It was not a metaphor. The Countess Harlow was a renowned horticulturalist. Events at Harlow House often culminated in some kind of gardening. Caroline loved it.

Georgiana nodded. “With pleasure.”

She returned her attention to the desk, her gaze falling to the second note, the one for Anna that tempted her from the edge of the desk. She wanted to open it quite desperately, but knew better than to do it with Cross in attendance.

He seemed to understand. “Don’t hesitate on my account,” he said, all amusement.

She scowled at him. “Why are you so interested?”

“I miss the days of clandestine messages ending in secret assignations.”

The words grated. “It’s not clandestine if it comes at eleven in the morning.”

He smiled, and she marveled at the openness in the expression – something that was never there in the old, haunted Cross. “It’s clandestine if it has to do with activities that are traditionally associated with eleven in the evening.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, tearing open the envelope in a desperate attempt to prove him wrong.

There, in the same black script in which the note from Chase had been written, were three lines of text, again, unsigned.

My town house. 11 o’clock.

Come well rested.

And sober.

The blush returned with a vengeance.

Cross laughed from his place by the door. “It doesn’t, does it?”

He closed the door on her curse.

Alone once more, she let herself consider the words, the square of rich paper that seemed far too luxurious for such a message. Or perhaps it was precisely as luxurious as it should be.

He seemed the kind of man who would not hesitate to be luxurious.

She lifted the paper to her nose, imagining she could smell him there, sandalwood and soap. Knowing she was being silly.

She tapped the paper to her lips, loving the way it brushed against them, soft and lush, like a kiss.

Like his kiss.

She dropped the note as though it was on fire. She could not allow him to consume her this way. Her proposition was not intended for him to reduce her to some quivering, ridiculous mass. It was not designed for him to consume her. Or control her.

It was designed for her to have a taste of the life she’d pretended to live all these years – the one she’d been accused of having – before she gave herself over to a new life that included marriage to a man with whom she would never have passion.

Passion.

It was not something that she lacked with West.

But she would be damned if she gave him all the control as well.

She reached for her pen.

I may be late.

He replied within the hour.

You won’t be late.

Chapter 12

As with the Lady G— to whom she was compared in the now infamous cartoon that heralded her return, our Lady is wrapped in proud grace and effortless charm. We are not the only ones to notice, either, as Lord L— moves ever nearer at each event they attend.

… In other news, the Earl and Countess of H— may not have eschewed the scandal that brought them together after all. Rumors abound about a locked door at a recent exhibition at the Royal Horticultural Society…

Pearls & Pelisses Ladies Magazine, early-May 1833

She was early.

Two hours before Georgiana was to arrive at his town house, Duncan exited his offices, pausing on the steps to raise the collar of his coat to combat the cold. A bitter wind tore down Fleet Street, reminding everyone in London that, while the calendar might claim spring, English weather was beholden to no one.

He was not unhappy about the cold. It gave him reason to light a fire and close the curtains around his bed that night. To lay Georgiana Pearson back against a pile of furs and have his way with her, the rest of the world blocked from thought and view.

He went hard and heavy at the thought of her, the vision of her naked and open coming unbidden and thoroughly welcome. Indeed, he’d spent much of the last day in a similar condition, eager for her. Wanting her.

Ready to claim her.

He took a deep breath, willing away the heavy ache. He had two hours before she was with him. Longer if her smart reply to his note earlier in the day was any indication. She would be late, on principle. And she would punish them both with it.

He would punish her in return, he thought with a wicked grin. He’d drive her to the brink of thought and breath, until she could remember nothing but him and how desperately she wanted him.

And then he’d give her what she wanted. And reward them both for their mutual patience.

He bit back a groan at the thought, grateful that he’d decided to walk home – surely he could not remain in such a state after a half an hour in this cold. Though it did seem as though his body was willing to do its best to prove him wrong.

At the bottom of the stairs, he noticed the carriage.

It was thoroughly innocuous. Unnoticeable in the extreme. Black, with no markings and no lights despite it being half-nine, well into a late-March night. No outriders. Two black horses and a driver, high on the block, making a point of not looking.

And those things, combined, made Duncan approach the vehicle instead of walking away. The windows were black, not because of a lack of light inside. They were black because they had been painted so.

This was no ordinary carriage.

Anticipation flared, and the door opened to reveal a lushly appointed interior, dark red velour, golden candlelight, and tempting shadows. His gaze flickered to the black satin-clad hand that held the door open, and he stilled, transfixed by that hand. Wanting it on him. In any number of ways.

She spoke, the words coming from out of view, soft and full of promise.