And for longer than she would like to admit, she’d desired him.
She folded the paper once, twice, into a neat square, then sealed it with crimson wax, unlocking the heavy silver locket that hung at her breast and stamping it with an elaborate C before ringing for a messenger to fetch it for delivery.
It was for the best, she told herself, deliberately setting the missive aside and reaching for another file, one marked “Langley.”
She had other plans for her life. For Caroline’s.
And loving Duncan West was not in them.
Not even if she wanted it very much.
She returned to her work. To her world, empty of him.
He left the club, furious, and headed to his offices, desperate for proof that he held some kind of power in this world that seemed to be spiraling out of his control.
Tremley, Chase, Georgiana—they all wished to own him. To wield him like a weapon—his newspapers, his network of information, his mind.
His heart.
Only one of them threatened his heart.
He corrected his earlier assessment of the situation. She did not wish to own his heart. On the contrary, she seemed not at all committed to the organ.
He pulled his greatcoat around him, lowering his hat and marching up Fleet Street as though the wind was a worthy foe. He kept his head down, trying his best to keep from seeing the world.
From letting it see him. His doubt, his frustration, his pain.
And it was pain—the sensation high in his chest. He’d thought their afternoon would change her mind. He’d thought it would win her heart.
What an idiotic fool he was.
She’d been with Chase for too long to turn her back on the man, and there was something powerful in her commitment to the owner of The Fallen Angel. Something made even more remarkable by the fact that it was not tied to the physical.
Memory came, dark and unbidden. Georgiana leaned back on the desk, her golden hair floating down behind her to brush the hard oak. Her breasts high for him. Her thighs parted. Her gaze on him.
She’d given herself over to him, physically, yes—to his kiss and touch—but more than that, she’d given herself to him in a myriad of other ways. She’d entrusted him with her pleasure, with her secrets.
Most of her secrets.
Except it was not hers, the one for which he asked. Chase’s identity had nothing to do with her. And yet she remained beholden to the man, refusing to give up the only thing that could protect Duncan.
There was a nobility in her actions—a loyalty that he could not help but respect even as he hated it. Even as he envied it.
Even as he wanted it for himself.
Just as he wanted her.
Just as he loved her.
He looked up, mere yards from his offices, only to discover a pretty chestnut tied to a hitching post outside the entrance to the building. It was a familiar horse, but either because of the day or his frustration, he could not place it. He climbed the stone steps and let himself inside, nearly walking past the building’s receiving room before realizing that there was a woman seated inside, reading the latest issue of The Scandal Sheet.
A young woman.
A very young woman.
He removed his hat and cleared his throat. “Miss Pearson.”
Caroline put the paper down immediately and stood. “Mr. West.”
He raised his brows in her direction. “May I help you?”
She smiled, and he marveled at the way the expression turned her into a younger version of her mother. “I came to see you.”
“So I gathered.” He supposed he should send a note to Georgiana, apprising her of her daughter’s location, but instead he said, “I happen to be free for the next quarter of an hour. May I interest you in tea?”
“You have tea here?”
His lips twitched. “You seem surprised.”
“I am. Tea seems so . . .” She paused. “. . . civilized.”
“We even serve it in cups.”
She seemed to consider that. “All right, then. Yes.”
He led her into his office, indicating to Baker that they required food. “And speaking of civilized,” he added as he waved the girl into a chair, “where is your chaperone?”
Caroline smiled. “I lost her.”
He allowed his surprise to show. “You lost her.”
She nodded. “We went for a ride. She did not keep up.”
“Is it possible that she was not certain where you were going?”
The smile was back. “Anything is possible.”
“And you simply turn up here?”
Caroline lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “We established that I read your newspapers; the address is right on the page.” She paused, then added, “And I am not here to visit. I am here for business.”
He tried not to smile. “I see.”
Her brow furrowed in an expression that he’d seen a dozen times on her mother. “You think I jest.”