“If we might return to the original point,” he said, turning back to Hargrave with effortless composure, “the matter of broader voting rights is hardly destabilizing.The lower classes already support the weight of England’s labor.Granting them fractional representation would strengthen the nation, not weaken it.”
A murmur rose.Some agreement, but mostly disapproval.
Winston stared at Nicholas as if attempting to determine whether to strike him dead or have him arrested.
Bea, however, simply watched him with wonder.
Nicholas’s pulse thundered.He’d never felt more certain of himself, or more alive.
The rest of the dinner blurred.Debate, muttering, the scrape of cutlery.Hargrave sulked.Winston seethed.The duchess fanned herself as though she might swoon at any moment.
But Nicholas barely noticed any of it.
Because each time Bea glanced at him—just small, secret glances—the air between them tightened, pulled, hummed with something he had no business wanting but could no longer deny.
When the ladies rose to withdraw, Bea’s fingers brushed Nicholas’s sleeve.
Light.Accidental.
Devastating.
Heat rushed through him.
Oh yes.He was falling for her.
And there was absolutely nothing diplomatic about it.
