That inconvenient, undeniable awareness of him—the warmth of his hand at her elbow, the closeness of his body in the coach, the way his gaze had dipped to her mouth like it belonged to him in some future he’d already decided upon.
Bea stared at the drawing.
Langford looked back at her, ridiculous and smug and crowned like a very stupid king.
Bea sighed.“Well,” she muttered to him, “at least you are simple.”
Langford did not answer, which was one of his better qualities.
Bea reached for her pencil again and, with sharp little strokes, added a tiny speech bubble above his head:WOMEN SHOULD NOT MEDDLE.
Then she drew a tiny teacup in his hand—delicate, trembling—and wrote:CAUTION: MAY SPILL AT THE FIRST FEMALE ARGUMENT.
It was satisfying.It was righteous.It was exactly the sort of thing that made her feel like herself again.
Except…Nicholas still lingered in the corner of her mind, like a smudge she couldn’t quite erase.
Bea tapped the pencil against her lip, thinking.
Georgie’s voice came to her unbidden—practical, amused, maddeningly modern.
You don’t have to marry the man to enjoy him.
Bea’s mouth twisted.
She had nearly thrown a cushion at Georgie when she’d said it.As if Bea could simply…enjoyher sworn enemy.
As if “fun” were something a woman like Bea was allowed without consequences.
But the truth was that Georgie had a point, vile creature.
Bea was being forced to accept Nicholas’s courtship.She could protest until her throat went raw; her father would still arrange their walks, their visits, their appearances, and call it propriety.
So if Bea could not control the fact of it…
Could she control the terms?
She stared at the edge of the paper, watching the lamplight catch the graphite.
Nicholas wanted something from her.That much was obvious.
He wanted her kisses.Her attention.Her reactions.He wanted to win.
But today, at Hillary House, he had also wanted something else.He had wanted her voice to be heard.
And that complicated everything.Because it meant he wasn’t only taking.
He was giving too.
Bea did not like men who gave her things.They made it difficult to hate them properly.
Her gaze drifted to the window.Outside, London sprawled in darkness and lamplight—carriages passing, distant laughter, lives continuing as if a woman had not just stood in a salon and challenged a man who believed women were furniture.
As if Nicholas had not stood beside her and said, in effect,Let her speak.
Bea’s throat tightened again, and she hated it.
She bent over the paper and began sketching again—not Langford this time, but a quick little thumbnail in the margin.
