“Discuss it?”she echoed.“You and I?”
“Yes.”His tone was so simple, so maddeningly unruffled, that her pulse tripped.“Would you like to?”
She stared at him, searching his face for mockery…but there was none.His eyes were steady, thoughtful, sincere.
Sincere aboutheropinion.
A flutter of something sharp and unfamiliar tightened beneath her ribs.Here he was again, asking her thoughts on a matter of state—not as a novelty, not as flirtation, but as though her opinion belonged naturally in the conversation.Again.Manchester.The reform bill.And now this.Conversations he had not merely begun but continued.It was becoming a habit of his, asking, listening, remembering.
Caring.
Too often, in her own home, her words were indulged or tolerated.Rarely were theyengaged.But Nicholas was looking at her again as though every syllable she might speak mattered.
This time, she knew exactly what the feeling was.That was the problem.It was the sensation of beingmet—not humored, but answered.Of being seen not as an inconvenience or an ornament, but as possessing a mind worth engaging.
Nicholas chuckled softly, the warm, intimate sound that always seemed to slip beneath her defenses.“You don’t have to pretend with me, Bea.I know your secret.”
She sucked in her breath.“Pardon?”Surely, he couldn’t possibly mean?—
“How much you care about politics.”Another chuckle.
She closed her eyes and expelled her breath in relief.
When she opened her eyes again, his face had turned serious.“You don’t have another secret…do you?”There was that probing gaze again.
“What?No.I—” She cleared her throat.“Of course not.”
“Good.Then”—he spread his arms across the back of his seat—“I would love to hear your thoughts.Aboutanyof the votes coming up.”
Her gaze narrowed once more.She tilted her head.“How?Why?”
Nicholas’s mouth curved slowly.“Because when you speak,” he said, “I find I want to hear every word you say.”
Bea inhaled sharply, her heart slamming so violently she was certain he must hear it.It was absurd—completely absurd—that such a simple admission could undo her.Her fingers curled reflexively into her skirts, as if she needed to hold on to something.
He actually wanted to listen.
Toher.About politics?
It was dangerously intoxicating.
She forced herself to blink, to breathe, to reclaim her wits.If he wanted to discuss politics…she was game.
“How do you intend to vote on the restrictions?”she asked.If he insisted on discussing it, she might as well ask what she truly wished to know.
Nicholas met her gaze.“I’m votingforthe reform bill, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Bea frowned.She couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.“What?”
“I’m votingforthe restrictions,” he repeated calmly.“To protect colonial laborers and limit private profiteering.It isn’t perfect, but it’s something.I completely agree with what you said about indifference being the real problem.I admit I hadn’t entirely made up my mind, but you made excellent points to Sir Edwin.”
Bea stared at him as though he’d begun speaking ancient Greek.“But that’s not how my father is voting.That’s not how the Tories are voting.”
Nicholas met her gaze.His expression was smooth, unreadable.“Do you believe I always vote the way your father does?”
“Yes,” she said bluntly.“Obviously.”
“Well,” he replied with a slight grin, “you’re wrong.”
