“Do you know what happened to the author of The Declaration of the Rights of Woman?” he asked as he turned her again and set off in the opposite direction.
“Indeed, I do,” she said, loathing that she had to trust him not to run her into anyone. And yet, in his arms, she surprisingly had no fear of collision.
He blew out a sigh, which suggested he, too, had given it a great deal of thought. “She met her end at the hands of Robespierre, did she not?”
“Yes,” she confirmed before she bit the inside of her cheek. He did know about the bluestockings and the women who longed for better lives.
Olympe de Gouges, authoress of The Declaration of the Rights of Woman, had indeed met her end at the hands of Madame Guillotine and its prime operator, Robespierre.
It was a horrible thing to have to admit. That her hero had died in the pursuit of justice.
Was she willing to make such a sacrifice? She had no idea. She prayed England would have better judgment than France.
It was quite difficult to be an advocate for ladies’ rights, but she would not give in. She had seen the difficulties far too often of what happened to ladies when they had no rights.
“I appreciate your point, Your Grace, but I cannot yield.”
His gaze warmed with admiration and a hint of regret. “I admire your tenacity.”
“Do you?” she piped.
“I do, Lady Beatrice.” He drew in a breath, which expanded his broad chest against his coat and perfectly pressed cravat. The muscles in his throat moving with said breath were positively hypnotizing. “I admire your boldness, your tenacity, and your determination to make change, but you are not going about it in the correct way.”
“Is there a correct way?” she challenged as a familiar dread took root in her belly.
Was he about to prove disappointing? Likely.
He frowned as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and perhaps it was. “You attract more bees with honey than vinegar, Lady Beatrice.”
“I am tired of being honey for men to feed upon,” she sighed, finding his reply to indeed be disappointing.
Concern tightened his visage, as well as confusion. “I don’t quite follow. Have men fed upon you often?”
She looked away, hating to confess her trials. But perhaps he needed to understand them. “It feels as if they have, and it has not been pleasant. They expect me to be nice. They expect me to be kind. They expect me to fawn over them. All while they have things I can never hope to have.”
His brows drew together, perplexed. “I don’t expect you to fawn over me.”
“Don’t you?” she retorted. “I have been honest with you, and I have made my demands clear, and they have gotten me nowhere with you.”
Again, he winced. He closed his eyes for a moment, considering. When he opened them again…there was sympathy. “Perhaps I am just as bad as the rest of them.”
“I think you are worse,” she said without mercy.
“How could I possibly be worse?” he exclaimed, clearly offended.
“The fact that you seem to understand that ladies should have rights but you do so little about it.”
He stumbled ever so slightly, his perfectly fluid movement jerking.
She held on to him, righting him. It was an astonishing moment, but she easily balanced them, and he nodded his thanks. And in a moment, he again had them turning in graceful patterns.
Had she truly jarred him?
“Lady Beatrice,” he began softly but with surprising determination, “you have no idea what I’ve done to advocate for ladies’ rights, or the fact that I probably have as much motivation as you to advocate for them.”
“That’s impossible,” she replied, though she found her breath growing short at his profession for her own cause.
“Why?” he ground out, clearly beside himself that they could not agree even when they seemingly agreed.