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The mind, in all its perversions, boggled.

Caroline straightened and continued her progress through the house, trying very hard not to think about what, exactly, her brother was up to behind those closed doors. She had the distinct feeling the woman with only one virtue to offer was the lady who’d been wearing Hope’s diamond at the ball, the one whose eyes were the same gray-blue shade as the jewel.

The jewel that was now gone, thieved in the chaos of an epic crush. She wondered what Thomas Hope would do to find it.

She wondered if Henry Lake was involved in its sudden appearance in a London ballroom; she wondered if he was involved in its theft, if that theft was the “business” that brought him back to England.

She slipped into her darkened rooms, pressing her back against the door as she closed it, quietly, behind her. Her eyes fluttered shut as she remembered the feel of Henry’s lips on her skin; her fingers brushed the place on her throat where his caress had begun, marveling that there was no mark there.

She marveled that he had not branded her with his searing heat.

She had wanted to push him off, and tell him to go to hell. It was what he deserved. Did he think that in the twelve years since she’d seen him last, she would forget that he’d claimed her soul and her body and disappeared the next day? That she would forgive him, and forget his trespasses, and welcome his embrace?

She’d come
this close
to doing just that. Not the forgiving and forgetting part—for she would never forget, and
never
forgive—but good God, the sweetness of being in his arms again had caught her unawares.

A shiver went down her spine as she remembered the feel of his hands on her face, the way he kissed her as if the world were ending, and this their last night together. It
was
their last night together.

Caroline shivered again. She drew the lapels of his coat more tightly about her; his scent, the spice, clung to the fabric, and she inhaled, filling her being with
him
. She’d met many men in her lifetime. None smelled so damnably good as Henry Lake.

She felt exhausted, wrung out, her eyes heavy from crying.

She felt aroused, incredibly so, the pounding beat between her legs impossible to ignore.

During that summer twelve years ago, after he’d left her, she’d wept for a week, and then another, always in secret, always hiding the sounds of her grief in her pillow. On the third week she swore she wouldn’t miss him, that he did not deserve her pain. And so she gave herself over to her hurt one last night, and when the morning came, she washed her face and went to breakfast and never wept over Henry again.

Perhaps she might do the same tonight. Perhaps Caroline might give herself over to her hurt, and her desire, one last time, and in the morning begin her liberated life as a widow; it had, after all, been more than a year since Osbourne’s passing. An eccentrically aloof, steadfastly unattached widow.

But tonight—tonight she would be with Henry.
One last time.

Wrapping herself in Henry’s coat, she fell back upon the bed, the ropes beneath the mattress sighing in protest. Closing her eyes, she remembered the slide of his mouth over her shoulder and throat, the demanding press of his lips against her own, and the way he’d pulled her bottom lip between his teeth—

Dear.
God.

Surrounded by Henry’s scent, Caroline tugged at her skirts, gathering them in her fists at her waist; toeing off her slippers, she heard them fall with soft thuds to the carpet below.

Her entire body broke out in a sweat at the image of him—him, Henry—looming above her, his shoulders blocking the night as he angled his head to kiss her. He took, and kept taking, and in that moment she’d offered up all she had to give.

Her heart took off at a gallop.

She tugged aside her chemise, palm brushing against a bare knee, and with impatient fingers reached inside her pantalets.

Her thighs fell apart at the first stroke of her middle finger against her sex. She was slick with desire, slick and very warm, swollen; she saw stars at the sensation that spiked through her. Her nipples pricked to life against the confines of her corset, pleading to be set free.

His face flashed across the backs of her closed eyelids, the concentration in his narrowed gaze as he’d stalked her across the ballroom.

Henry.

The breath caught in Caroline’s throat. Her fingers worked slowly between her legs, tracing slippery circles over the center of all this maddening, delicious sensation.

And oh, the feel of his skin against hers, the inviting warmth of his body beneath the layers of that ridiculous, and strangely charming, costume . . .

She gritted her teeth as her desire pulsed hotter, her fingers moving quickly now, pressing and tugging and pushing as her body burned. It had been so long since she’d felt such searing need; she couldn’t remember the last time she felt so awakened, so frustrated, so insatiably hungry.

The feel of his arms around her, the heat in his eyes as he’d looked down on her, and said her name—it hurt, that memory, because it would be the last time she’d ever feel that way again. It hurt, and it aroused.

The tightness between her legs became unbearable. Her body arched off the bed, her hips bucking against her hand. Her eyes flew open as the beat beneath her fingers turned sharp, spiraling higher and higher.

Henry
.

What she would give for him to be here, now, so that they might finish what they started in his brother’s bedchamber! How she longed to run her hands over the muscles and slopes of his bare shoulders, to feel the gentle press of his weight against her as he moved between her legs.

She bit her lip and fell back to the bed and with one last stroke of her fingers sent herself over the edge. Tears trailed down her temples into her hair as she gasped against the force of her climax, legs curling as if they’d wrap themselves about Henry’s imaginary hips.

His hips, heavens, those hardened slices of temptation—

Her desire pulsed hard, hot, one last time. Her pulse rushed in her ears.

“Henry,” she whispered.

Her fingers stilled and the beat of her completion slowed. Gradually she came back to inhabit the heaviness of her own body, the rush in her ears fading until she could hear the soft
whoosh
of her breath. In and
out
, in and
out
.

Caroline swallowed, the back of her right hand falling to
her forehead as she stared at the ceiling. His scent was everywhere, mingled with that of her arousal.

Well.

Perhaps she might make an exception to her rule that she would never think of Henry again; perhaps she might only think of him when—er—the
need
arose.

For that was bloody lovely.

And lonely
.

She blinked back the tears that threatened to begin anew. It didn’t make sense that she would desire him after all that he’d done to her; heavens, she was possessed of some modicum of self-respect, wasn’t she?

Still.

Even now the heat between her thighs throbbed at the memory of his legs wrapped around hers, trapping her against the bureau. His legs, and his eyes, the way he smelled and smiled.

She turned onto her side, tucking up her knees to her chest. She vowed that, when the sun rose, she wouldn’t think of those things anymore.

*   *   *

W
incing, Caroline turned over in her bed at the quiet knocking on her door. She opened an eye and was met with a glorious spring morning, the light arching through the open window bright pink with promise.

Promise that, at the moment, Caroline found intensely annoying.

Her mouth felt dry and sour; she groaned, recalling Henry’s unfortunate choice of libation last night in his brother’s chamber.

Henry
.

She was awake suddenly, the memory of last night’s events rolling through her in a tide of poignant emotion. Meeting eyes with Henry through the trees in Hyde Park, Henry covering her body with his own in the chaos of Hope’s ballroom (chivalrously, and thrillingly), Henry’s lips and teeth nicking her jaw.

Not one minute awake and already her heart was pounding.

So was the person at her door.

Caroline rolled to her feet, noting with a small measure of distaste that she was still in her costume from last night.

But her thick-hipped panniers, those were thankfully missing. Where did I lose them? she wondered.

Oh, yes, she’d thrown them at one of Thomas Hope’s grooms while Henry tried—and failed—to steal a horse.

Of course.

She risked a glance in the mirror above her gilded vanity, and was shocked the glass did not shatter on account of her reflection. With trembling fingers, she quickly smoothed the swirling bird’s nest of her hair. She squared her shoulders.

It didn’t matter what happened last night.

Today was a new day, the day on which she would begin her life anew as Dowager Countess of Berry, a widow free from the complications of coupling. There would be no Henry. There would be no Hope, or his missing diamond.

Those things did not concern her.

“M’lady!” a familiar voice hissed from the other side of the door. “M’lady, if you please, it’s urgent!”

Caroline opened the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, was her maid, Nicks; the girl from Hope’s ball—the one with the blue-gray eyes, who’d worn (and lost) his diamond—peeked over her shoulder.

Caroline struggled to contain her surprise.

“But you’re still here?” she said, quite rudely, to the girl.

“Oh, God,” the girl replied, blushing a little, “you didn’t—”

“Hear you last night? Of course I did. Do come in.” She ushered them inside her chamber and quietly nudged the door shut, turning back to her visitor. The girl’s gown was practically in shreds. “From the looks of it you lost that bet.”

“Actually,” the girl said, looking up to meet Caroline’s gaze, “I won. It’s just that his lordship your brother is an awfully sore loser.”

Caroline found herself grinning. “You should’ve seen him when he was little. If he lost a game, or came in second in a race, he’d cry so hard he would faint.”

“He
is
stubborn,” the girl said, glancing at her hands. “Among other things.”

Across the room, Caroline met eyes with Nicks; she saw a good deal of disapproval in her maid’s gaze, a touch of curiosity. Taking in her mistress’s deflated costume and disheveled
hair, the disapproval in Nicks’s eyes darkened. Caroline did her best to ignore her.

“Apologies to bother ya so early in the mornin’,” Nicks huffed, turning to straighten the pillows on Caroline’s bed, “but Lady Violet here needs to borrow a bit of clothin’. Can’t go down to breakfast lookin’ a right mess like this; she’ll scare the wits out of the servants and—er—
rile
his lordship, if yer know what I mean.”

“Lady Violet,” Caroline said, nodding her head. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. You aren’t—?”

“Married? Heavens, no. I am Violet Rutledge.” Here she bobbed a curtsy. “And I’m afraid I am in need of a morning gown.”

Caroline liked Lady Violet already, her wit, her forwardness, her disdain for all things matrimonial in nature; she had an inkling William liked her for these very same reasons.

She was a pretty girl, youngish, but old enough to be nearly on the shelf; surely with eyes—they were wide and very blue, a startling foil to her raven-hued hair—and a bosom like that, she’d received any number of offers from gentlemen. Why, then, had she chosen spinsterhood?

“It’s a long story,” Violet continued, reading Caroline’s thoughts. “But your brother practically kept me prisoner here after the unfortunate events at Thomas Hope’s ball last evening. We had champagne, and . . . and then, well”—she looked down at her dress—“things got rather out of hand.”

“I see,” Caroline said.

Violet’s gaze traveled up the length of Caroline’s costume. “And I see you were in attendance at the ball as well, though William made no mention of your presence.”

“He doesn’t know I was there,” Caroline said, sidling up close to Violet. “Nor does he need to.”

Violet looped her arm through Caroline’s. “I do so admire a woman with secrets; there are precious few of us these days. Come, let us dress; I’ve a diamond to hunt down, and you, a very
secret
male admirer.”

“What? Who? What?” Caroline felt her face flush with heat. “I don’t—er—know what you’re talking about—how do you—?”

Violet pressed a cool finger to the back of Caroline’s neck.
“He left his mark,” she said softly. “And his jacket, there on the bed . . .”

Caroline’s hand flew to cover the offending spot. Damn Henry and those lips. If she ever saw him again, she would be sure to slap him one last time for good measure.

“Nicks,” she called. “If you please, do lay out the blue morning gown—the one with the high neck. Yes, that’s the one, thank you.”

*   *   *

A
rm in arm, Lady Violet and Caroline entered the well-lit warmth of the breakfast room at a quarter to eight. It was hellishly early to be awake, especially after last night’s late hours and all that dreadful wine she’d had; Caroline couldn’t tell if her belly ached because she was hungry, or because she was about to empty its contents all over her brother’s pristine upholstery.

Even in her state of half-dead misery, Caroline did not miss the way William’s face lit up when Lady Violet came into the room. His color was high, and as he rose to his feet he fumbled, quite adorably, trying to fold the newspaper in his hands.

Violet, too, was blushing, and as Caroline looked from one to the other she wondered what, exactly, Violet meant when she’d called William a sore loser.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing awkwardly. “Lovely of you to join me, and at so early an hour. I trust you have made each other’s acquaintance?”

Caroline raised a brow, biting back a smile. “Indeed. The maids informed me of Lady Violet’s presence this morning, and I went straightaway to see her. Poor dear told me about the tragic events at Mr. Hope’s ball. To think, a thief made off with the French Blue in the midst of a crowded ballroom! I wonder how he did it.”