Regency Rogues: Stolen Sins: Forbidden Nights with the Viscount (Hadley's Hellions) / Stolen Encounters with the Duchess (Hadley's Hellions). Julia Justiss
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election!’
‘That’s great news!’ Giles cried. ‘Sweep the Tories out, and the Reform Bill will be sure to pass! Equal representation for every district, a vote for every freeholder, an end to domination by the landed class—everything we’ve dreamed of since Oxford!’
‘An end to rotten boroughs, for sure,’ David said. ‘I doubt we’ll get the rest—yet. Though I’m not sure why, as a future earl, the rest is so important to you, Giles. To any of you, really. I’m the only one here not of the “landed class”.’
‘You’re the son of a farmer—which makes you “landed” by occupation,’ Christopher said with a grin.
‘My late father’s occupation, not mine,’ David replied. ‘I’d be lucky to tell a beet seed from a turnip.’
‘Whether we get the reforms all at once or by stages, it’s still a landmark day—which calls for a toast!’ Ben said. Stepping to the door, he called out, ‘Mr Ransen, a round of ale for the group, if you please.’
‘Did you truly believe, when we sat around in that dingy little tavern in Oxford recasting the future, that we would ever see this day?’ David asked, shaking his head with the wonder of it. ‘Our views certainly weren’t very popular then.’
‘Neither were we, except with the inn’s doxies. What a mismatched set!’ Christopher laughed. ‘Me, ostensibly the son of a baron, but really the offspring of one of Mother’s lovers, as the snide were ever fond of remarking. Giles, ostensibly heir to an earldom, but estranged from his father, with the favoured half-brother dogging his heels, practically panting with eagerness to step into his shoes.’
‘And making it clear to our classmates that, should he attain that earldom, he’d not forgive or forget anyone who befriended me,’ Giles added, suppressing the bitterness that always simmered beneath the surface.
‘Then there was me, illegitimate son of a lowly governess,’ Ben chimed in. ‘The snide never tired of recalling that fact, either.’
‘But all still gentry born,’ Davie said. ‘Unlike this true commoner. It’s selfish, I know, but I’m glad you three never quite fit in with your peers. I can’t imagine how lonely Oxford would have been otherwise.’
‘You wouldn’t have been lonely,’ Christopher replied. ‘You’re too clever. You always knew the answers, no matter the subject or the don. Who else could have coached us so well?’
Before his friend could reply, the innkeeper walked in with their ale. Claiming glasses, the four friends raised their mugs.
‘To Giles, our impatient leader; to Davie, our philosophical guide; to our rabble-rouser, Ben; and to the final accomplishment of our dreams,’ Christopher said. ‘To the Hellions!’
‘To the Hellions!’ the others repeated, and clinked their mugs.
While the others drank, Davie turned to Giles. ‘A new election means new strategy. Will you campaign?’
‘I’ll make a run through the district,’ Giles said, ‘but my seat’s secure. I’ll probably go canvass in some of the boroughs we’re still contesting. Maybe we can pry more of them out of the hands of the local landowners.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe we can even steal some away from the father of the oh-so-accomplished Lady Margaret.’
Davie laughed. ‘I hear his seats are pretty secure. But by all means, give it a try.’
Giles downed the last of his ale. ‘I just might.’
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, she told herself so 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 mesmerised, the pull so strong she felt as if she were being drawn physically closer to him.
And then she realised they were closer. The owner of those magnificent eyes was making his way through the crowd towards her carriage. At the realisation, 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