London – May, 1879

Miss Marigold Bellowes turned heads wherever she went. It was a fact of life she’d lived with since emerging from the schoolroom into society. She was well aware that she possessed a figure men stared at and coloring that women envied. Her blonde hair had just a touch of copper to it, proving that her parents had named her well, and her green eyes were the sort that unnerved those she stared at for too long. But Marigold wasn’t foolish enough to believe her looks were what enthralled people. That honor went to her father’s money.

“Is Lord Kendrick staring again?” she whispered to her best friend, Lady Lavinia Prior, as the two crossed St. Stephen’s Hall, heading toward the stairs that would take them to the Strangers’ Gallery overlooking the House of Commons Chamber.

Lavinia—who was younger than Marigold by five years and quite pretty herself, with thick, chestnut hair and dark eyes—glanced over her shoulder, then sniggered. “He is, poor thing.”

Marigold’s answering sigh quickly turned to a giggle. “I’ve refused his proposal three times. You’d think the man would go and sniff up another tree.”

Lavinia laughed out loud, then raised a hand to cover her mouth, her cheeks going pink. “I don’t know whether it’s cruel of you to say that or if you’re doing the man a favor by snubbing him.”

“I’m doing him a favor,” Marigold answered as they joined the queue to the gallery stairs. “Clearly, Lord Kendrick is only interested in marrying a woman who can bolster the sagging fortunes of his estate, if rumors are to be believed.”

Lavinia hummed sagely. “They are to be believed, according to Mama. That’s why she hasn’t tried to thrust me at him.”

Marigold winced for her friend and rested a gloved hand on her arm before they started up the narrow stairs to the gallery. “Is she still trying to snag a titled husband for you?”

Lavinia let out an ironic laugh. “She’s trying to match me with anyone prominent and influential enough to meet her exacting standards, no matter what I think of things. Lord Kendrick doesn’t come close to meeting her mark. Not when his chances of bankruptcy are so high.”

“And I suppose that’s why he hasn’t given up on me,” Marigold sighed, feeling far guiltier than she should. But as more than a few men needed to understand, financial difficulty on their part did not necessitate feelings of love and a desire to wed on the part of whatever female they set their hearts, or rather, their billfolds, on.

They reached the top of the crowded stairs and stepped out into the Strangers’ Gallery, a stretch of tiered seats in the balconies above the House of Commons chamber floor. The gallery was open to any members of the public who cared to observe the proceedings of government, but women rarely attended. At least, they rarely attended when it was business as usual. But change was afoot. A group of men, both in the House of Commons and in the House of Lords, had been making noise about passing a bill that would increase the rights of women. It was a long way from granting them equal standing with men or the vote, as Marigold wanted, but anything that would secure a woman’s right to her own property and her life was a step in the right direction.

The bill was due to be debated that day, so more than a few women had taken up seats at the very front of the gallery. Marigold tapped Lavinia’s arm and pointed to a section of seats at the front, then made her way toward them.

“To be honest,” she said, continuing their conversation, “I’ve reached the end of my tether when it comes to men hoping to win my hand, as though it’s some sort of prize. The fact that my father has made a smashing success of his business should not preclude me from having a real marriage based on love.”

They reached the front row amidst the hubbub of dozens of conversations, but Marigold had been loud enough to catch the attention of Lady Stanhope, who glanced up at her with shrewd, calculating eyes.

“Well, that’s quite an introduction,” Lady Stanhope said, her lips twitching into a smile. She scooted to one side, patting the bench beside her. “Do sit next to me.”

“Lady Stanhope.” Marigold greeted the woman with a fond grin.

Everyone who had spent any time observing Parliament or getting involved in political circles knew Katya Marlowe, the Countess of Stanhope. She was regarded by many as the most powerful widow in England. Her husband, the Earl of Stanhope, had died fifteen years before, leaving her with three children, a title, vast estates, and, reportedly, a huge sum of money. Her son, Rupert, the current earl, was not yet eighteen and was still at university, so Lady Stanhope continued to manage the Stanhope legacy. At a year shy of forty, she was a strikingly handsome woman, with sharp, bold features, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. She was rumored to have had a string of lovers after her husband’s death, and was considered to be friends with several prominent politicians.

“Still batting fortune hunters away with a stick?” she asked as Marigold settled onto the bench beside her.

Marigold laughed. “I can’t fault them for trying. I just wish they would try somewhere else.”

Lady Stanhope smiled. “Good for you for not giving in and marrying one just to make the others go away.”

“Believe me, there have been times when I’ve been tempted,” Marigold said with an ironic twist of her lips. “If I could find just one man who I thought I could be happy with, who would appreciate me for myself and not what I can do for him, then I’d fasten the leg-shackles tomorrow.”

Lady Stanhope arched one severe eyebrow. “Why not seek out a man who can do something for you?”

Marigold paused in the process of settling her reticule and parasol by her side. “How would I do that?”

Lady Stanhope raised her shoulders slightly in a shrug and glanced out over the chamber. “Simple. Think about matrimony the way a man does. Consider what your aims and goals in life are and set your sights on a man who can fulfill those goals.”

“That’s rather mercenary, isn’t it?” Lavinia asked, glancing around Marigold to study Lady Stanhope.

“Men do it all the time,” Lady Stanhope said with a wave. “Robert only married me because my mother was a Romanov, and he wanted his children to have royal blood. Why shouldn’t we marry for similar reasons?”

“Why is it that you never remarried, Lady Stanhope?” Lavinia asked.

Marigold felt a flush of embarrassment for her friend’s impertinent question, but Lady Stanhope merely chuckled.

“There are a great many reasons I haven’t remarried, my dear,” she told Lavinia, then leaned closer to Marigold, as if sharing a secret. “I have too much power, too much influence, on my own. And besides.” She inched closer still and lowered her voice to whisper to both women, “I am not the sort to be unfaithful, which would vastly limit my ability to sample the many delicacies that the men of the world have to offer.”

“Oh, my!” Lavinia pressed a hand to her mouth and snapped straight, her face turning bright puce.

Marigold, on the other hand, laughed so loud that several sets of eyes—both male and female—turned to them. Only then did she cover her mouth, blushing with merriment as much as embarrassment. “I like the way you think, Lady Stanhope,” she whispered.

Lady Stanhope sat a little straighter, beaming with pride and mischief. She tilted her head and studied Marigold. “So what are your goals, my dear? Who do you want to be?”

Marigold blinked rapidly under the assault of such an important question. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it.”

“Yes you have,” Lady Stanhope countered immediately. “A woman like you, who has turned down half a dozen offers of marriage, who continues to receive those offers even as she approaches thirty, and who attends sessions of Parliament when the rights of women are being discussed, has most definitely considered what she wants from life.”

Marigold’s startled expression melted into a cunning grin. “I suppose you’re right.” She darted a glance around to gauge if anyone was eavesdropping. Since ministers were flooding into the gallery below and taking their seats, as if the session were about to start, their conversation went unnoticed. “I want to be the wife of a powerful man,” she confided, mischief bubbling up inside of her.

“I thought so.” Lady Stanhope nodded in approval.

“I want to have a say in the world,” Marigold went on. “At the moment, the only way to do that is as the wife of a powerful man and the mother of his children, but I want to align myself with those who are fighting to give women power of their own.”

“Would you enter politics yourself if you could?” Lady Stanhope pressed her.

Marigold hesitated. She glanced to the gallery as the Sargent at Arms called the room to order. The men crowding the benches on either side of the room seemed worn and full of cares to her. They were a stern, grey mass of seriousness.

“Perhaps it would be more enjoyable to be the power behind the throne,” she said in a circumspect voice, tilting her head to one side.

“A wise observation,” Lady Stanhope said.

A different swirl of emotion filled Marigold’s heart. “And I have always wanted to be a mother.” She took a breath after her statement, caught by the seeming paradox that wanting to give birth and hold public power seemed to present.

“You can be a mother and a powerful woman,” Lady Stanhope told her, in a hushed voice as the men below began to speak. “In fact, I’m certain my children would argue that I’m frightfully powerful, in spite of and because of them.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she glanced to Marigold.

“Does your son think so?” Lavinia whispered.

“More than my daughters,” Lady Stanhope answered.

Marigold wanted to laugh again, but the gallery had settled in to watch proceedings below. She smiled to herself all the same, her heart beating with excitement and promise that had nothing to do with the drone of parliamentary business below. She’d always considered motherhood and ambition to be two separate beasts, and believed she could only feed one of them. But if Lady Stanhope could wield influence and raise children as well, then so could she.

However, Lady Stanhope was right about something else, though she had hinted at it more than stating it outright. If she wanted to be the woman she’d dreamed of being, she would have to choose a husband for what he could do for her, the same way men tried to pitch woo to her because of what her father’s money could do for them.

In the true way of men, Marigold had to sit through a lot of unnecessary business and debate about topics that made about as much sense as corsets for puppies before the bill to advance the rights of women was brought up. As soon as the issue of extending the budget for rail lines in Surrey was finished and voted on, the MP from Bury St. Edmunds introduced the bill for women’s rights. A flurry of activity ensued as both the men on the floor and the observers in the gallery prepared for the fight.

Marigold watched the Liberal side of the aisle with interest. The bill was supported by several Liberal MPs and fiercely opposed by the Conservatives, as was just about every other bill that extended the rights of women, the working class, or anyone not currently enfranchised. Lord Hartington, the Leader of the Opposition, stood in a huddle with a handful of other MPs, looking ready to stand up and debate. But he wasn’t the one who broke away from the group to approach the box.

A shiver of something warm and exciting swirled in Marigold’s gut. “Who is that?” she whispered to Lady Stanhope.

A fond smile spread across Lady Stanhope’s lips. “That, my dear, is Mr. Alexander Croydon.”

“Who is he when he’s at home?” Marigold went on, her eyes trained on him. She couldn’t account for the way her heart suddenly beat faster and harder, other than the man’s obvious good looks. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a fit physique. His hair was graying at the temples, but he didn’t seem particularly old, all things considered. His confident grin as he took the podium and cleared his throat made Marigold want to lean in to listen.

“My lord Speaker, members of the House, and especially my distinguished colleagues on the other side of the aisle,” he began. “What would any of us be without the women in our lives?”

His question was met by various grunts and guffaws.

“We would be nowhere,” he went on. “And nowhere is precisely where these brave and valiant women who form and shape us are in the eyes of the government of this kingdom. They are the very backbone of our society, and yet, in the eyes of the law, they are reduced to the status of servants or children. They are not even entitled to the property that they bring into a marriage. If they should choose to break free from a union that is abusive or degrading, they are left with nothing. We propose to change all of that. Therefore, we are introducing this bill to extend the rights and legal protection of women, their persons, and their property.”

Both sides of the chamber erupted into shouts of encouragement or derision. Mr. Croydon allowed it to continue for a moment, as if building up for his next assault. He glanced straight up into the gallery as he waited, directly at Lady Stanhope. Out of the corner of her eye, Marigold watched Lady Stanhope raise an eyebrow and nod in approval. A thousand questions about what the relationship between the wily widow and Mr. Croydon could be popped to Marigold’s mind.

Then Mr. Croydon’s gaze shifted to her.

Their eyes met. Marigold’s breath caught in her throat. Mr. Croydon’s eyes were almond-shaped and blue. They burned with cleverness and confidence…and something new. The clamor in the room faded to the background, and for a moment, all she saw was his handsome, self-assured expression, his poised smile. She smiled back before she could stop herself, pressing a hand to her heart.

A moment later, he turned back to the men around him and continued. “The bill we propose encompasses the three major legally sanctioned offenses against women: property rights, legal recourse in cases of divorce, and the right to maintain custody of children in case of abandonment or neglect.”

Marigold’s breath came rushing out. Whatever connection she and Mr. Croydon had had in that split-second of wonder, it was gone. The electric energy that had coursed through her ebbed as he dove into a long, complicated speech spelling out the laws and changes that needed to come. As desperately as Marigold wanted to hang on his every word, she was buzzing with the need to know so much more than he was saying. How had she never noticed the man before? Why hadn’t he attended any number of social events that made up the season? Had he been in attendance and she just hadn’t noticed him? That seemed impossible.

Beside her, Lady Stanhope made a curious, humming noise. It was intriguing enough to drag Marigold’s eyes away from Mr. Croydon. She blinked when she found Lady Stanhope watching her instead of the proceedings on the floor.

“They say that he could succeed Lord Hartington as leader of the Liberal Party,” she said, the mischief in her eyes making her angular face appear downright wicked.

“Oh?” Marigold asked, the single syllable coming out high and breathy.

“They also say that, in the event of an election, which is quite likely next year, he could be tapped for Prime Minister.”

“Prime Minister.” Marigold nodded, heat rising up her neck to her cheeks.

Lady Stanhope’s impish grin widened. “He’s unmarried, you know.”

Unaccountable joy burst in Marigold’s chest. She wasn’t so naïve that she couldn’t see what Lady Stanhope was getting at. Set your goals and pursue them with focus. Seek out a man to marry who could assist you in achieving those goals. Her gaze snapped back to Mr. Croydon. He stood tall and proud, speaking into a sea of grunts and objections from the other side without so much as a flutter. Marigold had the impression that the man could withstand a storm and come out singing.

“He’s a friend,” Lady Stanhope nodded, her eyes flashing with cunning. “And not one of my special friends either.” She paused to let that sink in, then added with feigned casualness. “I could introduce you once the debate is done.”

Tingles broke out along Marigold’s skin, and in some peculiar places that she only ever thought about when she was alone. “I think I’d enjoy that,” she said, pretending as much nonchalance as Lady Stanhope was.

“Really,” Lavinia laughed quietly by her side, shaking her head. “You’re as bad as mother.”

“And why shouldn’t I have Lady Stanhope introduce me to Mr. Croydon?” Marigold asked, as giddy as if she and Lavinia were in a schoolroom, mooning over the boys. “We should go after what we want.”

“If you say so.” Lavinia continued to giggle.

The remainder of the session passed as if being carried along by a snail moving through treacle. Marigold couldn’t pay attention to anything else that was said once the vote to table the bill for further discussion came up. After that, it was a war of attrition to keep still until the session was ended and both the ministers and observers rose to leave.

It was all Marigold could do not to sprint for the stairs, using her parasol to bat aside anyone who got in her way.

“Steady on, dear,” Lady Stanhope whispered in her ear as they shuffled slowly into the queue departing the gallery. “You’re an intelligent, well-placed heiress, not a bitch in heat.”

Lavinia gasped, bursting into nervous giggles. “Lady Stanhope, you say the most shocking things.”

“Of course I do, dear,” she said with a smile. “One doesn’t suffer widowhood without being able to say shocking things.”

At last, as Marigold’s heart pounded against her ribs, they made it to the stairs and down to St. Stephen’s Hall. The tall, echoing space was packed with men rushing about their business or standing in clusters to discuss the day’s business. Lady Stanhope took the lead as they started across the floor, gesturing for Marigold and Lavinia to follow her.

Marigold searched ahead for any sign of Mr. Croydon, and when she spotted him speaking to two other men at the far end of the hall, under a painting of King John agreeing to sign the Magna Carta, she went dizzy with expectation.

“Alex, there you are,” Lady Stanhope greeted him in the most casual way possible as they approached. “I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.”

The two men with Mr. Croydon said a final word and nodded before stepping away and going about their business. That left Mr. Croydon alone, like a lead actor on the stage, with no one to share the spotlight. He was even more handsome up close than he had been from the gallery. His eyes were blue, with enticing lines around them that indicated good humor. But there was also a feeling of gravitas about him, and, if Marigold wasn’t mistaken, a hint of wariness. Clearly, he was a man of experience, and not all of it good.

“Lady Stanhope.” He greeted Lady Stanhope as informally as she had him, taking her hand and drawing her close, then kissing her cheek when she raised it to him. Marigold was both shocked and fascinated by the intimate greeting, and more than a little envious. “How good it was to see you in the gallery today. And your charming friends.” He glanced to Marigold.

Their eyes met, and once again, Marigold had that fluttering feeling that the two of them were the only people in the world. It was a ridiculous, sentimental notion, one she would have laughed at if other ladies had described it to her, but she couldn’t deny how good it felt.

“Alex, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Marigold Bellowes,” Lady Stanhope said.

Mr. Croydon blinked, his brow lifting, and turned to Lady Stanhope. “Percy Bellowes’s daughter?”

A painful twist of disappointment hit Marigold’s heart. He knew who her father was. Which meant he knew her worth. Which made her feel suddenly worthless.

“The very same,” Lady Stanhope went on, still smiling. “But who gives a fig about her father? Miss Bellowes here was particularly interested in your debate. She has a brilliant mind and inquisitiveness to boot.”

“Does she?” Mr. Croydon glanced to Marigold again, and for once, for once in her entire life, Marigold knew a man was looking at her not for the contents of her father’s bank account, but for her own merits.

“How do you do, Mr. Croydon?” She offered her hand, doing her best to imitate Lady Stanhope’s cool, superior demeanor as she did.

“I’m quite well,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing over it.

A zip of electricity shot up Marigold’s arm. It was so delicious that remaining calm and letting go of his hand to turn to Lavinia took every ounce of her effort. “May I introduce my dearest friend, Lady Lavinia Prior?”

“Lady Lavinia.” Mr. Croydon repeated the motions of taking Lavinia’s hand and bowing over it. “I hope you enjoyed today’s debate.”

“It was fascinating,” Lavinia said, her smile broad and as teasing as Lavinia was capable of. “But Marigold is the one who knows more about these things.”

Mr. Croydon glanced back to her. It was so ridiculously obvious that both Lady Stanhope and Lavinia were pushing her in front of him that they might as well have carried signs. Strangely, though, Marigold couldn’t bring herself to mind.

“I was particularly impressed with—”

“Croydon!”

An angry, male voice cut Marigold off, and all four of them turned to see a glowering man in a disheveled suit with enormous muttonchops framing his face marching toward them. Lady Stanhope made a noise somewhere between frustration and disgust, and Mr. Croydon’s expressions snapped closed, his eyes narrowing.

Marigold held her breath, the feeling that she’d walked into the middle of a drama shivering down her spine.