Instead, he offered his arm.She accepted with the lightest possible touch, barely there, the kind of contact that implied obligation, nothing more.
But he knew better.This wasn’t a distance born of dislike.It was distance born of something she was desperately trying not to say, and she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.Nicholas narrowed his eyes at her.How close was she with B.Adroit?
Inside, the foyer was a crush of velvet coats, glittering jewels, and political egos.Footmen darted between callers, and the air buzzed with talk of trade bills, royal health, and Manchester unrest.
Bea murmured under her breath, “I should have feigned illness.”
Nicholas smiled faintly.“If you care to feign a swoon, I’ll gladly catch you.”
She shot him a look, weary in a way she never allowed herself to be.Whatever she was carrying tonight—whether related to B.Adroit or not—it was…different.Which only made Nicholas more determined to stay at her side.
Lord Chelmsford himself waddled forward to greet them, ruddy-faced and beaming.After greeting her parents, he turned toward Bea.
“Lady Beatrix!So delighted you are here,” he declared, grasping her hand to kiss it with too much enthusiasm.“And with Lord Vanover, no less.I’d heard you two were courting.”
Nicholas watched Bea stiffen almost imperceptibly.But before she could even answer Chelmsford’s loaded greeting, the man barreled on cheerfully with, “It’s such a pleasure to have you here.”
Bea smiled sweetly.He could tell it took effort.“Of course, my lord.It’s a pleasure to be here.”
The guests drifted toward the dining room, and Nicholas maneuvered himself and Bea to the center of the long table, safely away from her mother but, regrettably, directly across from her father.
Winston’s stare clearly warned his daughter:Behave.
Bea’s lifted chin promised:We’ll see.
Nicholas took his seat beside her.
The first course passed uneventfully.Watercress soup.Harmless remarks.Compliments on gowns.Talk of horse breeding.Wine poured.Laughter trickled.
Then came the inevitable.
Lord Hargrave.
Of course it was Hargrave.
The same pompous blowhard Bea had verbally slaughtered in Father’s salon days ago was now seated across from them, sweating into his cravat as he demolished his pheasant.
“The trouble with reformers,” Hargrave announced loudly, “is that they believe every common cobbler deserves a vote.Next, they’ll want to put shopkeepers in Parliament and allow women to—” He barked a laugh.“Well.No need to indulge in absurdities, despite what B.Adroit did to Langford.”
Several men chuckled obediently.
Bea’s fingers tightened around her wineglass.Nicholas sensed the storm gathering next to him like a rising tide.
“What, precisely,” Bea asked, voice soft enough to be lethal, “is absurd?”
Hargrave blinked.“Come now, Lady Beatrix.Women have no interest in politics.”
“I have an interest,” she said.
“Ah,” Hargrave replied, patronizing, “but a proper interest?Or the sort that leads to unnecessary opinions?Like what happened between you and Langford at Hillary House?”
Nicholas stopped breathing.Hell.
Winston shot his daughter a warning look.She ignored it.
“Is there an unnecessary kind of opinion, Lord Hargrave?”she asked.“I hadn’t realized men were filtering them for us.”
There was a ripple of murmurs as the tension thickened.
