Bea stared at it for a beat, as if she still hadn’t decided whether to accompany him.But one glance back at him and her decision was made.This could be quite a pleasant outing…if she allowed it to be.
Nicholas helped her up with slow, careful deliberation, his touch lingering just long enough at her waist to remind her that his touch was never accidental.
Bea took a seat.
Nicholas climbed in after her and sat across from her.All perfectly proper.
Then the door shut with a soft, decisive thud, and the carriage immediately felt smaller.
Bea fixed her gaze on the opposite window.She could feel him watching her—like sunlight, like pressure, like a hand hovering just above skin.
Nicholas leaned back with the ease of a man entirely too confident in his ability to be charming.
“You’re very quiet,” he observed after a few minutes of silence passed.
Bea did not turn her head.She stared harder out the window as the carriage began to move, the wheels catching the rhythm of the street.“I could say the same about you.”
Nicholas shifted slightly, the leather creaking.“Tell me,” he murmured.“Did you see the paper today?There was a political cartoon with Langford as the subject.”
Bea’s breath caught.She lifted her chin, still refusing to look at him.“Was there?”she asked in the most nonchalant tone she could muster.
“Yes.It mentioned what Langford said to you at Lord Hillary’s house.”His tone was mild, but she could hear the curiosity underneath it.
“Did it?”Now her gaze was fixed out the window like a condemned woman awaiting her sentence.“How…enterprising of the artist.”
Nicholas’s voice stayed pleasant.Too pleasant.“Enterprising,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.“Is that what we call it when someone repeats a remark that was spoken in a private room?”
Bea’s pulse skittered.She forced her shoulders to remain loose.“Lord Hillary’s salon wasn’t private.It was packed.”
“True,” Nicholas said, unhurried.“And yet the cartoonist captured Langford’s phrasing rather precisely.”
Bea lifted one shoulder in what she hoped was an indifferent shrug.“Sir Edwin is predictable.Men like him always are.”
Nicholas made a low sound that might have been agreement.Or amusement.Or suspicion.“Or perhaps someone in that room took a particular interest in the exchange.”
Bea’s fingers tightened around her reticule.“Are you accusing me of something?”
“I’m asking a question.”Nicholas’s tone remained mild, but his gaze—she could feel it on her profile like heat—was not.“Did you see the paper?”
Bea allowed herself a small, airy laugh.“I don’t make a habit of reading political cartoons, Lord Vanover.”
“No?”he murmured.
Bea finally turned her head, meeting his eyes with practiced boredom.“Do you?”
Nicholas’s mouth twitched.“Oh, yes.Particularly because the artist in question frequently uses me as his subject.”
Bea pressed her lips together.“How terrible for your vanity.”
Nicholas shrugged.“I’ve come to expect it.But I do wonder…where this particular cartoonist gets his information.”
Bea let out a loud, long sigh.“I’m sure I’ve no idea.But as I said, Lord Hillary’s salon was packed.It could have been any number of people.”
“You’re right,” Nicholas allowed.“I do hope Langford isn’t too greatly affected.”
Bea tilted her head and offered a small, indifferent hum.“If the cartoon embarrassed him, he may learn to keep his opinions to himself.”
Nicholas leaned back slightly, studying her with the patience of a man who enjoyed puzzles.“You seemed remarkably passionate about his opinions last night.”
