He repeated the words like a benediction as he licked and sucked and worshipped until her breath was coming in short, nearly unbearable pants, and he lifted himself over her, covering her with his body, hard and warm and perfect in every way.
He looked into her eyes. Spoke. “I love you.”
And she loved him back, desperately, reaching up, pulling him down for another kiss, into which she poured everything she had ever felt for this brilliant, magnificent man.
He slid into her slow and true, as though they had done this a thousand times, as though they belonged to each other, as though he owned her and she owned him. And he did own her, she realized. He always would.
His movements were deep and thorough, long, lush strokes that had her craning for him. For more of his touch. For more of his love. He seemed to know it, leaning down, repeating his vow again and again at her ear. She did not know if it was the words or the movement, but soon she was begging for release that only he could provide. He stilled, rising up over her, eyes closed in pleasure and pain and she knew he steeled himself to leave her, refusing to release inside her. Refusing to risk her.
“Duncan.” He opened his eyes, stealing her breath with the emotion in them. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not this time.”
He watched her for a long moment, as if searching for the truth in her words. She shook her head. “Not this time,” she said, tears welling as she was struck by the keen knowledge that this was the last time they would ever do this.
He took her mouth in a scorching kiss, deeper and more passionate than anything they had shared before, and he reached between them, setting his thumb to her, stroking over and over until she was crying out her release. Only then did he move, thrusting deep, spilling inside her, and she was lost to herself, to the world.
He came down over her and she wrapped herself around him, cradling him as the tears spilled over, and she wept. She wept for the beauty of this moment, the two of them against the world, she wept for herself, for the sacrifice that had set her on this path… the one she had vowed to make, somehow infinitely more devastating now that she understood what it was she gave up.
Love.
When he woke, she was gone.
He should have expected it, but it still rankled, the fact that she had left him here, in the heart of her casino, as she went to fight God knew what battle on her own.
I was on my own. I had to fight for myself. For Caroline.
No longer.
Did she not understand that he was her champion? That he would fight her battles? That he would do anything he could to save her and this place she loved?
He might not be able to have her forever, but he could give her this.
And it would be enough.
Christ. He had to rescind the reward. The Pandora’s box he had opened would ruin her and the club if he did not close it. He stood, pulling on his clothes quickly, wasting no time in returning to the main room of the offices.
It was empty now, and he approached the desk in awe and admiration. He thought of the first time she stood in this room, a girl of, what, twenty? Taken down by Society for a moment of risk. For a single mistake.
And she’d built an empire from here. From behind this desk.
And he’d thought he was the hardest-working man in London.
His fingers grazed the blotter, the silver pen that lay there, haphazardly, as though she’d dropped it in a rush to finish some other work. He smiled at the idea – his industrious love.
They made a perfect match.
He ignored the thread of sadness that coursed through him at the thought. At the way he ached for it to be true. For it to be their future. But his secrets were legion, and he would never saddle her with them. With the threat of his discovery. Of his punishment.
Of scandal, once more.
He looked away, his gaze falling to a small stack of letters on the edge of the desk – there were maybe ten there, a final, forgotten stack of what had been dozens of identical squares covering the surface of the desk when he’d entered the room.
He lifted the messages, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing it was not his business, but somehow unable to stop himself. Each one was addressed in the strong, black hand that he had come to know as Chase’s.
Not Chase’s. Georgiana’s.
The letters were made out to members of the club – men he’d seen on the floor dozens of times. There was nothing about the names that linked them – some old, some young, some wealthy, some less so, a duke, two barons, three men in trade.
He lifted one addressed to Baron Pottle.
He slid a finger beneath the seal and opened the note – dread pooling deep within him – to reveal one line.
Tonight, the Angel falls.
Chapter 21
He’d never seen the floor of the Angel so full of people.
Of course, he’d never seen the floor of the Angel on a day such as this. All of London had turned up for what they were claiming would be the last night of The Fallen Angel. The rumors and gossip swirled as hundreds of members arrived, brandishing the same square note, penned in Georgiana’s hand.
“What does it mean?” a young man whispered to his cronies, collected around a faro table.
“I don’t know,” came the reply. “But what I do know is that a night like this at the Angel is better than twenty in ballrooms across Britain.”
That much was true. The room fairly teemed with members, a wide, rippling mass of black coats and deep voices, peppered with several dozen women wearing brightly colored silks – the ladies of The Fallen Angel had been allowed onto the floor tonight, masked and myriad.