to actually eat.
It was a room built for talking.
And for being heard.
Which made it absolutely perfect.
Bea’s fingers tightened around her reticule.
She had made herself heard in ink—sharp lines, sharper truths, delivered anonymously under cover of night.In person, in rooms like this…she was meant to smile.To nod.To exist prettily in the background like wallpaper.That’s what her father wanted.
But Father wasn’t here today.
She watched Nicholas greet his friends.He was as charming, friendly, and yes, witty as always.But it wasn’t his wit that caught her attention.It was the ease with which he deployed it.A relaxed confidence, not performative—an assuredness that did not need to dominate the room to own it.
She hadn’t noticed that about him before.She’d been far too preoccupied with hating him.
She was contemplating what else about Nicholas she hadn’t noticed before when a familiar voice rose near the hearth.“—if you reward the lower orders with political power, you will spend the next decade cleaning up after their appetites.”
Bea’s stomach turned.
Sir Edwin Langford stood before the fire, flushed with righteousness, his hands clasped behind his back as though he were delivering a sermon.Several men nodded approvingly.
Bea had met Langford before.At Father’s salons.The man was even more odious than Hargrave, if that was possible.At least Hargrave was older and set in his ways.Langford had no excuse.He spoke of “the people” as if they were livestock.
Nicholas angled his head, listening.His expression was neutral, unreadable.
Bea leaned in and murmured, “If I’d known Langford would be here, I’d have brought a bucket.”
