Her innards twisted into a hot ball of dread.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, Your Grace,” she said.
He halted, processing all the messages she had just conveyed. Then he gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “It’s my duty to receive petitioners. Please, have a seat.”
She sat and busied herself with taking her pen and her tiny notebook from the reticule in her lap. When she finally looked at him, his eyes were oddly soft.
It should have warned her.
“I will not come out in favor of the amendment,” he said.
She blinked as if he had flicked something at her face. “You won’t?”
Of all the scenarios she had anticipated, this one had not occurred to her.
He shook his head.
“But . . . whyever did you agree to meet us?”
The corners of his mouth lifted, and all at once she realized that she had stopped Your Gracing him, that she was questioning him, something a random petitioner would never dare. Oh, blast him.
“I won’t support it,” he said, “but I can give you the names of MPs you should focus on. And I can advise you on how to improve your campaign in general.”
She tried gathering her scattered wits. “You won’t vote in our favor, but you are willing to help?”
“I am not against your proposal on principle, Annabelle.”
A monstrous thought crossed her mind. “Is it . . . Is this personal?”
A small pause ensued. “You think I hold a grudge because you rejected my offer.”
She could only nod.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Do you genuinely think that? That would hardly be flattering to either of us.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“It is not in my interest to officially support the issue at this point in time,” he said, and she could feel that this was his final word on the matter.
A lump of bone-deep frustration blocked her throat. Why did this feel like a personal betrayal?
She came to her feet, making him stand also.
“This is regrettable,” she said, and, pettily, she added, “I thought you were a fair man.”
His face went blank. “I am,” he said coolly.
“Perhaps you can explain it to me, then,” she said, “how is it fair that my utterly inept cousin is in command of me, for no reason other than that he’s a man and I’m a woman? How is it fair that I master Latin and Greek as well as any man at Oxford, yet I am taught over a baker’s shop? How is it fair that a man can tell me my brain was wired wrong, when his main achievement in life seems to be his birth into a life of privilege? And why do I have to beg a man to please make it his interest that I, too, may vote on the laws that govern my life every day?”
Her voice had turned hectic and sharp, and she was clutching her pen in her fist like a dagger, but she had somehow become incensed beyond caution, her blood a dull roar in her ears. Montgomery was watching her blatantly unfazed, and that made her want to pick up his shiny paperweight and hurl it against the wall, just to hear something crash.
“Oh no, you won’t,” he said, and moved with surprising speed; before she blinked, he was in front of her, crowding her back against his desk.
She glared up at him. His nearness should have irritated her, but this close, she could smell him, his scent familiar and exhilarating, and she wavered. Anguish began creeping into the cracks of her anger.
Her hand with the pen fell useless to her side.
Montgomery made a soothing sound. “That is better,” he said.
“What is?” she said warily.
He took a small step back. “You speaking your mind,” he said, “instead of maintaining that pretense.”
“I assure you, it was not a pretense,” she said stiffly.
“Don’t try to manage me like a fool,” he shot back.
“I—” She closed her mouth again.
He was right. She had not been honest with him.
If only he knew that until today, she had felt more like herself in his presence, had been more true in her actions around him than with any other man.
She became aware of how close he still stood, how his chest rose and fell with every breath he took. How awfully right it felt to be close. How right it would feel to just bury her face against his competent shoulder and feel his arms around her.
“I believe we are finished here,” she said.
“You and I should talk,” he replied.
“Perhaps you would be so kind to set out your recommendations for us in a letter,” she said, and squeezed past him to reach her reticule.
“Annabelle.” His hand closed over hers, warm and certain.
She glanced up and met his eyes, clear and deep like a glacial lake, and God help her she wanted to fall in and sink to the bottom.
She swallowed. “There’s nothing to say about you and me, Your Grace.”
“That is what I thought,” he said, “but then you unexpectedly showed up in my office.”
Her heart began beating unpleasantly fast again. “I was sent here in an official capacity.”
“You could have declined.”
“I assure you, I tried.”
“Who would know if you hadn’t followed through with the meeting,” he challenged, “had you gone to a café instead of coming here?”
“Are you suggesting I should have lied to my friends?” she asked, incredulous, and damned if she hadn’t considered doing exactly that. Somehow, she had still ended up in his office. “Lies have a tendency of getting exposed,” she informed him.
Annoyance and amusement warred behind his eyes, and the fact that it showed so plainly meant that he wasn’t half as unmoved as his calm voice made him out to be.
She realized he was still holding her hand. His thumb had begun stroking back and forth over her palm, the friction creating a warm, tingling sensation that made her head swim.
And of course, he noticed. His eyes heated. “Annabelle,” he said softly. “How have you been?”
She pulled her hand away, grasping for the tattered remnants of her resolve to be indifferent.
“I’m well, thank you.” She began stowing her notebook and her pen in her reticule.
“Good,” she heard him say. “I admit, I am not. You are constantly on my mind.”
Her gaze flew to his face.