In the Money With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #2)

Chapter Two

“S ounds ghastly,” Eleanor Bridewell, neé Piper, commented, taking a second scone. Prudence admired the woman’s zest for food, even if she couldn’t stomach any more jam. She’d never eaten so many sweets in her life. Even when she lived with her husband, they ate simply. Gregory’s constitution was never suited to indulgence. She assumed hers wasn’t either.

Prudence shrugged. Telling the story of Mrs. Moon’s drawing room accusations had the other ladies roaring with laughter. Well, as much as the Brits roared. Eleanor and Ophelia tittered appreciatively, and Justine’s outlandish sigh and blasphemous muttering of For God’s sake helped make it feel like an accomplishment.

“What did you say after she accused you of designs on her son?” Ophelia’s eyes danced with mischief.

Prudence laughed. “Why, the truth.”

Eleanor’s brows furrowed. “That you are here to climb the Matterhorn?”

“That I came to England—” Prudence explained, and if they didn’t know, they’d soon find out, “—to take a lover.”

Eleanor coughed swallowing her scone. Ophelia’s eyes rounded in shock. Justine threw her head back, American-style, and guffawed as well as any frontier-born girl.

“I’d thought to go to France or Italy to take a lover, as those seemed better cultures for it,” Prudence sighed, thinking through last year’s dull enterprises before she fell in with this lot. “But while I know the best season to plant different breeds of corn, and have a fair estimate of how many tons a coal cart can hold, I can’t speak French.”

“I can help you with that,” Ophelia said. The flaxen beauty was determined and able. Ophelia could likely teach a rock how to speak French.

“Thank you.” Prudence had no intention of taking Ophelia up on the offer, though speaking French might be helpful. She simply didn’t want to learn a new language. Climbing a dangerous mountain was enough of a task at any one time.

“Have you found any?” Justine asked, leaning forward.

Bad News indeed , thought Prudence. The nickname had been given to Justine by Ophelia’s brother Tristan, now Eleanor’s husband. But she was a mischievous girl with a buxom figure that could not be helped. She was cute as a button to boot, making her a magnet for every male in a fifty-mile radius. Prudence had watched Justine in a ballroom, and for every minute Justine protested that her reputation wasn’t her fault, she watched as Justine laughed openly and sassed anyone she pleased. While that wouldn’t have passed for anything remotely out of order where Prudence grew up, it was decidedly outside the normal behaviors of young ladies in London.

“Found any what?” Prudence asked Justine.

“Lovers.”

Eleanor coughed again. Ophelia poured her another cup of tea to help her wash down the dry pastry.

She’d started with the unfiltered truth, so she may as well stay with it. “No. I found that I’m not as bold as I thought I would be. I thought with all my red dresses, I would make quite the splash. But I’ve slipped into the waters unnoticed, it seems.”

“Your dresses aren’t red,” Justine protested.

“Of course they are,” Prudence protested. She’d had them made specifically for the task of attracting a scoundrel. Or a rakehell as they might have once called such a man here in London.

“They’re burgundy. Mauve. Wine. If you want a red dress, find a Frenchwoman. They know red.” Justine sat back in her chair and took up with her tea again.

“Is that why I can’t find a lover? I’m too subtle for Englishmen?” Prudence teased.

“Likely,” Ophelia chimed in. “Many need to be bashed over the head to realize the obvious.”

“Well,” Prudence sipped at her tea, trying not to wonder if Ophelia had ever needed to bash a man over the head with her beauty, “I was blunt enough with Mrs. Moon. I bet that will get the word out. By the next event, I suspect I shall be swarmed with all manner of disreputable men.”

“Aren’t you afraid of tarnishing your reputation?” Eleanor asked, glancing around each of them. “And tarnishing ours?”

Eleanor’s observation took the wind out of her. She’d spent so long in Spain over the winter that she’d quite forgotten about the need to keep her activities quiet for the benefit of the other women in the Alpine Society.

In order to fund their journey—which was expensive indeed—they would need a hefty sum. Ophelia had already penned a few articles about their adventure on Ben Nevis, but had quite a time getting them published. Men’s magazines didn’t want them because she was a woman, and women’s magazines didn’t want them because the topic wasn’t feminine. The London Alpine Society flat-out rejected women as climbers in general, and ignored Ophelia and Justine, hoping they might go away of their own accord. But neither woman ever just went away.

Ophelia looked down at her hands as she spoke. “Prudence, you know that I loathe telling people what to do—” The women snickered. Ophelia looked up, acknowledging her straight-faced humor. “—But I would ask you to deny this claim should it come out openly. I really do need respectability in order to achieve my goals. If we were men—”

“—If we were men, everything would be different.” Justine threw herself back in her chair, open disgust on her face.

Prudence felt as if she’d been kicked by a mule. “Of course,” she assured Ophelia. “I wasn’t thinking. I wanted to set the old lady back a bit, that’s all.”

Ophelia nodded her thanks, and Prudence suddenly felt old. She was only three years older than Ophelia and Justine, and a few months younger than Eleanor. But her life had been fuller, bigger, harder, than her companions’. She’d swaddled her younger siblings when her mother was busy with some other task long before she was tall enough to see over the kitchen table. She’d helped plow at harvesttime, driving the plow cart as straight as an arrow down the field. And then she’d married, without a courtship, without any trouble, on the suggestion of her parents. Which meant that she’d skipped over this part of life—the feeling of possibilities, of butterflies in her stomach, of having suitors and pretty, meaningless baubles. And despite her pragmatic nature, God help her, she wanted to feel those things.

“But that does bring me to a serious matter,” Ophelia said, looking around at them. “Mr. Moon came round yesterday afternoon. It seems he didn’t quite believe our Prudence would be handling the funds. But while he was there, he spoke about an uncertainty of budget. That there is a deficit that we may have to make up. Apparently, there are rumblings of a war between the French and the Prussians, and that has driven the market up on everything from leather goods to train tickets. And that’s now. It could be worse next year. We might not be able to get to the Alps next spring.”

Murmurs went around. Prudence’s pride prickled. She had been assigned the task of looking over the ledgers for just this purpose. She did not like that Mr. Moon had gone over her head. As if she didn’t know what she was after. As if she hadn’t handled sums just as large as he did.

And she’d done so while wiping the bottom of the man whose name graced the bank account. To say her husband had been a railroad baron was to sully his name. He had been much, much more than that. He’d taught her every one of his tricks, and the last year, she’d done all the banking and business deals as he wasted away in his bed. A fate neither of them wanted, but had little power to prevent. Prudence’s fist tightened. She was tired of being underestimated. “I do apologize, Ophelia. I tried to get Mr. Moon to understand the situation.”

Ophelia gave her a tight smile. “It’s perfectly all right, Pru. It isn’t your fault. Besides, Mr. Moon knows now to work with you. Especially since we will be holding a charity ball.”

Justine frowned.

Eleanor cocked her head in confusion.

But Prudence couldn’t help but reward her friends with an American-sized smile. “That sounds perfect, Ophelia. Give me the details.”

“It won’t be for some months—the closing of the Season. We’ll have an ice theme, of course, since we’re raising money for our trip to the Matterhorn.”

The confusion on the other two women’s faces cleared. “Oh, we are the charity,” Eleanor said.

“Quite,” Ophelia said, pouring another round of tea. “But, as my mother pointed out, sometimes one needs to spend money to make money. So this will be the talk of the season. Lavish. Extreme. The kind of party they threw in the 1700s with animals and newly dug lakes.”

Prudence couldn’t help but mentally tally the workload of such a party.

“You aren’t really digging a new lake, are you?” Justine asked, skepticism underlining every word.

“Probably not,” Ophelia admitted. “But I want you to think on that scale. Prudence, I know that you will find me the funds or the work-around for what we need.”

“Of course.” But all of her contacts were American. She’d need to start over if she expected some kind of discount for whatever amorphous desires Ophelia was dreaming up. And who would be coming up with the ideas?

“This seems like a poor gamble,” Eleanor said, the line between her brows visible.

“It’s better than Tristan visiting the gaming hells to raise the money,” Ophelia said, referring to her brother and Eleanor’s new husband. He often got distracted by socializing and forgot to pay attention to the game.

“Very true. But I guess then I could leg wrestle Francis into giving it back,” Justine said, referring to her brother, Tristan’s best friend and usual game winner.

“No one is leg wrestling anyone,” Ophelia said. “Because we are ladies .”

Justine gave out a disgruntled harrumph that made Prudence laugh. She felt lucky to have fallen in with this strange crowd. It was luck that she’d been spotted by Ophelia and Justine at a party last year. Had it only been a year? So much had happened that it felt as if she’d lived an entirely different life in that span. A life where she acted on behalf of herself, not her husband or her father. A life where she gave orders, rather than take them from her mother or her husband’s physician. A life that was utterly hers.

And a life where she could have everything, from transacting her own business to feeling those butterflies in her stomach. As for the meaningless pretty baubles, she could buy those herself. Probably after the Matterhorn ascent. She wouldn’t need them on an icy, Swiss mountaintop anyway.

“Mama and I have created a wish list of sorts, but I would appreciate everyone’s opinions. I bow to your superior knowledge and experience of what is realistic, Prudence. Give me lavish, and I give you free rein of the purse strings.” The pale afternoon light hit Ophelia through the drawing room window, and her golden hair glowed.

Oh, to have that beauty , thought Prudence. But she wasn’t envious, she was admiring. Prudence wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of face. She preferred her own. “I’m an American. I can only do extremes.” Prudence smiled behind her teacup as Justine roared with laughter.

*

Leo was not looking forward to his audience with Mrs. Cabot. He’d made an arse of himself by denying her claims on the Ladies’ Alpine Society’s funds. Last week he’d personally called upon Lord Rascomb, only to have the man look at him like he was the biggest idiot in the entirety of England and her territories. Which encompassed quite a lot.

Still, he’d brought the ledgers and gone over the accounts with him and his daughter, Miss Bridewell, so they had a starting place. But they both deemed the sum insufficient. Miss Bridewell had left the meeting, returning with a piece of paper, which she handed to her father. He’d glanced over it, nodded his approval and handed it back to her, whereupon she deigned to give it to Leo.

And then Miss Bridewell had gone on at length about Mrs. Cabot’s history, her fortune that was entirely her own, and her vast capabilities and formidable mind. It had not helped Leo’s situation at all. He’d gone to the Bridewells hoping to get rid of Mrs. Cabot. To banish her from his thoughts.

Instead, he had to concentrate to not recall the dreams he’d had every single night in which Mrs. Cabot had a starring role. Or the fantasies he’d indulged in while he was awake. None of them were the kind of thing a man should think about his client. But it was hard not to remember the visceral ache in the morning, the hardness so strong that he felt it throughout his body, the need that ran down into his thighs. As if he wouldn’t be able to think again without finding a way to touch her.

Worst of all, the reason Lord Rascomb instructed Leo to deal with Mrs. Cabot was a budget for a party, of all ridiculous things. He couldn’t believe that this silly girl would be the first woman up the Matterhorn. Miss Bridewell was truly frivolous if she believed throwing a party would make her money. But no, she and her mother were convinced that a lavish charity ball would be just the thing. And if Miss Bridewell were so silly, then it stood to reason Mrs. Cabot was as well.

He heard the front door open, and he looked up from his desk in his study, listening. Like clockwork, the maid dashed down the stairs from his mother’s drawing room to discover the identity of the guest, so that his mother could shanghai the visitor before Leo could have his appointment. Two sets of footsteps trudged up the wooden stairs. He heard the telltale squeaks of the floorboards in his mother’s drawing room. No matter how thick her carpeted rugs were, the wood still groaned in certain places.

He would wait ten minutes. Enough for his mother to bring Mrs. Cabot down a notch. She would be nicely malleable, and he could persuade her not to throw a charity ball, but rather invest the funds in bonds and delay the trip another year or two so the bonds could reach maturity. And by then, the girls would be married off, and all would be well. No one would die on that deadly mountain.

Ten minutes passed, and he hadn’t heard any yelling. Nor any squeaking of floorboards to telegraph a departing guest. That was odd. He crept up the stairs, listening.

“He was forty years my senior,” Prudence was saying.

Surely she was discussing her father, and not her husband. He frowned.

“He didn’t look it, so don’t feel sorry for me, Mrs. Moon. He was an attractive man until the end.”

It sounded as if she were smiling. How could he know that? Well, she smiled like a daft idiot, so it tracked.

“Still, it isn’t right.” His mother sniffed in her imperious way. Normally that was a sign she was being dismissive of her company, but it sounded as if she were siding with Mrs. Cabot.

“Perhaps not, but here in England, it seems there are plenty of young women married off to much older men for the sake of a dynasty.”

“A title , my dear. Nothing so petty as a dynasty.”

“Minnesota doesn’t have any titles. But we do have railroads. Once the Transcontinental Railroad is finished, the economic engine of the United States will change dramatically. No longer will the Pacific and the Atlantic be separate, but—”

“My dear. Please do not espouse the glory of a railroad at me. My constitution cannot bear it.”

Leo could. He very much wanted to hear what Mrs. Cabot was about to say about the American economic prospects. That could very well affect his own investments. He’d assumed the Civil War had destroyed the foundations of domestic trade of their former colony, but perhaps he was wrong. The wealth of Mrs. Cabot would definitely signal a healthy American stock market.

He stepped into the drawing room before he could change his mind. Hands clasped behind his back, he cleared his throat.

Mrs. Cabot jumped, her ungloved hand flying to her chest. She looked at him with surprise in her gray eyes. “My goodness, you scared me.”

His mother stared him down with a knowing glance.

“Mother, I have an appointment with Mrs. Cabot. I don’t want to run behind.”

“You’d rather I perish from loneliness? Keep me locked in a tower, unable to let my old eyes alight on the visage of youth?”

“You’re very poetic for a prisoner.” Leo was not fazed by his mother’s feigned melancholy. She was a nasty piece of work when she wanted to be, and her while she had her outings to her favorite societies, there were whole groups that avoided her for that very reason.

“That’s what happens to those craving human kindness.” As if his mother wasn’t as sharp as two people half her age.

Mrs. Cabot stood up, showing off the cinched waist of her pinstriped white-and-blue day dress and the wide flaring skirts. Her honeyed hair had been curled and styled in such a way that she had arcing tendrils artfully escaping their pins.

Swallowing his urge to ask to touch those curls, he gave her a tight grimace. “I believe you know where my study is.”

“Indeed. Skulk off. I’ll send her down directly,” his mother said sourly.

“It seems our time is at an end,” Mrs. Cabot said.

Leo descended the stairway, holding his breath so he could still hear the conversation in the drawing room. He would go arrange himself in his study, keep himself aloof and imposing.

But the women’s words faded. As he entered his study, bell-like laughter rang out upstairs. It was a beautiful sound. A pleased sound. And it wasn’t his mother.

*

Honestly, Mr. Moon was infuriating. His mother, while caustic, was delightful. “I’ll pop in early next time so we can have a proper visit,” she assured Mrs. Moon as she left the drawing room. Unescorted this time, she could have explored the house as she was compelled to do, but she had been summoned. Time was part of his complaint. So fine, she would appear as requested.

She knocked on the door to his study and waited for his imperious call of “Enter.” As if he didn’t know who was on the other side of the door. Ninny.

He was ensconced behind his desk. This time, he stood and offered her the chair in front of it with a simple gesture of his elegant hands. She was more sure-footed this time, and it gave her an opportunity to look around the room. The bookshelves she’d noted last time. There were filing drawers behind the desk, labelled artfully. She squinted, trying to make out the drawings. Something with flowers? Unusual for a bachelor, wasn’t it?

Her eyesight was not perfect, she would admit. All those late nights with a candle and Gregory’s ledgers. But the labels reminded her of botanical drawings, greenery floating in mid-air with reddish-orange flowers in different stages of budding. It seemed so at odds with the rest of the spartan room. There was a baroque touch to the labels, more akin to what Mrs. Moon might want, as opposed to the heavy simplicity of the rest of Mr. Moon’s study. The green vines laced about one another, and small red flowers intermixed with buds danced on the upper left corners and upper right corners. They were well-balanced, but her mind snagged on the design. There was something about them. Each label held a different number of buds versus flowers on each corner.

“Mrs. Cabot.” He caught her attention.

“Yes, Mr. Moon. Here and accounted for.” She gave him a wide, beaming smile. She would kill him with kindness. Smother him with niceness. And she would adore watching him squirm under the weight of her enduring cheerful temperament.

“I see that.”

He assessed her. No doubt she was meant to squirm here, but she didn’t care. His gaze was nowhere near as penetrating and painful as his mother’s.

“I heard you met with Lord Rascomb and Miss Bridewell?” She pushed on. If he wouldn’t begin the conversation, she would.

“I did. They were in agreement that you should have open access to the ledgers at all times.”

She smiled smaller this time, not just in acknowledgment of what he said, but also of what he did not say. “And that I use the funds at my discretion.”

“Naturally. But I retain my rights to oversee any purchases. I would hate for the money to be misused.”

Prudence did her best to not clench her jaw or narrow her eyes, even though she desperately wished to do so. This man thought she was either a confidence artist or an idiot. And she’d bank on the latter rather than the former. So she smiled in her best empty-headed American way. “Did Miss Bridewell also inform you of the task I am dispensed with?”

Now Mr. Moon’s steel-colored eyes narrowed.

Glee struck her. “Which I suppose, in turn, you are to help with, since you must oversee my purchases.” Oh, she would absolutely rope him into this because he would loathe it. He deserved it. “Miss Bridewell believes we must throw a fundraising ball. And not just any run-of-the-mill charity party. No, an epic, no-holds-barred wildly extravagant soiree to rival the ones of the eighteenth century.”

Mr. Moon’s jaw dropped open just slightly. Prudence would take that as a win.

“Now, I don’t know what that last part means,” she continued. “But I trust you can help me with that.” His face flushed with color. She rather liked it.

“I am not a party planner,” he said through gritted teeth.

She stood. “You are now, Mr. Moon.” She held her hand out, inviting him to shake on it, like business partners. He slowly got to his feet and clasped her hand in his. He met her gaze gravely, and it felt as if he were building steel walls around her with the intensity. Instinctively, she looked away as her body flushed from her toes and stopped below her waist.

But, oh! All it took was her shift in perspective, from sitting to standing. The labels on the drawers were Morse code. They were numbers. Birthdates, judging by the continuity of the numbers. Her hand was still in his when she said, “Why have you labeled your files by birthdate? That doesn’t seem very efficient.” The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

“How would you know that?” He did not let go of her hand.

She gestured towards the labels with her free hand. “It’s obviously Morse code. And with a repeated four digits on each label with numbers, that could only be years.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and then let go of her hand. Puzzled, Prudence sank back down in her chair, her hand suddenly cold. “You are likely accustomed to being the smartest person in the room. How aggravating to find out that might not be true.”

His expression was cold and smooth. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed or pleased or anything. “I would be interested to find out if that were true.”

Prudence didn’t know why, but she blushed. It had been a long time since the last time she blushed. “I am more than what you think I am.”

“I have never doubted that for a second,” he said, sounding as if he meant it.

She took her turn evaluating him. His thin frame was covered in neatly pressed tailored clothes. She liked the look of his broad hands, ink covered, with long, fine fingers. He had an angular face that wasn’t exactly handsome, nor was he ugly. He was sharp edges and high cheekbones, with cold gray eyes that saw everything.

“Mrs. Cabot,” he said, his voice suddenly low and quiet. But he didn’t say anything after that. Just her name.

Her mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Moon?”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?” She could barely squeak out the word. Her mind ran faster than a pony on a wet track, sliding this way and that, trying to figure out what he might say.

“I did not mean to, but I found myself eavesdropping on you and my mother during your first visit here.”

Prudence frowned. And? That was hardly something that needed to be confessed.

“To be very clear—” Mr. Moon cleared his throat. “I overheard you say that you were in search of a lover.”

Her mind blanked. Her stomach clenched as if she were about to be chastised by her father—the absolute worst punishment she’d ever experienced.

“I would like to put myself forth as a candidate.” His facial expression betrayed nothing.

Prudence wasn’t sure her mouth wasn’t hanging agape. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve done some inquiring about town. I understand that the Ladies’ Alpine Society requires its members to be above reproach. Even as a widow, you must be discreet for the benefit of your maiden members.”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to be going around letting my decolletage hang out of my gowns.” Prudence felt strangely dizzy thinking about this. She was affronted. Definitely insulted.

Mr. Moon’s eyes flicked to her bosom. He murmured something low and deep that she didn’t hear. He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. “My offer stands. A business agreement, if you wish. I’ve discovered you are quite the shrewd investor. You must know an advantageous deal when you see one.”

Was he trying to flirt with her by praising her business acumen? Or was he after something else? He must be after her money or investment secrets. There was no way a man would just offer up his body as her lover. This was absurd. “I don’t appreciate being mocked.”

Mr. Moon relaxed his posture, and with it, his facial expression. An almost-smile toyed at his lips. “I offer no mockery. In my questioning about you, I learned that several men were taken with you last season, but you failed to reciprocate interest.”

“What? Who?” she demanded. No such men existed.

“Lord Avendon, Mr. Nathaniel Ryksted, and Mr. Richard Reeves,” he said, ticking them off his fingers.

Prudence sputtered her protests. Those men had paid her some attention, had danced with her, fetched her drinks, but they weren’t interested in that way. “They were only being polite.”

Now Mr. Moon smiled, and it seemed to transform his face into someone approachable. Someone kind. Someone, well, handsome. “Men don’t make a habit of being polite. Especially powerful men. They were trying to get into your bed.”

Prudence searched the room, mulling the information. Then, upon a realization, she turned her gaze back to him. “You aren’t being polite.”

“No, I’m not. Politeness didn’t get those men anywhere. And since I’m not interested in taking a wife, as I have my mother to contend with, and I have no time to seek out a mistress who may be very expensive to maintain, I believe a proposal between the two of us makes a great deal of sense.”

She frowned. “Why would your mother preclude a wife? She’s perfectly lovely.”

His sudden bark of laughter startled her. “My mother is anything but lovely. She’s smart, she’s insightful, but she suffers no fools.”

She chewed her lip, thinking. It would solve her trouble of finding a lover. And they had every excuse to seek one another’s company. But this didn’t leave her with butterflies in her stomach. There was no poetry in this. There was no wooing. Was everything to be so dry? Would she even enjoy coupling with him?

To be utterly fair to Mr. Moon, he stayed silent as she thought, which she appreciated. He didn’t pressure or cajole. Merely answered her questions when she posed them.

“This isn’t what I had in mind,” she said, finally.

“Am I not handsome enough?” It could have sounded pleading or whining, but it was not either. He was asking for her opinion.

“It isn’t that,” she said quickly. “I find you unconventionally handsome. You are fascinating to look at. But this seems so...”

“Business-like?” he suggested.

“Exactly. Yes. I was hoping to be wooed.”

Mr. Moon nodded. “That can be arranged.”

Prudence shook her head. “I shouldn’t like prescriptive things. It isn’t worth it. Please dismiss this entire conversation. I should go.”

Feelings of disappointment whirled around her as she stood, making her way to the study door. She turned, thinking to mention that they hadn’t even discussed their actual business, but he was right behind her.

Prudence was tall for a woman. But still Mr. Moon had inches and inches on her. And up close, he was not nearly as thin as he seemed to be. In fact, it seemed a trick of his tailored clothing. The first sound of his name died on her lips. Lips that he was staring at quite intently. And she found herself looking at his.

No, she ought to be looking at his eyes. But those seemed to draw her in even further. His gray eyes were shot through with green and gold, as if they couldn’t settle on a single color to accent the hard coldness of his gaze. She wanted to lean in further, pick apart the strands to make sense of him. But no, she couldn’t be leaning in further to him. What was she thinking?

Oh, what would Gregory think? She felt suddenly foolish and utterly childish for trying to seek a lover.

He caught her cheek in his hand, cradling her face. He pulled at one of her curls. “I would very much like to kiss you, Mrs. Cabot.”

“Oh,” she said, because she honestly could not say anything more intelligent.

“I think it would be pleasurable for both of us. And if we don’t suit, you may say so now, and we bypass any further embarrassment.” He was so very close to her.

“Okay,” she said.

“What does that mean? O and K?”

“Sorry, it means yes.” She stared up at him dumbly, not wanting to be the ninny who waited for a man to take action, but also unable to make her limbs move. It was not how she envisaged herself as a widow. She had thought she would be the seductress. Except, she had no idea how.

“Excellent.” He bent his head down, brushing his lips slightly against hers, and then pulling her in slowly as he deepened the kiss.

For her part, she felt as if she were falling. No kiss with Gregory had ever melted her knees. The taste of him was so different, the smell of him unlike the men she’d known. She reached up to pull him closer, finding the soft hair on the back of his neck. Softer than Gregory’s. His entire touch was soft but scorching. As if she burned every place they connected.

He pulled away, leaving her breathless. “Goodbye, Mrs. Cabot,” he said, his accent breaking apart each syllable as if cut by a diamond. “Please send word when you are ready for another appointment.”

Prudence reached for the doorknob behind her, and fairly fell out of the study into the foyer. She closed the door behind her, feeling the cool air on her flushed cheeks. What had she just done? Who knew that a man as controlled as Mr. Moon had so much heat built up inside of him? The thought alone threatened to weaken her knees all over again.

No footman or maid appeared, so she gathered her bonnet and gloves herself and crept out of the house. She didn’t want anyone to see her dazed and bewildered face. As she walked back to her hotel—not terribly far from where Mr. Moon kept his house—she wondered how to proceed. Did she want to kiss Mr. Moon again? Absolutely. It had been more than she thought a mere kiss could be. But what would Gregory think?

That was a silly thing to even consider. Gregory’s approval was no longer needed, nor wanted, nor available. And she could be with any man she wanted now. Gregory had been her husband, but not her lover—not in the bigger sense that she’d wanted. She’d finally gotten to an age where she wanted romance, heart-stopping desire, and not the comfortable friendship she’d had with him.

Her hands felt cold, yet the rest of her felt hot. The sensations she’d felt in the span of mere minutes were shocking. As if she hadn’t felt so much in her entire life, and then her emotions sped through her like a steam locomotive. The connection she’d felt with Mr. Moon, and then the phantom guilt and disapproval.

In Spain, she’d attempted to flirt, but never felt the sudden frenzy of emotion that she’d experienced just now with Mr. Moon. Perhaps it was because she’d never seriously believed in the man’s interest or attraction. There had been games galore with those men, and it had felt more like she was playing pretend with her younger sisters than sussing out possible lovers.

Mr. Moon was different. That smoldering look in his steel gray eyes was clear. Even she couldn’t be so oblivious, as he had claimed she was with Lord Avendon and Mr. Ryksted and Mr. Reeves. But what made him so appealing? It couldn’t merely be that kiss. Or maybe it could. She’d never been kissed so thoroughly in her life. And after all, kissing was a type of wooing.