“You don’t do anything without motive,” she said.“Not one thing.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.“And yet you’re still speaking to me.”
She blinked.“You think I’m charmed?”
He chuckled then.He couldn’t help himself.“No.I think you’re suspicious,” he said.“And I find that vastly preferable to indifference.”
Her eyes narrowed, too.“Why, Vanover?”she asked, voice suddenly quieter.“Why did you step in?”
Nicholas considered his answer.Truth.Half-truth.Lie.
He chose the only one that wouldn’t cost him ground.“Because,” he said, “for all your ferocity, you’re still vulnerable in rooms like that.And you shouldn’t have to be.”
A very long pause ensued.
The night wind brushed the hem of her gown.Her fingers twitched on the banister.
He didn’t move.
She tilted her head.“You can’t possibly be trying to earn my favor.”
“Would it work?”
“No.”Her reply was sharp, immediate.
He smiled, slow and deliberate.“Then no.Of course not.”
She stared at him for a beat longer.Then turned back toward the garden, her profile distinct against the candlelight spilling through the windows behind them.
He let the silence stretch.Let her have the illusion of space.Then, quietly, “You should be careful, Lady Beatrix.”
Her eyes narrowed.“Of what?”
“Of drawing too much attention to your words,” he said.“Some of us might start to wonder how you know so much about the inner workings of Parliament.”
Her breath hitched.Barely.But he caught it.
He watched her shoulders rise.
“I read theTimes,” she replied, lifting her chin.“Like any well-educated wallflower.”
His lips twitched.“You’re no wallflower.”
“I’m twenty-two and unmarried,” she shot back.“Society’s decided.I’m on the shelf.”
He chuckled.“Then I pity the shelf.”
She turned sharply at that, lips parted in surprise.
He gave her the smallest bow, turned on his heel, and walked back inside.
Let her chase that quip in circles for a while.
He would wait.
