He blinked at the unexpected sting between his ribs. He’d forever associate that party with personal rejection.

“I’m glad it lived up to expectations, ma’am.”

“I had no doubt it would.” Her gaze slid away from him to the briefing before her. “We were, however, surprised by your suggestions for the campaign. Indulging the farmers, Montgomery?”

“You once described them as the backbone of Britain, ma’am,” he said smoothly.

The queen pursed her lips, deciding whether she liked having her own words played back to her like that.

“Farmers are not our clientele,” Disraeli said. His white hair stood on end at the back of his head, as if he’d taken a nap in his wing chair and not yet fixed himself. “Local soil is not the running ticket of the Tories. Besides, the Liberals firmly have their claws in them already.”

“They are easy prey for Gladstone because they still hold a grudge against you over the corn laws,” Sebastian said. “Enough of them could be turned if given a few concessions.”

Disraeli was gripped by a coughing fit; he coughed until his eyes bulged and watered. “But how many farmers are there?” he asked when he had caught his breath.

“Around three thousand.”

“Not a number that will make or break our victory, surely? Even if they had the vote.”

Sebastian resisted the urge to rub a hand over his face. How this man had managed to weasel his way into a position of leadership and into the queen’s good graces continued to astound him.

“Give each of these three thousand farmers a few partners in trade they can infect with their outrage in the pub every Friday, and we have the tens of thousands of outraged tradesmen who are bound to influence their constituencies,” he said. “The Liberal party is still very effectively blaming the economic downturn on the Tories, and they are blaming us daily, in town halls and market squares all over Britain.”

Disraeli’s lips twisted as if he were trying to rid himself of a bad taste in his mouth. “You were there when I wrote the Tory manifesto. We stand for expanding the empire, endless horizons. Glory. Greatness. That is what uplifts people, even the most lowly man. Uplift the empire and farmers will follow you gladly.”

Sebastian’s smile was entirely void of humor. “And I give every man credit who prefers starving for glory over feeding his family,” he said, “but the current polls are what they are and they demand a change in tactics.”

One did not even have to read four newspapers every morning to know this, or have a spy planted among the opposition. He, like every man of his class, had tenants. Unlike his peers, he saw their toils; he found them reflected in his own balance sheets when a harvest was bad or imported grain was sold too cheaply. It was all there if one cared to look. And he had looked hard in the past five days; every moment he hadn’t spent speaking to Scotland Yard, he had buried himself in paperwork and figure columns and reports. Of course, facts hardly convinced people whose emotions wanted it to be otherwise; a pity, for he found he was surprisingly unwilling to indulge petty sentiments today.

The silence in the royal apartment thickened. Disraeli shifted in his chair until the queen produced a displeased little sigh. “Very well,” she said. “While three thousand men are not a problem, tens of thousands could well be. Beaconsfield, we suggest you do as the duke recommends. As long as it can be done discreetly.”

What a curious thing power was, Sebastian thought when he was back on the train. The one person in Britain who could effectively tell him what to do barely reached his chest. And it was he who had given her much of that power, because he valued his mission and he needed her to achieve it. It was a worthy mission, of course. The men who had come before him had, save a few shameful exceptions, guarded and improved their dynasty for hundreds of years.

Still, as the sooty fog and grime of London faded into the distance behind him like a bad dream, he wondered where the line was between being a servant and a prisoner to a cause.

The train screeched to a halt at the next station.

“Oxford,” a member of staff announced below his coach window. “Ladies and gentlemen, please alight here for Oxford.”

Christ. The urge to scan the platform for the familiar glint of mahogany hair was absurdly overwhelming. He stared straight ahead, making Ramsey squirm in his corner across.

She had been gone for five days. He had caught up with an impressive stack of paperwork since, and he had quickly found several reasons why it was a good thing that Annabelle Archer had walked back out of his life.

It grated, of course, that he was not sure what had caused her to refuse him. He didn’t like unfinished business. And as the days passed, he was thinking of her more, not less. He caught himself looking for her in the stables. Had stared like a fool at the armchair where he had first found her. He woke hard and aching every morning, and couldn’t get relief from his own hand because in the end, he didn’t find release until he made it about her—her soft mouth, her soft moans, the sweet hot welcome of her body . . . hell no, the last thing he needed was to link Annabelle Archer ever more closely to his desires.

A shudder ran through the coach as the train prepared to leave.

A visceral urge to jump into action shot through Sebastian’s limbs.

I could have her.

He could get off the train. He could find her, take her, drag her back to his bedroom, and keep her until she haunted him no longer. His ancestors wouldn’t have hesitated to do exactly that. Even today men like him could get away with unspeakable things . . .

With a huff, the train detached from the platform.

He exhaled a shuddering breath. Cold sweat had broken over his forehead, and for a moment, he sat in awe at his own dark impulses.

There were more civilized options to woo her—writing a letter, calling on her.

He would do nothing.

He had been an inch from taking her against the library door, like a drunk using a wench behind a tavern. He had never treated a woman thus before. But the truth was, a shocking emotion had held him in its clutches that night—to be inside her, or die.

No one should have that much power over him.

He opened his eyes to the empty winter landscape rushing past. The horizon was fading into a sickly yellow hue.

He allowed his mind to return to Oxford one more time, pictured her with her head bent over a book, her hair curling against her soft nape and her clever mind whirring. A bittersweet pull made his chest contract. He supposed that was how it felt to miss someone.

It was a grave, grave offense to be late for a tutorial. Annabelle’s boot heels were hammering a wild staccato on the flagstone floors of St. John’s, and she all but skittered to a halt in front of Jenkins’s heavy office door, her breath coming in unrefined gulps.

Her life had become all about running from place to place. Between her assignments, the suffragists, tutoring poorly paying pupils, and making true on her promise to pose as Helen of Troy, the calm and poise she had once tried to cultivate lay hopelessly in tatters.

She was still panting when the door swung open and Professor Jenkins’s lanky form towered on the threshold.

Her stomach lurched.

“Miss Archer,” he said mildly, “I thought I had heard someone galloping down the cloisters.”

“Professor, I’m so—”

“These flagstones are uneven. If you tripped and cracked your head, now that would be a real shame.” He stepped aside. “Do come in.” His brows lowered darkly. “Your chaperone is already here.”