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I sabella was still glowing after her secret encounter with Patrick two weeks after the ball. She had no doubts now she’d done the right thing. Times had changed, and women were gaining power. That was why she’d joined a march.

She raised a fist and shouted, “Deeds not words”—the slogan of the women’s suffrage movement.

The street was packed with women chanting the motto and shaking their fists in the air. Some shouted louder than others, and some didn’t shout at all. But it didn’t matter.

The important thing was that thousands of women…not thousands, maybe a few hundred…were marching towards Parliament to make their voices heard. Mrs. Millicent Fawcett was leading the march although Isabella couldn’t see her.

There was something empowering in being in the middle of a determined crowd with women who shared her sentiment. Or in gently getting rid of her chaperone. Lawson hated protest marches and had gladly agreed to spend her time in Oxford Street rather than following her charge.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a man yelled from a cart.

He was trying to drive through the crowded street with little success. The horse snorted at the people around him.

“Right to vote!” Isabella waved one of the leaflets she’d helped type. “It’s a protesting march.”

“Get off the streets.” The man shook a fist. “I must go to work, and you’re blocking my way.”

“We’ll leave the street when we have the right to vote,” the woman next to Isabella said.

The man pulled the reins and jumped off the seat. “I prefer using my own methods.”

A group of half a dozen men leapt out of the cart.

“Move out of my way,” the leader said.

As the men started to shove women aside none too gently, shouts rose from the protesters. Other people joined the fray, and Isabella kept moving to avoid being manhandled. Police officers arrived from somewhere, blowing their whistles. Women started fleeing the street, dropping their signs and leaflets.

When a man aimed at her with his fists closed, Isabella ran as well.

* * *

Sitting in his carriage, Anthony changed his mind about wearing a mask in the House of Lords, and not because Grandmama had told him to remove it.

His sense of shame and fear of being judged had pushed him to be rude to Isabella. But she’d seen his face and hadn’t cared about it. It was time he dealt with his new reality without hiding, or he would never make amends as he’d promised her. She never failed to make him feel better and give him the strength to be the man he wanted to be, and he didn’t remember anymore why he’d decided not to court her.

He was driving along Horse Guards Road when the coachman stopped.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A protest march, Your Grace.”

A cold chill went down his spine. Not another bloody march.

“The Irish?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Your Grace. I’ll turn around.”

The manoeuvre caused Anthony to shift right and left, not helping with his anxiety. When the carriage resumed driving, he exhaled and unclenched his fists. Loud voices came from somewhere, and a few people ran along the pavement. He looked out of the window, ready to bolt out in case another angry mob attacked him.

But it wasn’t an angry mob.

He gripped the window when Isabella sprinted along the pavement, chased by a broad man.

“Stop!” Anthony ordered his coachman.

The moment the carriage stopped, he flung the door open and went after Isabella. She was fast while the man chasing her lagged behind. She would likely outrun her pursuer. Still, he had no intention of leaving her alone. Thankful he’d recently resumed boxing, he pushed himself onwards, until he closed a hand around the collar of the man’s jacket.

“What are you doing?” Anthony tugged at the jacket, forcing the man to stop.

The man clenched a fist and turned around. “What the devil do you want?” His expression froze as he stared at Anthony’s unmasked face. “What are you?” He trembled in genuine horror.

Anthony let him go. “Why are you chasing that lady?”

Isabella, a few yards away, glanced over her shoulder and stopped upon seeing him.

“Anthony!” She ran towards him, a broad smile on her lips. “This man wanted to manhandle me.”

“What?” he prompted when the man remained silent.

“She was blocking the road,” the man said but without verve.

“I was protesting with other women. Of course we were blocking the road.”

“I have to go to work.” The man stepped closer to her, but Anthony blocked him.

“If you have to go to work, then go. No one is holding you here.” Anthony towered over the man a good foot.

The man removed his hat and stepped back from Anthony. “Fine. I’m leaving. Don’t touch me.” Muttering something, the man left.

“Phew!” Isabella bent over, her hands on her knees. “Thank you.”

“Are you hurt?” He took her chin and tilted her head right and left to search for bruises.

“No, I’m all right.” Her cheeks were flushed from the chase. “I was getting tired.”

“You were leaving him behind though.” He didn’t withdraw his hand for a moment too long. “Let me take you home.”

Her long eyelashes fluttered down. “Thank you, but I need to meet Lawson in Oxford Street.”

He held her hand as they walked back to his carriage. He wasn’t going to take any chances, and she didn’t slip her hand out of his.

“Oxford Street,” he said to the coachman before helping her into the carriage. “What were you protesting about?”

“Women’s right to vote. It wasn’t a big march, but we made ourselves heard.” She showed him a leaflet. “And you? Where were you going?”

“The House of Lords.” He fiddled with the mask next to him, wondering again if he should wear it. He almost jolted when she put her hand on his, stopping the fidgeting.

“At first, people will talk, but then they’ll forget and gossip about something else. But if you wear that mask, the gossip will only be more cruel and hurtful.”

“It’s unbelievable how transparent I am to you.”

“No, there are things I don’t understand about you.”

The carriage rocked gently, and a sable curl swayed back and forth over her cheek.

“Like what?”

“Like why did you want to marry me? When I asked you the first time, you made a list of strictly practical qualities, and I wondered if that was all.”

He cradled his chin. “Who said I don’t want to marry you even now?”

She laughed, and the sound was like silver coins bouncing off marble steps. “Well, why?”

He stared at her beautiful face, shining obsidian eyes, and rosy cheek, acknowledging the sense of calm and peace her smile brought to his heart. “You’re right. I wasn’t completely honest with you. The true reason I want to marry you is because you make me happy. I like your laughter, spirits, and mind. I like how you see life, and I like myself when I’m with you. There are marriages based on less than that.”

She became solemn. “You might get tired of my laughter, spirits, and mind.”

“The day I get tired of your laughter, spirits, and mind will be the day I get tired of life.” He hadn’t meant to say something so serious, but he wouldn’t take his words back.

She stopped smiling though, which was unfortunate.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to sound so…”

“Charming?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Now that’s a term people never associate with me.”

“Good. I like being unique and being the only one who notices that of you.” She smoothed a fold on her skirt. “I found your reasons for wanting to marry me charming.”

He had no idea how the conversation had turned so thoughtful in such a short time, but he didn’t mind.

When the carriage stopped in Oxford Street, he got out and offered her his hand. She jumped out of the carriage, holding his hand tightly, and he wished he could hold her a little longer.

“Please be careful when you take part in these marches,” he said. “You never know how the people might react.”

She bowed her head. “The day I stop being careful will be the day I…” Her eyebrows knit together. “I have no idea because I’ve never been particularly careful.”

He laughed. Yes, he still wanted to marry her.

* * *

Isabella heard the words Dr. Eileen Norris had said, but try as she might, she couldn’t understand them.

The consulting room at the New Hospital for Women in Mayfair seemed to turn darker. The hospital had been founded by a fellow suffragette, Dr. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, and Isabella had always wished to visit it.

She’d changed her mind.

“Excuse me, doctor,” she said in a small voice, “would you say that again?”

“You’re with child, Lady Isabella. Four weeks is my guess.”

The guess was more than correct because exactly four weeks ago, she’d given her virginity to Patrick in a dimly lit conservatory of all places.

With child. She was carrying Patrick’s child.

The aftermath of her rendezvous with Patrick had been wonderful. She’d glowed for the whole night, for the whole month! Her body had been deliciously sensitive, reminding her of the pleasure Patrick had given her. He’d been kind and generous although it’d taken her almost half an hour to clean herself afterwards.

Her petticoats had been stained. Her hair had been a disaster. Thank goodness the mask had covered her blushes. But aside from that, she’d experienced a level of pleasure she had no idea existed. She’d wanted to do it all again, but he’d told her to wait in case she became sore. But she hadn’t experienced any soreness. Only blissful excitement.

All that pleasure wasn’t worth the absolute dread of her present moment.

When her monthly bleeding hadn’t come, she’d thought nothing of it, but Lawson had insisted she visit the women’s hospital. So here she was, utterly terrified and feeling like an idiot.

“Lady Isabella.” Dr. Norris tilted her head to catch her gaze. “I understand this is a shock.”

She stammered, “But he was careful. He…he used a sheath.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, the practice isn’t infallible. Sometimes, a small hole in the sheath is enough.”

Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room. “I’m not…I don’t even have an intended. My family will be ruined. How can I explain this to my father? The man isn’t my betrothed.”

The doctor’s calm voice did nothing to soothe her. “The first thing you should do is talk with the gentleman who was with you. Ideally, he would propose marriage. If he refuses, you can choose to talk to your family. Or, as many women in your situation do, you may leave London and retire to the country for a few months, give birth, and then the local parish will take care of the baby.”

How could she do that without telling her parents? Did she want to give the baby away? Did she want to marry Patrick?

A sickening choking sensation crawled up her throat. A child, her parents’ anger, and Patrick leaving in a matter of days. Too many things to consider with no preparation.

“It’s overwhelming,” Dr. Norris said. “But you aren’t the first woman in this situation, and you have options. Talk to the gentleman.”

She gripped the armrests as the room tilted and the sunlight darkened.

“Lady Isabella, take deep breaths.”

She did as told. When the oppressive sensation on her chest eased, she licked her dry lips. “What do you recommend?”

Dr. Norris took her hand. “It’s for you to decide. But the best option for you and the child is a wedding. A quick one. Not necessarily with the father.”

Yes, because finding someone who wanted to marry a pregnant woman was easy.