Lucas met and held her gaze. “But?” he prompted, trying to sound stern and disapproving despite the way his blood sang with hope.
Her shoulders squared and she returned his severity measure for measure. “But I have a proposition for you.”
His eyebrows rose.
“A business proposition,” she clarified hurriedly. “Or perhaps one might say a charitable one, since I don’t expect to earn any money from the venture. But I believe it’s a worthwhile endeavor, and your assistance would be of immeasurable value to its success.”
Well, hell. Was he relieved or disappointed? Certainly, he should be the first. The last thing he wanted was for her to have come in the hopes of advancing an intimate relationship between them. That way lay humiliation and heartbreak. And yet, if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit he yearned for that to be the reason she had come. Nor was he entirely convinced he would decline such an offer, were it to be made. So much for his principles!
Moreover, regardless of how he felt about the purpose of her call, he could not but be curious about her “venture.”
“I suppose you had best come in and have a seat, then,” he said, and wondered if the words, which should have sounded grudging, came across as rather more eager than he intended.
Stepping a trifle further into the room, she glanced at her surroundings with a bemused expression. A wave of mortification washed over him. While he was hardly indigent and could scarcely be said to live in squalor, his accommodations were modest in the extreme, and most of what should have functioned as a sitting room was taken up with the paraphernalia of his profession. Shelves lined every available wall and were stacked, often two-deep, with books. All of the tabletops and all of the chairs save the one he had so recently vacated were piled with teetering stacks of paper and periodicals. There was most assuredly no obvious place for her to sit.
“I apologize for the state of the place. I wasn’t expecting company.” Hastily, he gathered the pile that rested on the seat of the armchair closest to the door and set it on the floor in the clear space next to his desk. The unwieldy mound wobbled precariously.
“There’s no need to apologize,” she assured him as she settled into the chair and arranged her skirts. “I believe this is the most perfect place for a writer I have ever seen. Every resource one could possibly desire in a single room.” Her smile dazzled him and at the same time reminded him of everything that could not be. “In fact, I rather envy it.”
“That seems unlikely, Lady Honora.” He placed a heavy and bitter emphasis on her courtesy title and first name.
Her eyes widened. “How did you—?” She broke off and looked around the room again. “Never mind,” she said with a self-deprecating puff of laughter. “You found me in Debrett’s. You clearly have a copy.”
“The 1822 edition,” he confirmed. Gripping the desk chair by one of the horizontal slats in the seatback, he swung it around and placed it opposite the armchair she occupied. Once he had seated himself, he observed drily, “You are an extraordinarily well-connected woman.”
She emitted a sigh of resignation. “That is undeniably and regrettably true.”
“I would hardly call being the daughter of one of England’s richest and most powerful earls ‘regrettable.’ Your father is practically Grey’s right-hand man, and your uncle his left. The world is your oyster.”
Her lips compressed into a line, and she stared off into the distance behind him for several seconds. “Is it? I suppose it must seem so from the outside, and I can’t deny the benefits of wealth and privilege are significant. But because I am a woman, there is very little I can do with either of these advantages, at least not openly. I am never going to be a prime minister’s advisor and confidante. I will not ever have access to my family’s fortune to spend and invest as I see fit.” She met his eyes again, her expression softening. “When you are female, Mr. Delgado, the world is never truly your oyster; you are the pearl trapped inside it. And I do not say that because I hope you will feel sorry for me. I say it because I am trying to find my way out.”
But he did feel…well, not sorry for her, exactly, but sympathetic. He knew better than most people what it meant to be seen as less, simply because of who you were.
“Lucas,” he said softly. At the quizzical arch of her brows, he added, “You may call me Lucas, if you would prefer.”
“Oh.” She smiled again, and his heart stuttered. “And you must call me Honora. Because I truly detest the honorific Lady. I haven’t done a single thing to earn it, after all.”
He nodded and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Now, tell me about this business proposition, Honora.”
Chapter Eight
“When rich men decry suffrage for poor men on the grounds that the poor will vote not the good of the country, but to line their own pockets, they speak from personal experience.” – Luke Evangelista
Lucas.
Very close to Luke, but Lucas suited him better. The longer version was more complex and more graceful, especially with the lilt of his accent applied to the syllables.
She would become Mrs. Lucas Delgado if she married him. Oh, she could choose to be styled Lady Honora Delgado, but she would not. She scarcely tolerated being Lady Honora Pearce, after all.
And why had that thought even occurred to her? She was getting soft in the head as well as the heart, if she was already making them Mr. and Mrs. in her imagination.
Honora realized Lucas was studying her expectantly, and for a tick of the clock, she couldn’t remember what he had asked her or how she should respond.
Oh, yes, her proposition. Which was absolutely not a marital one.
She smoothed her skirts and launched into her explanation. “First of all, it occurred to me after we parted on Wednesday night that I know a printer who would probably be willing to take on The Weekly Disciple, especially if I make the referral. They are Lee & Roth in the Marylebone High Street. They have printed and distributed several editions of the Mary Weather books, but I happen to know that they print a number of the more radical periodicals currently in circulation.”
“I see. But there is more to your visit than that, surely?”
She nodded. “Indeed. You see, I was discussing the elections with my cousin yesterday—he is down from Cumbria to consult with the Whig leadership on strategy—and I had the thought that I might be able to contribute in some small way to the cause of electing a Parliament committed to reform.”
A sardonic smile tipped the corners of his mouth. “I doubt that is possible.”
For a moment, she thought he was suggesting there was nothing useful she could do to affect the outcome of the election, but then took his real meaning. “Ha! Perhaps you are correct, but I mean a Parliament committed specifically to electoral reform. And as you have devoted more than a few drops of ink to the issue of underrepresentation of densely populated urban areas, the elimination of rotten boroughs, and the expansion of the franchise, I believe you have some interest in the cause.”
He shrugged. Honora tried not to notice the strain of his biceps against the fine white linen of his shirt…and failed utterly. No wonder a jacket was considered a necessity for proper dress in polite society. If she had been treated to the sight of barely concealed male arms as fine as his during her Season—
“I’m certainly in favor of reform,” he said, unaware of her salacious train of thought, “though the changes that have been proposed by the Whigs don’t go nearly far enough.”
The similarity of this sentiment to the one she had expressed the day before to her cousin regarding the state of marriage law was such that she could not help but snort. “So you would rather see no change at all than an improvement, simply because the improvement doesn’t go as far as you would like?”
Mr. Delgado—Lucas—leaned back far enough to tip the desk chair onto its two back legs and surveyed her through lowered lashes. “Well, I did not say that, did I? I’m just not sure what it i
s you think I can contribute, given the vast majority of the readers of The Weekly Disciple aren’t likely to be eligible to vote in this election, anyway.”
This was, of course, perfectly true. The people who purchased radical newspapers were mostly either too poor or too female to have the franchise.
“Which is why my plan does not rely on reaching only the readers of publications like The Weekly Disciple,” she told him, somewhat giddy at the prospect of revealing what she thought was a clever idea to someone whose opinion mattered to her. If he found it ill-conceived, she was going to be feel very foolish. Nonetheless, she soldiered forward before she could lose confidence. “What I propose is to print a series of leaflets—voter information guides, you might call them—and to distribute them free of charge. We would release one leaflet each week from now until the last Monday in May, with each edition providing coverage of the candidates in the boroughs that are holding elections in that week, along with essays promoting electoral reform and other worthy causes.”
“We?” Lucas arched his eyebrows. “So you’ve already assumed my participation in this undertaking?”
Her heart sank, but she did her best to conceal her disappointment. “Are you refusing?”
Shrugging, he shook his head. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. But I am curious how you propose to fund this scheme. If you print enough of these leaflets to get even a few of them into the hands of eligible voters, the taxes alone will run to fifty or sixty quid, to say nothing of the cost of the printing itself.” With a self-deprecating smile, he gestured at their surroundings. “If you imagine from this that I have the blunt to make an investment, you’ve very much missed the mark as to the profitability of my publishing efforts thus far.”
Although she had not been prevaricating in the slightest when she’d said she rather envied the convenience of having such an extensive library of books and periodicals immediately at hand, rather than in an entirely different room in the house, she knew he probably hadn’t believed her. After all, why should he? Not to mention that her covetousness was motivated primarily by what could only be described as bemoaning the crushing hardships of having money. She had every comfort and lived in the veritable lap of luxury, while he rented just two modest rooms with board in a somewhat dilapidated building in a risky part of Town. But she had never had any illusions as to the depth of his pockets; she was far more interested in the depth of his character…and in the sensual cut of his lips and the prickle of his beard against her cheek and the solid breadth of his chest pressing into—
And good heavens, this would never do.
With this stern self-remonstration, she squeezed her thighs together to quell the ache and rushed on with her explanation. “My cousin and I will pay the taxes and production costs. In fact, his participation is partly why I said ‘we’ earlier. Noel and his mother, my Aunt Artie, are fierce advocates of radical causes—in fact, my own interest in politics was sparked as much by them as by my parents—and he believes these pamphlets might sway some voters to our side, and that makes them worth the cost. He’ll also be able to provide information about the candidates in each of the boroughs, such as their voting histories and public statements on the Reform Act.”
Lucas allowed his chair to drop back onto all four legs with a thud. “It sounds as though you have everything sorted. So what is it, exactly, that you think I have to contribute?”
It was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. His integral role in her plan—to say nothing of his inherent worth as an experienced editor and publisher—was so obvious to her that she could not believe he did not see it. “Why, all of this!” she said, gesturing around the room at the stacks of paper everywhere.
Within those piles she knew were the essays he had written on topics critical to the election, as well as a good many of her own, none of which she possessed. She did not make copies of her Polly Dicax pieces for fear of having them discovered and her identity unmasked by her family. Those articles would form the backbone of each pamphlet, providing the rationale for electing a solidly liberal and reformist majority to the House of Commons for the first time in decades.
“Given the time frame, there is no way my cousin and I, by ourselves, could write enough material to fill the first pamphlet, or even the second, and indeed, it seems absurd for us to try when you have written or published dozens of articles on the subject that we could simply reprint. Everything we need—except, perhaps, the profiles of the candidates—is right here in this room, if only you will assist us.”
And if you say no, this will be the end. We will never see each other again. We will never know what might have been.
His expression had remained inscrutable throughout her plea. She folded her gloved hands in her lap and tried not to fidget while she awaited his response. She’d been so certain he would want to contribute to the effort that she had not seriously considered the possibility that he would refuse. But watching him now, she wondered whether she hadn’t overestimated the appeal of her proposal.
Just when she had begun to despair, he gave a curt nod. “I’m in. Where shall we begin?”
His abrupt acquiescence made her giddy with a combination of relief and exhilaration, which she was powerless to conceal. Grinning like a ninny, she gestured toward four neatly ranked stacks of newspapers she recognized as back issues of The Weekly Disciple. “I propose we start with a little light reading.”
The last of Lucas’s resistance crumbled in the face of her smile. If he’d known how happy his acquiescence would make her, he wouldn’t even have bothered to ask what she had in mind before agreeing. Because now that he knew how it felt to be responsible for her happiness, he doubted there was anything he could deny her. Not his heart. Not his body. He was hers to command for as long as his obedience gave her pleasure.
After that? Well, better not to contemplate that possibility.
Her face alight with elation, Honora reached beneath her throat and tugged at the loose end of the bow that held her bonnet in place. “I shan’t be able to see well enough to read with this brim shadowing my eyes,” she explained as she pulled the offending item from her head and then glanced around the room, no doubt in search of someplace to put it.
Lucas gestured toward the coat and hat rack to the left of the open door to the corridor. “You can hang it there,” he suggested.
With another breathtaking smile, she rose in a rustle of hidden petticoats from her chair and strode to the rack. He noticed her gait was as firm and purposeful in all her finery as it had been when shes dressed as an errand boy. The sway of her hips was only more noticeable because her skirts amplified the motion.
Now that her head was entirely exposed, he could see that her hair was not merely brown, but a mixture of shades ranging from dark gold to coppery cinnamon to rich chocolate. Its length, which he guessed would fall to somewhere between her shoulder blades if let loose, had been twisted into a knot at her crown, but the paler strands shone out from the darker ones like fireworks against a night sky. His mind painted an image of her hair loosed from its bonds and spread across his pillow, and his cock stretched and thickened enough to make his trousers strain.
So much for his high-minded principles, he thought sourly. He would tup her in a heartbeat if she but asked.
Once she had set the bonnet on a peg, she returned to her chair and turned her attention to her hands. Releasing the buttons on her left glove, she tugged at each fingertip, loosening them one at a time before removing the garment. When she was done, she repeated the process on the other glove.
Somehow, this was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed, and she seemed completely oblivious to the effect she was having on him. And after all, why should she expect him to break into a cold sweat at the sight of her doing something so innocuous?
Tucking the gloves into a pocket that hung from the belt around her waist, she looked back up at him expectantly and then gestured again—bare-handed—toward the four piles of newspaper
that represented his archive of The Weekly Disciple. “I think we are most likely to find material we can reuse in the more recent editions. Which end is newer, the leftmost or right?”
He swallowed reflexively and gave himself a firm mental shake. Just because he suspected that she had conceived her “voter information guide” as an excuse to see him again, he was not so self-involved to believe that was the only possible explanation. Perhaps she truly had come simply to enlist his help and not as a way to spend more time with him. And either way, he would be a cad to treat her in anything less than a courtly manner.
Aware that he was still in possession of a noticeable bulge in his trousers, he deliberately turned away from her before rising from his chair. “They are organized from left to right, so yesterday’s issue is the topmost on the stack at the far right. The bottom of that stack is the first issue published this year, and the last issue of 1830 is on top of the pile to its left, and so on.”
“Let’s start with everything published since the beginning of this year and see where that gets us,” she suggested.
This seemed sensible, since many of the articles he had published and several he himself had written detailed the progress of the Reform Act since January, followed by its sudden demise and the dissolution of Parliament last week. He scooped up the first stack of broadsheets and set them on the seat of his chair, which he then picked up and placed directly beside hers. Heads bent together, they reviewed each back issue. They conferred, discussed, debated.
Lucas could not recall that he had ever enjoyed anyone’s company quite as much as he enjoyed hers. Not only because she was clever and insightful and funny. And certainly not just because he found her breathtakingly desirable; that was more of a torment than a pleasure. No, it was mostly because her companionship felt real and true. As if every barrier between them—class, wealth, sex—melted away into insignificance in the face of the rightness of their connection.
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