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T he following morning, Harrington rose at half six.

After staying out late at the ball, he’d only managed a scant four hours of rest. Nevertheless, he awoke at his customary time and was unable to fall asleep again.

It appeared that the army had ruined him for a life of sloth.

Well, no matter—he was expected down at the army’s central command, Horse Guards, in a few short hours, anyway.

A housemaid he passed in the hall recoiled in surprise as he came around the corner. And no wonder—it used to be a running joke in his family that he never rose before noon.

He was the first one down to breakfast. A footman poured him a cup of coffee and promised that his preferred meal, poached eggs and kippers, would be prepared at once.

Harrington took a seat and reached for the morning paper.

He supposed now that he was an M.P., he was going to have to start reading the damn thing.

After breakfast, he made the short ride to Horse Guards and presented himself at the front desk. The clerk rose and bowed. “Lieutenant Astley, thank you for coming so soon. If you will excuse me, I will let the secretary know you have arrived.”

He disappeared into the offices, leaving Harrington to wonder which secretary he would be meeting. Probably the assistant to some general or another.

The clerk returned moments later and led him upstairs to a well-appointed chamber with pale green walls and a large, circular desk in the center of the room.

Harrington blanched because he recognized the balding, grey-haired man standing behind it—William Windham, the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies.

He accepted Mr. Windham’s proffered hand, resisting the impulse to tug at the stock around his neck, which suddenly felt unaccountably tight. What on earth had he done to draw the attention of the Secretary of State?

Mr. Windham gestured for him to take the solitary chair on the far side of the desk. The whole situation was reminiscent of the many times he’d been summoned before the headmaster at Eton. He tried to sit straight and still as he braced himself for what he assumed was going to be a dressing down.

“So, Lieutenant,” Mr. Windham began, “I was surprised to hear about your recent election to Parliament.”

Harrington bit back the words, not half as surprised as I was .

The Secretary of State continued, “May I ask why you did not inform your commanding officer that you were standing for office?”

“Oh, err…” Harrington grappled for a plausible excuse. “It seemed unlikely that I would win the election, considering I wasn’t around to canvass for votes. I did not wish to raise false hopes, sir.”

The Secretary of State regarded him for a beat, then nodded.

“It happens that the timing of your return is fortuitous.” He placed his fingertips on some papers lying atop the desk and pushed them toward Harrington.

“There are a pair of Acts coming up for a vote next week that I think will be of interest to you.”

Harrington accepted the stack of papers and read the words at the top of the page— Pensions to Soldiers Act .

He read in silence for around five minutes. After last night, he was wary, all too aware that people would be trying to trick him into supporting things he didn’t properly understand.

But… there was nothing here that he disagreed with. The first proposed pensions for disabled soldiers. The next one would institute pay increases for soldiers who agreed to sign on for another seven-year term of service.

The proposals certainly seemed like good ones.

He looked up to find William Windham regarding him. “Well? Will you throw your support behind these Acts?”

“I will,” Harrington said slowly. He cleared his throat. “I must confess, I’m hard-pressed to understand why anyone would vote against pensions for injured soldiers.”

“Ah.” Mr. Windham steepled his fingers. “War is exceptionally expensive. In addition to the cost of maintaining our own army and navy, our allies have become dependent on us to bankroll their military forces.” He laughed darkly.

“And certain parties insist on building and refurbishing multiple palaces, even during wartime.” He cleared his throat.

“I trust that you will not repeat that last remark.”

Harrington nodded. He didn’t disagree. First, the Prince of Wales had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds refurbishing Carlton House in the most extravagant style, only to turn around a few years later and commission a new royal residence at Brighton.

The Pavilion at Brighton was still being built, but all indications suggested that it would cost every bit as much as Carlton House.

“In light of these expenses,” Mr. Windham continued, “some of our members are looking to economize where they can. It is my belief, however, that we should not attempt to balance the budget on the backs of our wounded soldiers.”

Harrington nodded. “I agree.”

Mr. Windham leaned forward. “May I count on your support, then?”

Harrington released the breath he’d been holding. He was still nervous about putting a foot wrong.

But… pensions for wounded soldiers. That couldn’t be a bad thing.

Could it?

“You may,” he said, wondering if he was committing a great blunder.

Mr. Windham smiled broadly. “Excellent.” He plucked another paper from his desk.

“Here is a list of our fellow MPs who have been, shall we say, recalcitrant.” He handed the sheet to Harrington.

“See how many of them you can bring around. We’re at least fourteen votes short at the moment.

Try to secure more votes than that for a comfortable margin.

And send me updates every day. I need to know where we stand. ”

Harrington rose and bowed, sensing that he had been dismissed. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped outside feeling worse than he had before the visit. What the hell was he going to do now? If the Secretary of State couldn’t drum up the votes to pass these pensions, how in God’s name was he supposed to do it?

He swung up onto his horse and started toward home, cutting through St. James’s Park.

Half the men in Parliament never showed up.

Why couldn’t he be one of them? Goodness knew he’d never made a proper effort at anything in his life.

It should have been what everyone expected, given his history.

William Windham obviously didn’t understand who he was dealing with.

The problem was the particular issue. How would he look the men of the 95 th Rifles in the eye, knowing that better pay and pensions had been within his grasp, and he had responded with a shrug?

He had to do something , but he was hopelessly inept at this sort of thing. He needed help.

Edward . His brother would help him. He knew he would. And this was more Edward’s area, anyway.

He would ask Edward to write him a speech. He couldn’t do much better than that.

He also wanted to speak to Diana Latimer.

She was close to his youngest sisters, Lucy and Izzie, and he knew from their letters that she had a keen interest in politics.

She’d proved it last night, hadn’t she, reciting the details of that canal scheme off the top of her head.

She would have good advice for him. He had a feeling about it.

Or maybe you just want an excuse to talk to her again .

He had to admit it was true. The mere thought of speaking to her, of having her regard him with those still, ice-blue eyes, had him sitting up straighter in the saddle.

But what of it? It wasn’t as if anything would come of it.

Trevissick had made it clear as cut crystal last night that he didn’t want Harrington even dancing with his beloved sister, much less…

anything else. And at this point, Harrington couldn’t even define what anything else he wanted with Diana.

Well. That wasn’t quite true. From early in their acquaintance, she’d captured his attention in a way no woman had ever done before.

Specifically, from the moment at her come-out ball when a feeble-minded matron had made a snide remark about Diana’s missing hand, and Diana had cut her to ribbons in front of the entire ton .

Most men wanted a woman who was as sweet as spun sugar.

Not Harrington. He had a taste for the piquant, and it was Diana’s tartness that set her apart from the dozens of pretty girls who populated the ballrooms of Mayfair.

On that night three years ago, he’d had a dance with her—Trevissick had been worried she would be tongue-tied with nerves and had made it clear that the only reason he’d granted Harrington the supper dance was because he was the sort of tedious fellow who never shut up.

Suffice it to say, the discovery that Lady Diana was every bit as sardonic as he was had fanned his spark of admiration into a raging inferno.

Ever since that night, she had been the woman fueling his fantasies, the one he pictured when he lay naked in his bed, stroking himself to completion.

And no wonder—not only was she pretty, she happened to fit flawlessly into his most secret, most shameful fantasies.

He could picture her now, standing over him, her expression stony.

She would order him to undress, then reach for a?—

“Hey! Watch where yer going, ye stupid toff!”

He shook himself, waving an apologetic hand at the driver of the wagon he had cut off. Clearly, this was not the sort of thought he needed to be entertaining in the middle of a busy street.

He was wasting his time. He was a wastrel. A waste of good linen, that was him. Good for only one thing, and that was cannon fodder.

He was always quick to make these jokes himself. Made it sting a little bit less if he was the one to bring it up. Showed everyone how little it bothered him.

But the bottom line was, it was all impossible.

He would never so much as kiss her hand, much less do any of the things he’d drifted off to sleep dreaming about while he was lying on the frozen ground in Hanover.

There was no point in trying to figure out whether he wanted to steal a solitary kiss out on a deserted balcony or pledge his troth, because none of it was ever going to happen.

But he needed to speak with her. Her mind was as sharp as a bayonet, and he knew with a terrible certainty that if he didn’t do everything in his power to pass this damn act, he would regret it forever.

Now, he just needed to figure out how to steal a moment with the woman who was guarded more closely than the Crown Jewels.