A marquess with wicked eyes and a too-knowing smile.
Bea froze, startled, then scowled at herself and immediately scratched it out.
Ridiculous.
She would not sit here drawing Nicholas Archer like a schoolgirl with a fancy.
She would draw Langford, and she would publish it.If she delivered it to the printer at dawn, it would be in tomorrow morning’s paper.
And she was going to remind the world that men like him were the problem.
That was her mission.
Nicholas was merely…a distraction.
A dangerous distraction.
Bea stared at her page and, despite herself, felt her lips curve.
Kissing him again wasn’t theworstidea in the world.
Not because she liked him.
Not because she trusted him.
Not because she had any intention of letting him win.
But because…well.
It might be satisfying.
It might be the sort of fun that felt like rebellion—delicious and defiant in the face of men who thought they owned her choices.
And if she was going to be forced into this courtship, perhaps she could at least steal a bit of pleasure back for herself.
Georgie would approve.
Bea’s mind flicked back to the coach.To the way Nicholas’s wink had made her toes curl.To the way his voice had dropped low as if it were meant only for her.
You’ve no idea.
Bea swallowed.
Her pencil hovered over the page again, and this time, when she worked on Langford’s crown, she made it even more ridiculous—crooked, unstable, teetering.
As it should be.
Because stability built on contempt deserved to topple.
Bea sat back, satisfied.
Then, because she was not an idiot, she folded the paper carefully and slid it beneath her blotter—out of sight, safe, waiting for the right moment.
She would wake before dawn.She’d have to move quickly.If she could get the sheet into the right hands—before the city woke and the gossip cooled—Langford would be in print by morning.
Her pulse still felt too lively.Her thoughts still felt too tangled.Nicholas still lingered in her mind like a handprint on skin.
Bea rose, smoothing her skirts as if she could smooth her nerves the same way.
