“I—” She shook herself. “Actually, it never has,” she said slowly. “I mean, in a way, it’s just…”

“It’s just who you are,” he finished for her. “But it isn’t, really, you know. Maybe it was before you left for Old Terra, but you’ve grown a lot since then. How important is it to you to be a peer of the realm?”

“More important than I’d like to admit,” she confessed frankly after a long moment of thought, and shook her head. “Damn. Until you actually asked that question, I’d’ve said it didn’t matter a good goddamn to me. But it does.”

“I’m not surprised,” he told her gently. “But let me ask you this. Is being Countess of the Tor as important to you as your principles?”

“No way in Hell,” she said instantly, with a fierce certainty which startled even her just a bit.

“Then consider this scenario,” he suggested, crossing his legs and settling even more comfortably into his chair. “A fiery noblewoman, consumed with the passion of her convictions, renounces her claim to one of the most respected and venerated titles of nobility in the entire Star Kingdom. Determined to fight for her principles, she sacrifices the privileged status of her birth in order to seek election-election, mind you—to the House of Commons because she’s been excluded from the House of Lords because of those same convictions. And once elected, of course, she has a moral imprimatur she would never have enjoyed as the holder of an inherited title. She’s paid an obvious price for her principles, given up of her own volition something no one could have taken from her, because it’s the only way she can fight effectively for what she believes in. And unlike her aristocratic opponents, who are obviously fighting at least in part to maintain their own privileged positions under the status quo, she’s started out by giving up her special privileges. Not to mention the fact that her successful election campaign demonstrates that she commands the popular support to get herself into Parliament on her own merits in the first place. Which none of them do. Or, at least, which none of them is prepared to risk finding out whether or not they do.”

“I don’t believe I quite recognize the self-sacrificing heroine of your little morality tale.” She spoke dryly, but her blue eyes glowed. “And even if I did resign my title, I’d hardly be swearing some sort of self-sacrificing vow of poverty. I’d have to talk to my accountants to be sure, but right off the top of my head, I’d guess that less than twenty-five percent of the total Tor fortune is actually entailed. To be honest, well over half of the current family fortune came from Mother’s side and has nothing at all to do with the title.”

“I realize that, but somehow I wouldn’t expect your brother to complain if you suddenly dumped the title on him,” he said, even more dryly then she had, and she snorted. If Henry Montaigne suddenly found himself Earl of the Tor, he would equally suddenly find himself among the top ten percent of the Star Kingdom of Manticore’s wealthiest subjects. Of course, Cathy Montaigne would still be among the top three or four percent, but that was another matter entirely.