Her stomach gave a sickening lurch.

She was face to face with the rarest of breeds: a perfectly unmanageable man.

She should run.

Her feet were rooted to the spot. She couldn’t stop staring. Those eyes. A world of tightly leashed intensity shimmered in their cold depths that held her, pulled her in, until awareness sizzled between them bright and disturbing like an electric current.

The man’s lips parted. His gaze dropped to her mouth. A flash of heat brightened his eyes, there and gone like lightning.

Well. No matter their position in the world, they all liked her mouth.

She forced up her hand with the pamphlets and held it right under his nose. “Amend the Married Women’s Property Act, sir?”

His eyes were, impossibly, icier than before. “You play a risky game, miss.”

A voice as cool and imperious as his presence.

It heated rather than calmed her blood.

“With all due respect, the risk of being pushed by a gentleman in bright daylight is usually quite low,” she said. “Would you release me now, please?”

His gaze snapped to his right hand. Which was still wrapped around her arm.

His face shuttered.

The next moment, she was free.

The bustle and noise of Parliament Square reached her ears again, unnaturally loud.

The press of strong fingers round her arm lingered like the afterglow of a burn.

He was already moving past her, staring ahead, his two companions rushing after him.

She swallowed and found her mouth was dry. Her lips still tingled as if he’d brushed over them with a fingertip.

A small, gloved hand touched her sleeve, and she jumped. Miss Greenfield’s brown eyes were wide with concern and . . . awe. “Miss. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” No. Her cheeks were burning as if she had fallen nose first onto the damp cobblestones. She smoothed a trembling hand over her skirts. “Well then,” she said with false cheer, “I gather the gentlemen were not interested.”

From the corner of her eye, she watched the ice lord and his minions file into a large carriage. Meanwhile, Miss Greenfield was contemplating her with covert wariness, probably trying to determine politely whether she was a little unhinged. She wasn’t, but there was no denying that she had acted on impulse. Lord help her. She hadn’t been impulsive in so long.

“Do you know who that was?” Miss Greenfield asked.

Annabelle shook her head.

“That,” the girl said, “was the Duke of Montgomery.”

A duke. Of course the first man she tried to lobby turned out to be a duke, just a fraction short of a prince . . .

A pair of heels clicked rapidly behind them; Lady Lucie was approaching with the force of a small frigate. “Was that what it looked like?” she demanded. “Did you just try to lobby the Duke of Montgomery?”

Annabelle’s spine straightened. “I didn’t know that he was excluded from our efforts.”

“He’s not. Just no one has ever tried going near him before.” The lady cocked her head and looked Annabelle up and down. “I can’t decide whether you are one of the bravest or one of the most foolish women I’ve recently recruited.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” Annabelle said. “He just looked like a man of influence.”

“Well, you had that right,” Lady Lucie said. “He is one of the most influential men in the country.”

“Wouldn’t it be worth a try, then, to speak to him?”

“Have you seen him? This is a man who divorced his wife after barely a year, kept her dowry, and made her disappear. We can safely assume that he is a lost battle where women’s rights are concerned, and not squander our limited resources on him.”

“A divorce?” She might be from a small place like Chorleywood, but even she knew that the aristocracy did not divorce. Still, she could not seem to let it go. “Would the duke’s opinion sway other men of influence?”

Lady Lucie gave an unladylike snort. “He could sway the entire upcoming election if he wished.”

“But that means that if he’s against us, it hardly matters how many of the others we win for the cause, doesn’t it?”

“Possibly.” A frown creased Lady Lucie’s brow. “But it is of no consequence. Our army is not made for attacking such a fortress.”

“How about a siege, then,” Annabelle said, “or a subterfuge, like a big, wooden horse.”

Two pairs of eyes narrowed at her.

Oh, grand, she had thought that out loud. Being pushed by that man must’ve shaken her more than she’d thought.

“Well, I do like the sound of that,” Lady Lucie drawled. “We should put Montgomery onto the agenda for next week’s meeting.” A smile curved her lips as she stuck out her hand. “Call me Lucie. You too, Miss Greenfield. And do excuse me, I believe that is Lord Chiltern over there.”

They watched her plunge into the fog, her red scarf flapping behind her like a pennant. When Miss Greenfield turned back to Annabelle, her expression was serious. “You saved me from Lucie biting my head off in front of everyone earlier. Please call me Hattie.”

It felt a little wrong, such familiarity first with a lady, and now an heiress. Annabelle took a deep breath. This was her new life, being a student, petitioning dukes, shaking hands with unfathomably wealthy girls in purple fur stoles. It seemed that the wisest course of action was to pretend that this was all perfectly normal.

“My pleasure,” she said. “And apologies for not keeping a low profile earlier.”

Hattie’s laugh floated merrily across the square, attracting almost as many scandalized glances as their pamphlets.

They failed to enthuse any man of influence that afternoon. In between half-hearted attempts, Annabelle’s gaze kept straying back to the direction where the coach with the duke had disappeared.

Chapter 3

When Her Majesty requested a meeting, even a duke had to comply. Even when the duke in question was notoriously occupied with running one of the oldest dukedoms in the kingdom and preferred to stay far from the madding crowds of London. One did not say no to the queen, and Sebastian Devereux, nineteenth Duke of Montgomery, knew that he was no exception to that rule. It behooved a man to know his limitations. It meant he could heed or ignore them precisely as the situation required.

He navigated the corridors of Buckingham Palace with long strides, effectively herding the royal usher before him. Secretary Lambton and Lambton’s protection officer were, as usual, trotting behind somewhere.

What did she want?

The last time the queen had summoned him at such short notice, he had walked out of her apartments tasked with ending a trade war with the Ottoman Empire. It had shot his routine to hell, and he was still dealing with the backlog of paperwork. He’d prefer it to be an even greater task now—one so monumental that it would entitle him to ask for something in return.

He handed his hat and greatcoat to one of the footmen lining the hallway to the royal apartment.

“You,” he said to Lambton’s protection officer.

“Your Grace?”

“There was no need to push the woman.”

The officer’s thick brows lowered. “The one on the square?”

“Yes. Or have you accosted any others today?”

“Eh—no, Your Grace.”

Sebastian nodded. “If I ever hear that you have laid a hand on a woman again, it will be the end of your employ.”

The officer was not his employee. But if he wanted to see someone lose his position, Sebastian made it happen. Hectic red splotches spread on the man’s throat. He bowed. “As ye wish, Yer Grace.”

An East End accent, and showing so easily? Times were dire when even the palace had trouble finding decent staff.

The large wing doors swung open, revealing the usher and the gilded interior beyond.

“Your Grace. Sir Lambton.” The usher dipped low as he stepped back. “Her Majesty will see you now.”

The queen’s stout figure rose from her armchair in a rustle of stiff black skirts.

“Montgomery.” She started toward him, one bejeweled hand extended. “I am pleased to see you.”

Her upturned lips said as much. She was in an appreciative mood. For now.

“Sir Lambton”—she turned to her secretary—“we trust your journey was uneventful?”

Lambton shook his head. “A near miss, ma’am. We were attacked by a feminist on Parliament Square.”

The corners of her mouth pulled down sharply. “I daresay.”

“She made straight for the duke.”

“The gall!”

“I escaped unharmed, ma’am,” Sebastian said wryly.

“This time,” the queen said. “This time. Oh, they ought to be given a good whipping. Wicked, unnatural demands! And who would suffer, if they got their way? Why, these women. No gentleman in his right mind is going to be willing to protect such mannish creatures should the need arise. Tell me, Montgomery,” she demanded, “did she look terribly mannish?”

Mannish? The woman had had the softest, most inviting lips he’d seen on this side of the channel. A man could easily lose himself in the pleasures to be had from a mouth like hers. But what was more remarkable was that she had looked him straight in the eye. Green eyes, slightly slanted. Her smile had not touched them.