Clara spoke first, frowning with sympathy. “Oh, Bo. Are you certain I cannot hire a thug to rough him up?”
She would have laughed had she not been certain that her friend was partly serious. Americans were a frightfully bloodthirsty lot, and Clara was no exception when it came to defending those she loved. Bo had shared everything with her, from the inauspicious beginning of her courtship with Spencer, to her marriage and honeymoon, to losing her heart, and then the aftermath. She knew everything, and she had been endlessly supportive and kind. A true friend to the last.
“Is that the sort of thing one ought to say in mixed company?” Lady Alexandra queried before Bo could respond, sounding arch.
Clara glared at her sister-in-law. “We are not in mixed company at present.”
A smug smile flitted about Lady Alexandra’s lips. “Precisely.”
Bo did not envy her friend the task of launching such a minx into society. She would be trouble, and coming from someone who had spent her entire life steeped in it, that was a serious assessment.
“Oh, do let’s talk about the Lady’s Suffrage Society,” Lady Josephine said then.
Bo knew a spear of guilt that she had been so caught up in her own selfish thoughts. How could she have lost sight of what was most important?
She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Our first orders of business are simple. We are in need of members and funds. As you know, granting women the right to vote has not been looked upon with favor by many members of the peerage. When the queen herself is against it, our work is more than cut out for us. We must also find a means of driving up our coffers. If we have funds, we can publish articles and pamphlets for broad distribution.”
“Donations would do nicely,” Clara chimed in. “Julian and I have already pledged five thousand pounds, which will go a long way toward getting our cause underway.”
Of course Ravenscroft would have supported his wife, the mother of his child, the woman he loved. Bo felt a fresh stab of pain commingled with envy at what she was missing with Spencer.
The door to the salon swung open. Bo turned to find the source of the interruption and froze. Surely her eyes deceived her. Surely she was delusional.
That was the only explanation as to why Spencer Marlow, Duke of Bainbridge, stood on the threshold. Her eyes feasted on him, not daring to look away lest he disappear. He seemed somehow taller, broader, more handsome after a week away from him. His dark hair, green eyes, and sensual mouth complemented his rigid jaw to perfection. The jacket, trousers, and waistcoat he wore were tailored to display all of his quiet, muscled strength.
His emerald gaze found and scorched her. “Forgive me for the interruption, ladies, but I wish to offer a donation to your cause. Twenty thousand pounds, to be spent however the Society wishes.”
The harried-looking butler Osgood appeared behind him then, frowning as if he had just stepped into a pile of horse dung. “My pardon, Lady Ravenscroft. I asked His Grace to wait, and he refused.”
“Think nothing of it, Osgood.” Hesitant optimism tinged Clara’s Virginia drawl. “His Grace is long overdue.”
“Yes,” Spencer agreed, his tone grim, his eyes never leaving Bo. “I am.”
The butler bowed and took his leave. Bo scarcely noticed his departure, too fixed upon the tall, beautiful man she loved.
The stark reality of it resonated down her spine.
Spencer was here.
He was in London.
The man who had not travelled to the cityin yearshad come here on his own. He had appeared in the salon, beautiful and forbidding. He was still harsh angles and planes, still dark and austere and severe. But there was something different about him as he stood bathed in golden morning light, something indefinable. The way he looked at her now…it made her heart pound.
And she knew then and there, instinct telling her body what her mind would not yet believe: he was hers. He had come here for her, despite his fear, in spite of everything that kept him too afraid to move forward. He had not just met her halfway. He had made the entirety of the journey.
All for her.
“Spencer,” someone said, and she supposed it must have been her, for everyone looked at her expectantly when she did not even recall saying a blessed thing. She took a deep breath, found her voice again. “Spencer, you are in London.”
A half grin shattered the asceticism of his somber visage. “Oh? Is that where I am? I had not realized.”
She stood, the papers in her lap upon which she had jotted copious notes in preparation for this meeting flying everywhere. She did not care. Could not care. The only person she saw—the only person she wanted to see—was her husband. With no more than half a dozen purposeful strides, she crossed the room and stood before him.
“Do not dare joke,” she warned. “Not now. Not like this.”
His lips firmed into a solemn frown once more. “I do not joke. Indeed, I have it on the best authority that I am ordinarily frigid and humorless. Insufferably arrogant as well. Also a nodcock.”
He was using her words against her, and it was unravelling her as if she were a ball of yarn. She stared at him, hating him for raising her hopes, loving him for coming to her, for offering to donate to their cause in such an unimaginably generous fashion. For being Spencer Marlow, equal parts ice and fire. She could not stop staring. Or smiling. Or loving him.
