“Trivial concerns.” He stared at her in disbelief, his dark eyes filled with anger, his expression a hard mask. Petra took an involuntary step back. She had wondered what his real anger would be like and it frightened her a little. He didn’t look like himself.

“It’s politics,” she said, trying to stand her ground. “Politics are more important than personal concerns. It’s not right that half the population should essentially belong to the other half and have no say in how their country is run, or how they run their own lives.”

Guy said nothing. He continued to fix her with that same disbelieving fury and in the face of his silence Petra could think of nothing else to say. The noise from beyond the corridor seemed if anything to be growing louder and more out of control. She wondered what was happening to Diana and Fenella.

Guy moved suddenly, taking her arm in a hard grip, still saying nothing as he propelled her down the corridor to the House of Lords’s private entry and out into New Palace Yard, away from the commotion outside the St. Stephen’s entrance. He didn’t loosen his hold until they were inside a hackney, away from the photographers’ cameras and the police, who were loading women into Black Marias in Parliament Square.

Nothing was said on the short drive to Berkeley Square and when they reached the house, Guy jumped down first, held Petra’s arm as she stepped down and kept hold into the house. His expression a grim mask, he didn’t acknowledge a for once startled-looking Babbit and steered his wife to the stairs and up to her own parlor, where he closed the door behind them and finally released his grip.

Petra was disinclined to break the silence and stood by the window, waiting, her gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets, aware of the lingering feel of his fingers on her arm.

Guy threw another log on the fire. He straightened and stood for a minute with his back to her, his hands braced against the mantel shelf. The silence was almost menacing and Petra found herself holding her breath waiting for him to speak.

Finally he did, turning slowly to face her. “I am so angry, Petra, that I can hardly trust myself to be in the same room with you. At some point I will have to decide how to deal with this but I don’t want to do or say anything I’ll regret, so for the moment it’ll have to wait. Will you give me your word that you will not leave the house again today?”

“Why?”

“You have to ask?”