said, negating the idea of even his peers being welcome in this space. “I have an exceptionally rough draft, but it reads longer than I like to speak and is missing half the points I want to make.”
“Then let’s start at the beginning.” She motioned to the pages clutched in his hand, her pulse skipping.
How many times had she spied upon the House of Commons from the attic or infiltrated the Strangers’ Gallery in disguise? This was more than having a statesman right in front of her. The Duke of Faircliffe was about to perform a speech for her alone.
He cleared his throat. “‘As anyone who has ever driven past Whitechapel is well aware, the—’”
“No,” Chloe interrupted. Perhaps she would be more useful than she’d thought.
His blue gaze shot to her, befuddled. “No?”
“The speeches you begin with a question garner markedly greater immediate interest than the others,” she explained. “And your phrasing, however innocently meant, implies one of the most poverty-stricken rookeries is something one drives past rather than a poor but lively neighborhood in which one grows up, lives, works, and loves.”
He leaned backward. “I can promise you that no one hearing my speech has spent a night in Whitechapel, much less grown up there.”
“False.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “The orphanage that raised me is in Whitechapel. I’ve listened to a decade of your speeches. If you mean to say that those who live in a rookery do not have a voice in the House of Lords, then you are correct. That is why you must be their voice. To have compassion for the ‘unfortunates,’ first the ruling class must see them as people—not a dirty stain one drives past as quickly as possible.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment. Then he picked up a pencil and struck through the first paragraph of his speech without argument.
“That’s saved us fifteen seconds.” He pushed the pages in front of her and placed the pencil on top. “Why don’t you show me what else can be trimmed or reworded? We might be able to fit in all of the missing points after all.”
They hunched over the pages together, debating the merits and pitfalls of every line.
Chloe was astounded by the breadth of his knowledge and his commitment to researching facts and educating his peers. She’d witnessed his speeches on countless occasions but had never fathomed how many drafts he had gone through, how many anecdotes and salient points discarded, in order to arrive at the version she saw him deliver.
Many legislative elements were worse than she had feared. Others were surprisingly better or jarringly complex. In all of it, she and Lawrence were united in their desire to work for the good of the people.
But they disagreed wildly on how best to achieve that aim.
He did not toss her from his office when she dared to contradict him. Instead, he welcomed her dissenting opinions. The House of Lords, he pointed out, would be full of them. That was why his drafts were so long: he tried to think of every argument against each assertion and include preemptive rebuttals.
The pile of discarded drafts grew as they whittled and honed, adding and trimming and rearranging for impact. When they both put their pencils down in triumph, the final revision practically glowed.
“That,” Chloe informed him, “is going to be your best speech yet.”
He grinned at her. “Thanks to your meddling.”
Her cheeks heated.
He leaned back in his chair looking casual and powerful and kissable. “I realize it is you, not the other MPs, that I need to impress.”
“You have impressed me,” she admitted. “I’ve always admired your contributions to the debates, but I hadn’t grasped how much work it was to make it look so easy.”
“And there’s so much I hadn’t thought of.” He gave her a long look. “You understand my political aims in a way few people do outside of Parliament, yet you argue from an angle I’ve never considered. You haven’t just made this speech better. You’ve permanently improved my tactics going forward.”
She gazed back at him, her bosom swelling with pride. She had helped him. She had value.
“I’d kiss you for it,” he said, his intense gaze hot with something more carnal than gratitude, “but I suppose it’s past time for me to give you back to your family. I’m out of excuses to keep you away any longer.”
“Can you kiss me and then give me back?” she asked hopefully. Was she begging? It didn’t matter, as