They stunned Beatrice, those words.
She knew that it could happen—that women could suddenly realize the situation that they were in, and it would change them irrevocably.
Much like Hero in Much Ado About Nothing.
Hero had realized the circumstance she was in, and it had been a bit of a shock to realize that the world could treat her so foully, even though she had done nothing wrong.
Margaret had done nothing wrong, but she had woken up one day to find out that the world was not at all what she’d thought it was.
That it was dangerous, that it was difficult, and that her value was based entirely upon what a man thought of her.
And apparently, that was no longer enough.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The meeting with the Ladies’ League of Rights had gone exceptionally well. Support for Beatrice’s vision with his organization of a countrywide speaking tour was now truly in development. He had organized lodging, music, pamphlets, and continued lectures in various schools with content to be developed and approved of by the league.
Everyone had been particularly welcoming to him, which had been a surprise. Will wasn’t entirely certain how well he would be welcomed, but the ladies had encouraged him to join their discussion and had been far more inviting than he thought most men might be in a similarly reversed setting.
As a matter of fact, he knew that gentlemen would not be welcoming at all.
Case in point, he entered his club—a club for men that did not allow ladies, even as guests. But it was a place that was traditional and a place that he had been going to all of his adult life. Perhaps he’d put in a letter suggesting that a ladies’ room be opened so that women might be admitted to the club.
He had a strong feeling it would not be passed, but one could always try.
And keep trying.
He climbed the stairs, eager for a brandy and hoping all was going well with Beatrice and Margaret. He did not wish to intrude on their meeting, and so an hour at his club would be just the thing.
Besides, it was imperative he keep a certain distance from his wife. He liked her. He liked her very well, and that was how it had to remain.
No, he couldn’t allow the way it felt to have her body next to his in the night to lead him down a path that couldn’t be reversed. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to the temptation.
Steady friendship was the key.
He turned past the tall ionic columns and headed down a long hall. Just as he was about to enter the smoking room, he met one of the porters, whose face look positively white.
“I say, Geoffrey,” he observed. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Geoffrey, usually implacable, let out a pained sound. “Your brother is here, Your Grace.”
“Is he?” he asked, pleased. It would be nice to share a drink. “Which one?”
“Lord Christopher, Your Grace.”
“Oh, where is he?”
Geoffrey swung a slightly strained expression to his left. “He is in the green room, Your Grace. On the floor.”
Will shook his head, certain he’d misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“On the floor, Your Grace,” Geoffrey reiterated. “We’re not entirely sure what to do with him. We have ushered everyone out of that particular part of the club.”
“Bloody hell,” he replied, stunned. Kit did get drunk on occasion. What young buck did not? But two days before his wedding? Dread pooled in his belly.
“I wonder what the devil that’s about.”
Geoffrey sniffed. “A lady, Your Grace, as best we can tell. We have continued to supply him with brandy. After all, it seems his heart has been broken.”