t luncheon Victoria told Mrs. Wayneflete and her mother about David speaking before the House of Commons that afternoon.

Her mother sighed. "You've married a very important man, Victoria."

"I know, Mama. I want to help him in every way I can, but it's hard when he has such a separate life from mine."

"You can always show an interest, my lady," Mrs. Wayneflete said. "You can watch him speak. The ladies have their own gallery above the main floor of the Commons. It's not too late since the speeches never begin until four in the afternoon."

Victoria smiled. "Your knowledge always continues to amaze me, Mrs. Wayneflete."

The housekeeper shrugged, obviously pleased with herself. "The steward keeps me informed. So will you go to Parliament, then?"

"Are you sure everything is ready for the dinner party? Perhaps you need me here."

"We can go over our final plans right now, my lady, and then you'll be free this afternoon."

Victoria thought of her new resolve where David was concerned. She wanted to understand everything that was important to him. "Then I'll go to Parliament."

That afternoon, Victoria set off with Anna, her lady's maid, in the Banstead carriage. When they arrived at the palace yard, Victoria discovered that they needed passes to enter the ladies' gallery. She was not giving up so easily.

She looked up at the policeman with wide eyes. "But, Officer, my name is Lady Thurlow, and I just found out that my husband, Lord Thurlow, was speaking today. We are newly married, and it would mean so much to me if you'd let us in."

Lines of people backed up behind them, and Victoria found herself jostled. She gave the officer a helpless, pleading look, and to her relief he let them pass. She found the long staircase that led up to the ladies' gallery, and soon she and Anna were seated in the front row, looking down at the long, tall room with green benches crowded on steep angles on both sides. Hundreds of men congregated to talk. She couldn't see David until after the factory bill had been read, and the debate began. From his seat he was recognized, and he began to speak in a calm, forceful manner, without all the arm waving and shouting so many of the other men seemed to employ. His voice rang through the room, interrupted by occasional cheers or boos, as he spoke about the plight of women and children in the cotton mills. Victoria stared at him in shock, never having heard about sixteen-hour workdays and young children who were drugged to make their care easier.

She leaned on the balustrade, enraptured by her husband's conviction, shocked that anyone would argue, even in the name of too much government interference. As David responded to the opposition with keen intelligence, he glanced about the room, and she knew when he saw her. He did not lose his train of thought; he didn't look angry with her. His gaze returned to her occasionally, and she could not look away.

Here was something else he was passionate about, something he believed in. He wanted to do good for people in worse conditions than their own, and she felt humbled that she'd narrowly escaped such a state with his help. In some ways, she had been another project he took on.

Now he would be her project.

She and Anna left hours later, but long before the debates were finished. She knew not to expect him for dinner.

After her bath, David knocked on her door. She didn't jump with nervousness, but with anticipation.

Since she was trying to find the boy she remembered, she deliberately left their tattered childhood journal out where he could see it. Would he ever write in it again, maybe sharing things he couldn't speak?

"Come in," she called.

When she saw David, she was disappointed that he was wearing a dressing gown again over his bare chest. He didn't see the journal where she'd left it. But that was all right, there was time.

He walked across the room toward her, and she held her ground, her heart pumping quickly, her breathing much too fast. If she let him touch her, they'd never have a conversation. And she so wanted to understand him again.

"I saw you at the Commons," he said. "You should have told me you wanted to come. I would have arranged everything."

The deep voice that had held hundreds of men under its spell this afternoon could also work its magic on her.

"I didn't know about the gallery until Mrs. Wayneflete told me." She smiled up at him. "I thought you saw me. When I heard the duke mention your speech, I wanted to hear it."

"I'm sorry it was so dull. Were you trapped there for very long?"

"Dull? I found it fascinating. You were very good defending the bill."

"It has a long way to go before it's acceptable to a majority."

She softened her voice and chose her words carefully. "There must be many meetings outside the Commons, to learn about such things."

"There are."

He frowned, and she knew he didn't understand where she was leading.

"Do the members discuss such things at social events, like you do with the railway directors?" she asked.

"I'm sure discussion goes on anywhere men congregate," he said. "That's why I occasionally attend my club."

Oh well, she'd tried to be subtle and it hadn't worked. "We received an invitation to a dinner today being given by Mr. Dalton, the man who read your factory bill. I thought you might like to attend, since you enjoy politics so much."

He smiled. "It's not necessary, Victoria. I'm having luncheon with him tomorrow."

Darn.

She accepted his response— for tonight. She would try again the next day— and the next— until he understood how important it was for him not to ignore part of his life.

"Is there anything else?" he asked softly, taking a step nearer.

Her breathing quickened at the smoldering look in his eyes.

"Anything else?" she echoed, rather dazed.

"If you have any questions— "

"No, no questions."

And then his hands were loosening her sash and undoing the clasp and pushing her dressing gown off her shoulders. The languid feeling of passion was sweeping over her again, making everything else fade away but the need to be touched by him. How would it feel to touch in return? Every evening it seemed more difficult to let him go.

When he spoke, she was startled, and her gaze lifted to his.

"When we were dancing today, I noticed what a delicate waist you have."

She gave a breathless laugh. "Surely it was because of my corset."

"I'll have to find out for myself."

He put his hands on the front of her stomach, then oh so slowly slid them around her waist. His thumbs feathered along her ribs, light touches repeated over and over just beneath her breasts. They were heavy with an ache she'd only begun to be aware of the last several days.

He leaned over her, the width of him blocking out the dim candlelight. His chin stirred the hair above her ear.

He whispered, "Your nightdress is so sheer that I can almost see through it."

She held her breath, her focus concentrated on the nearness of him, the need inside her to lean against him.

"Do you want to know what I can see?" he asked.

She hesitated so long, but he waited. "Yes."

His head lowered; his breath was hot against her neck, and she knew he was looking down her body.

"Your nipples are hard against the silk."

She couldn't control the shudder that swept through her. His hands continued to play at her waist, teasing higher, but never touching what he was looking at. She felt an urgent need to touch him as well, to take part in this strange dance they did every night.

She lifted her hand, and he stilled. Was he holding his breath as she had? Hadn't he touched and been touched by women before? Or was it different because she was his wife?

She put her hand on his left wrist and felt his bare skin, and the scattering of hair. Trembling, she let her fingers slide up his arm slowly over his dressing gown. There was a hardness to him that she lacked, a curve of muscle that she had seen for herself just the night before. With her gaze she followed her hand up his arm until she reached his shoulder. She was looking up at him, and he was still leaning over her, their heads so close. She couldn't read his expression, only knew that he was intent upon her.

To David's surprise, tonight had proved that the touch of a virgin could be more intoxicating than that of an experienced woman. Or was it only because it was Victoria who touched him, Victoria who was proving that she wanted this marriage.

Maybe as much as he did. But his were purely practical reasons.

He said, "A few weeks ago, you wouldn't have wanted to touch me."

She tilted her head to look up at him, and her hair tumbled freely past her shoulder. "I felt that you should not be the only one to make…an effort."

He smiled. "'An effort' sounds like a difficult thing to do. Was it such an effort, then, to touch my arm?"

"No," she whispered. Her eyes grew determined. "I can be bold sometimes. Did you see the journal I left on the table there?"

He frowned.

"Don't you recognize it?" she asked.

"Yes." She was watching him carefully now, and it made him uneasy. Why did the sight of that journal disturb him?

"I kept it all this time."

"I'm not surprised."

"You once offered to marry me."

"I did?"

"You said you wanted to marry me because I was the least like a girl of any girl you knew."

He kept his voice light. "I was full of compliments, even then."

She smiled. "It was a compliment— from a twelve-year-old boy. I wrote back that my father would choose my husband, but in truth, I didn't want to hurt you. I knew my father would not choose a cook's son. How things have changed— your father wouldn't have chosen me."

He felt…uncertain, something he hadn't experienced in a long time. "Is that why you never married— you were waiting for me?"

"Of course not. I'd rather spend a quiet evening with my music than socialize. You surely know by now that I have never been comfortable with men. I never can think of the right things to say."

"You don't seem to have trouble speaking to me."

With a rueful smile, she said, "Trust me, it comes with much practice. I don't have your gift for easy speech. You have a natural confidence that makes being with people effortless."

He spoke without thinking. "That's not true. Sometimes I can put on a performance when necessary."

She narrowed her eyes in concentration. "When are you putting on a performance?"

She looked at him with far too much perception. It made him feel…vulnerable, as if she could see things inside him that he didn't want known. She was still watching him solemnly when he turned away.

He saw the journal and, unbidden, memories he wanted to forget welled up, memories of a boy who made up another life because he was tired of being afraid and sad all the time. He'd concentrated on his adventures, told her about catching frogs and planning great journeys by the globe in the library. He'd wanted to escape back then, and it had taken him years to realize he never could. Over time, he hadbecome very good at acting.

"Good night, Victoria."

This time she silently let him go.