How could she not keep recalling the way that she had kissed William and how he had kissed her back?
It had been a shocking moment. Though she’d dreamed of it, she’d never expected it to come to pass.
The kiss had been, well, nothing short of meteoric for her. In all her life, she’d never felt so entirely alive, so entirely lost in the moment as she had while kissing him.
It had been so…wild.
All her life was driven by her need to seek rights for her sex. Better lives for people.And so she had not spent much time at all on pleasure.
It had been both intense pleasure and extremely sensual all at once.
It was a miracle she could think at all, that kiss had caused her mind to riot so.
Beatrice took a fortifying sip of tea as Margaret trilled about her wedding gown, the guests who would attend her wedding breakfast, and how tall her cake would be.
Beatrice did her absolute best to nod her support as she sipped her tea and then turned her face to the news sheet. She read it every day, front to back, so that she could understand the current events of the world.
There was a great deal of gossip and hyperbolic ranting in it. Still, she enjoyed cursing at the writers who clearly were mistaken in their interpretations of events.
France was in a right state.
It was terrible.
William had not been mistaken in his point that Olympe de Gouge had essentially been murdered by the very party she had helped put in power.
It was most upsetting.
One moment Madame de Gouge had been at the height of her power, reveling in the future of the French people, and then she had been killed…for asking the French Assembly for equal rights for women.
She did not like to think the same thing could happen here in England, but one never knew.
Perhaps William was correct on one point. Perhaps arguing too fiercely and being completely unyielding was a mistake. Perhaps she would try to argue with more finesse. It was not easy. She preferred to argue fiercely, but he was a powerful man, and she had managed to change his mind by being blunt and honest, but she had not railed at him.
It was worth considering.
She turned the page and spotted an article on Lord Byron. Dear God, what was that nincompoop up to now? Was he going to insist he ate naught but potatoes and vinegar?
She’d wager he went home every night after the balls he attended and stuffed himself with steak or cake.
Her uncle took a step into the room, then paused.
She heard the creak of the floor, or else she wouldn’t have looked up. She caught the sight of her uncle’s pale face and flinched. Quite unusually, he was still in his dark green banyan. A cup of coffee was clutched in his hand.
It shook slightly.
Her cousin stopped her chatter and smiled at her father. “Good morning, Papa.”
“Good morning, my darling,” he replied, though his smile seemed forced today.
And without another word, her uncle whipped around and headed down the hall in the direction of his study.
Beatrice found his behavior most odd. Her uncle was usually a kind, jovial fellow.
Margaret was consumed with dress plates as she sipped her tea and apparently had not noticed.
Considering that his only daughter had made a very advantageous marriage, Beatrice felt a wave of concern. Carefully, she folded her paper and pushed her chair back.
Margaret paid no attention as she pored over her potential choices of costume.