A month later, from her seat in the open carriage in
front of the hustings in the market town of Chellingham,
Lady Margaret Roberts smiled out at the crowd. “You will
all turn out for the election tomorrow, won’t you? I’d
be most grateful if you’d vote for my cousin, Mr.
Armsburn! I assure you, he will do his very best to
serve your interests in Parliament.”

“If he promises to send you back every time he needs a
vote, it’s his!” one of the men next to the carriage
declared.

“Aye, and mine, too, for such a pretty smile,” the man
beside him shouted.

“Thank you, gentleman,” she replied, blowing each of them
a kiss. The crowd’s roar of approval made her laugh and
blow another.

Ah, how she loved this! The excitement of the milling
crowds, the rising anticipation on election day as the
votes were given, knowing that the winner would take his
place in Parliament and help forge the destiny of the
nation. The thought that she might in some small way
have a part in the making of history was a thrill that
never faded.

Since the bitter pain of losing her husband Robbie,
resuming the role of her father’s hostess and political
assistant had been her chief pleasure in life, the only
pursuit that distracted her from grief.

The love of her life might be gone, but there was still
important work to do. Or at least, so she told herself
in the loneliness of her solitary bed.

Pulling herself from her reverie, she looked up—and met a
gaze so arresting she instinctively sucked in a breath.
Deep blue eyes—like lapis sparkling in moonlight, she
thought disjointedly—held her mesmerized, the pull so
strong she felt as if she were being drawn physically
closer to him.

And then she realized they were closer. The owner of
those magnificent eyes was making his way through the
crowd toward her carriage. At the realization, her
heartbeat accelerated and a shock of anticipation sizzled
along her nerves.

Those fascinating eyes, she noted as he slowly
approached, were set in a strong, lean face with a
purposeful nose, sharp chin and wide brow over which
curled a luxuriant thatch of blue-black hair. The
gentleman was tall enough that his broad shoulders, clad
in a jacket of Melton green, remained visible as he
forced his way through the crowd.

Just as he drew near enough for her to note the sensual
fullness of his lips, he gave her a knowing smile,
sending a shiver of sensation over her skin.

How could he make her feel so naked while she was still
fully clothed?

And then he was before her, smiling still as he extended
his hand.

“How could I not wish to shake the hand of so lovely a
lady?” he asked, his deep voice vibrating in her ears
like a caress. And though she normally drew back from
physical contact when there were so many pressing close,
she found herself offering her hand.

His grip was as strong and assured as she’d known it
would be. Waves of sensation danced up her arm as he
clasped her fingers, and for a moment, she could hardly
breathe. If she were given to melodrama, she might have
swooned.

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head, trying to
recover her equilibrium. “I hope you will be equally
amicable about according your vote to Mr. Armsburn?” she
asked, pleased her voice held a calm she was far from
feeling.

His smile faded. “I hate to disoblige a lady, but I’m
afraid I’m here to support Mr. Reynolds.”

“The radical Mr. Reynolds? Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, her
disappointment greater than it should have been. “I fear
our politics will not be in agreement, then, Mr.---“

Before the gentleman could answer, a tide of men washed
out of the tavern across the street. “Free beer, free
men, free vote!” they chanted, pushing into the square.
From the corner, a group of men wearing the green
armbands of her cousin’s supporters surged forward.
“Tories for justice!” they cried, shoving against the
free-vote supporters. Several of the tussling men fell
back against her horse, causing the gelding to rear up
and fight the traces. Alarmed, she tugged on the reins,
but the panicked animal fought the bit.

The gentleman jumped forward to seize the bridle,
settling the nervous horse back on his feet. “You should
get away in case this turns ugly,” he advised. Making
liberal use of his cane to clear a path, he led the horse
and carriage through the throng and onto a side street.