In leaving the house to meet with Foscarelli, she hadn’t given much thought to what the servants would think of her going out or coming in at night. They were already aware of her occupation in the City, and though they surely disapproved of it and of her just as much as anyone upstairs might do, Irene had never been all that concerned about having anyone’s approval, above stairs or below. In this particular circumstance, however, she was heartily grateful to get into her room sight unseen.
She shut her door behind her with a shuddering gasp of relief, and leaned back against it, a move that tilted her enormous hat up behind her head.
She ripped it off and tossed it aside, then once again fell back against the door, panting not only from her race to her room, but from everything that had gone before.
What Henry had done to her—oh, God, what had he done? His kiss, his hands, wringing sensations from her she’d never felt in her life, sensations she’d never have dreamt were possible. Such wicked, delicious excitement, catching her in a swirling vortex of pleasure that had carried her higher and higher, until . . . she couldn’t think how to describe it. There were no words for what Henry had done to her.
It’s rather shattering, isn’t it?
“To say the least,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest and taking in deep breaths of air, trying to curb the chaos inside her. But it was no good. Her heart was racing, her body was tingling, her skin was flushed with heat. Every cell of her seemed lit from the inside with a blissful euphoria. She laughed and fell back against the door. She felt absolutely glorious.
Henry felt like hell. He had his drink—in fact, he had three, but even three whiskies proved a wholly inadequate remedy for what ailed him. He ordered a room prepared and sent one of White’s footmen for his valet and a change of clothes, for he knew there was no way he could go home in this condition. He could not bear the thought of sitting across from Irene at the breakfast table tomorrow, drinking tea and eating toast and making conversation with her and her sister and his siblings as if it were just an ordinary morning. He’d been doing that for nearly a fortnight. He couldn’t endure doing it again.
He took his bath cold, which helped a bit, and he spent the night at his club, though sleeping had little to do with it, for the image of her face and the echoes of her passion haunted him all night. But he finally drifted off about dawn, and by midmorning, after a hot breakfast and a shave, he felt ready to do what he knew needed to be done. It was vital that he talk with her, and for that, he needed all the resolve he could muster. Otherwise, he might very well pin her to the nearest wall and ravish her on the spot.
In the early afternoon, he went home, where his mother immediately pulled him aside for a brief conversation, and what she told him underscored the fact that he needed a private word with Irene as soon as possible. Unfortunately, she was not in the house. She had gone, her sister informed him, to work at the paper.
He had his carriage brought around, and twenty minutes later, he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the plate glass door that led into the offices of Society Snippets.
How strange life was, how unexpected. Two weeks ago, he’d thought he was the master of his world and what happened in it. And then Irene Deverill had come along, obliterating that illusion. In many ways, he was an utter mess as a result, but when he thought of her as she’d been last night, he wouldn’t change a thing. The problem was, chaos, unsated desire, and torture, however sweet, could not be borne indefinitely. He had to get clear. If he did not, his annihilation or her ruin would be the result.
He opened the door. The bell jangled as he went inside, a faint sound barely audible above the din of the printing press that was thundering away at one end of the room, but the dark-haired young woman operating it heard the bell just the same. She glanced over her shoulder, and he recognized her as one of the journalists he’d seen on his second visit here. She stopped the press at once and came bustling over to him, and above the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, her dark eyes studied him with all the avid interest of her profession.
“Miss Deverill?” he inquired, handing over his card.
She took it, but didn’t read it. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, making it clear she was already well aware of who he was. She shoved up her spectacles and pasted on an expression of brisk efficiency. “If you will follow me?”
She led him to the closed door of Irene’s office, gave it a sharp knock, then opened it. “His Grace, the Duke of Torquil,” she announced, then stepped aside to let him pass through.
Irene stood up as he came in, and as the door closed behind him, her radiant smile hit him with all the impact of a kick in the stomach. “Henry.”
He set his jaw and removed his hat. “Miss Deverill,” he said and bowed.
When he straightened, her smile was gone. Her chin went up a notch, reminding him of her pride, and it hurt him to know he was wounding that pride. After last night, she had reason to expect more of him than ducal formality, but though he felt like a cad, he could not allow, he did not dare allow, any intimacy between them now. He wasn’t strong enough to stand it.
“I hope you are well,” he said, taking refuge in polite civilities.
“I am. And you?”
“Perfectly sound,” he lied. He gave a cough and paused, looking down at his hat, working to come up with another polite inquiry so that he might ease his way into his reason for coming. “Quite busy. We are preparing to leave London for Ravenwood.”
“Your estate in Hampshire?”
“Yes. We go on Friday. That’s the Twelfth, you know.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, a strangled sound that told him small talk was proving as difficult for her as for him. “The Glorious Twelfth. Will . . . will your family be hunting the grouse, or sailing the Solent?”
“Oh, sailing, of course.” He smiled a little, remembering her first evening in his home. “We are a sailing family, after all.”
“Yes.” She shifted her weight and glanced around, reminding him this aftermath must be as embarrassing for her as it was agonizing for him.
He forced himself to come to the point. “Mama is to marry Foscarelli. She—” He broke off, for he still found his mother’s marriage a difficult thing to accept, but after a moment, he forced himself to go on. “She wanted to marry him on Tuesday, but I have persuaded her to wait one more week. Since we are decamping for the country, there is a great deal to do, both here and at Ravenwood, and it would be a great burden on Carlotta to supervise the entire settling-in. I cannot be of help, for I have far too much to do with the estate to assist with the household.”
“So . . .” She paused, seeming puzzled. “Are you requiring me to go with you, then? Do you think another week will enable us to change your mother’s mind?”
“No, I fear we are past that point. She is determined, and I doubt any persuasion will avail. Mama will journey down to Hampshire with us on Friday to help at Ravenwood, then return on Monday and marry Foscarelli on Tuesday at the Registry Office. They will, she has told me, stay at their new home in Chiswick for a week or two, then they plan to take a honeymoon to Italy, meet his family, that sort of thing.”
His words were stilted, awkward, and something of what he felt must have communicated itself to her, for she said, “I know it is a serious concern and disappointment to you, and I’m sorry for that.”
