The queen was damned wrong.

He did not admire Lady Prudence any more than he was enjoying being choked behind the tight knot of his cravat in an overheated ballroom.

Tavia. Tavia. He repeated her name in his head as a kind of talisman. To remind him of what mattered. To remind him of where he longed to be. He’d agreed to attend the Stormare ball before returning to Sussex, and he’d taken Lord Cecil’s advice to leave Tavia alone. To let her reclaim her independence and not hamper her with a man who, in seventy-two hours, had begun to learn just how much damage had been done with the rumors about Neville Forsythe’s death and his selfish abandonment of everyone he’d ever known.

But that didn’t mean he was interested in marrying Lady Prudence. The queen could play matchmaker with some other sodding duke.

The noblewoman was fashionably garbed and possessed all the refinement he’d eschewed for years, but Lady Prudence’s every action and word proved her to be small-minded and catty. While she greeted each guest politely, she whispered about them behind her fan, coining spiteful nicknames for every lady in attendance at her family’s ball.

“Now, see there, Strathmoor. That is Lady Flora Banbury. We call her Floppins, because whatever she wears hangs on her like wet rags. Isn’t her gown dreadful?” Retreating behind her fan, Lady Prudence tittered hideously. “Oh, and there, in that garish mauve gown, is my dearest friend Lady Hermione.” Leaning close enough for Killian to get a waft of her sickly sweet perfume, she added, “Never tell her, but she’s known as Heaving Hermie among the ladies. Rumor is her gowns cost twice as much because of her ever-increasing size.” Shaking her head in a terrible imitation of sympathy, she declared, “Honestly, a slimming regimen is her only recourse.”

Lady Hermione was lusciously curved and appeared to be enjoying the evening as much as he was. Which was to say, not at all. Killian had half a mind to sweep the plump blonde into his arms for the first waltz, both to cause Lady Prudence’s eyes to pop out of her head and to discreetly inform Lady Hermione of her “dearest friend’s” disloyalty.

Noting his lack of attentiveness, Lady Prudence elbowed him in the ribs. “Here is my dance card, Strathmoor. I know they are out of fashion, but I wished to have a remembrance of our first dance.”

“Could you not use your memory? To remember.” He tried for a teasing tone. The last thing he wished was to remember this ball. Tipping back his champagne flute, he downed the bubbly sweetness inside and searched for a footman to refill his glass.

“Silly goose.” She slapped him with the edge of her fan. “Perhaps I shall call you that from now on. Silly Goose Strathmoor. What say you?”

He didn’t say anything, but he searched the room for an open window he might jump out of.

Lady Prudence’s gasp drew his attention. A moment later, she began tsking behind her fan. “Strumpet. Just look at her.”

Killian followed the line of her glare, and his lungs emptied of air. A woman stood near the entrance of the ballroom. A late arrival. She’d turned her back to speak to a gentleman, revealing a fall of auburn curls down her pale freckled back.

She was too diminutive to be Tavia, whose long legs were seared into Killian’s memory. And her hair was a shadow of the unique red-gold fire of Tavia’s, but still, the lady was a reminder.

Or perhaps a sign.

“Only trollops have hair that color.”

“Do you know many trollops?”

“Snaking down her back like a serpent of sin,” Lady Prudence hissed, ignoring his quip.

If she wasn’t being the worst hostess he’d ever met in his life, Killian could almost admire her skill at alliteration.

“Those spots are symptoms of disease,” Lady Prudence declared.

“They are freckles. Natural and, actually,” Killian bent close to the harridan his queen expected him to marry, “rather enticing.”

She reared back like a skittish pony, and her eyes bulged as if she was seeing him for the first time, and what she saw horrified her. Jerking her fan up to cover half her face, she whispered, “What other perversions do you ascribe to, Your Grace? I have a right to know if I am to accept your proposal.”

There had been no proposal and never would be. But he liked her question enough to indulge her with an answer.

“Nudity,” he said solemnly. “I advocate for bareness whenever possible, and especially in the bedroom. Nightclothes are banned at Gravesend.” That one didn’t actually sound terribly absurd. He would be sure to suggest such a rule to Tavia.

Lady Prudence didn’t seem pleased. Her lips quivered like jiggled aspic.

“Intimacy.” He lowered his voice an octave further. “Carnal relations, you understand, should be frequent and vigorous.” He tipped his head right and then left to ensure no one was near. “Nightly, once in the morning, and twice at teatime.” Yes, that would do quite nicely.

She was shaking her head now. So vigorously, a feather popped free from her hair and drifted onto her nose. It perched right on the end. She blew the offending decoration away, but it floated down and stuck to her perspiring bosom. “I will…never…accede to such in-indecency.”

And he would never ask her to. “Didn’t anyone tell you, Pru? I don’t believe in decency. At least not the brand others dictate.” Reaching up, he yanked at the knotted linen tie cutting off his air. “But I do believe in doing what’s right. I didn’t always. I acknowledge that. Lost my way for a while. But now I’ve found my compass.” And he needed to go to Tavia and stop this farce.

Swiping all the mirth from his expression, Killian turned to face Lady Prudence. Perhaps he’d taken the teasing a bit too far. Her skin had turned the same purple-pink shade as Lady Hermione’s gown. “I’m sorry, Lady Prudence, but I cannot stay. There’s someplace else where I belong this evening.” With her. My flame-haired compass.

“You cannot leave,” she howled, loud enough to draw notice he suspected neither of them desired. “Her Majesty has arranged this marriage, though I daresay she will free me of any obligation once I tell her of your profane proclivities.”

“Precisely. Tell her every word. She will find you a better suitor, I’ve no doubt.” He bowed to the noblewoman. It was all he could offer her for his wretched behavior and the rudeness of leaving before the first dance had even begun. “And one more thing. Tell Her Majesty that I’m taking her detective, and she can’t have her back.”

Tavia reached up to knead her shoulder. A soreness there refused to ease. Too many long days bent over her desk. Since returning to her detecting work, she’d taken on twice the number of investigations and become busier than she’d ever been in her life.

Work filled up her days and left her too exhausted to stew over memories during the night. New clients were appearing consistently, and the rush of cases filled up her bank account too. She was even considering bringing a fellow investigator on board, someone to share the load. Someone to talk through cases with, since she was tired of talking to herself. Or to the walls.

I’m not thinking of him. Repeating the phrase when Killian came bursting into her thoughts helped to remind her that he was gone. Memories were all that she would ever have of him. And here, at work, was no place to engage in romantic nonsense.

He was well. She’d hounded Lord Cecil for details after his arrest. Three days after her meeting with Caroline Bannister, he’d finally sent word that Killian had been released. There would be no charges for Neville Forsythe’s murder and his brother, Clive, had come to a violent demise too.

Relief and hope had buoyed her up for days. But then she’d begun to watch the door too closely. Check her postbox too often. But Killian hadn’t come or written or made any attempt to contact her.

She positively refused to be heartbroken, to sink into sadness and grief. Unfortunately, her crumpled heart wasn’t cooperating. At least she’d been able to keep tears at bay. For the most part.

Each day, the pain got a tiny bit easier. Or perhaps a fraction of a tiny bit. I’m not thinking of him.

But of course she was. Every day. At times, he came to mind each hour. She missed him so much that she sometimes convinced herself she could smell his scent in the air.

What she’d told him on the train to London was still true. No regrets. Ever. With him, she’d tasted a passion, a rightness, that she knew was rare. Precious. She would never forget him or her sojourn in Yorkshire. They were precious memories. She even missed the Teagues. And Grady too.

In the drawer under her elbows, a half-dozen sheaves of foolscap were covered with words she’d never be able to say to him. Letters she’d never send. In them, she urged him to embrace his duty. Find joy. Live life to the fullest at the place he spoke of with such childlike reverence. She’d found a book on aristocratic estates and traced her finger over an etching of Gravesend. With scrollwork gables, turrets, and oddly arranged windows, the house did indeed pique her curious mind.

But she didn’t belong there. Killian did, and she hoped he’d gone home to his grandfather’s puzzle-box house by the sea and made peace with the responsibilities of being a duke.

She loved him enough to wish him happiness, even if she could not share his days. And his nights.

Nights were the loneliest hours, when she felt a tenacious pang in her chest, an emptiness that had begun aching from the moment of his departure. Recalling the coldness of their final exchange haunted her most when she lay alone in the darkness.

Rising from her chair, she pressed both hands to the small of her back and stretched the knots that formed after sitting for too many hours. She collected her notes for two pending cases, turned off the gaslight valve, and started for the door.

A sound in the hall stopped her midstride. The hour was nearing midnight, two of the offices adjoining hers were unoccupied, and the other tenant, Mr. Simms, kept a clockwork schedule, always departing at five twenty-five to catch an omnibus to his Thames-side home.

From the dark of her office, she could see a man as he approached down the hall, his shadow growing in breadth and height as he loomed nearer. It wasn’t another late-night visit from Lord Cecil. This stranger’s bulk would have dwarfed the older man’s thin frame.

She cast a gaze back at the cabinet where she kept her father’s antique weapons and wondered how quietly she could slide across the scuffed wood floor to retrieve a means of defending herself.

The man on the other side of the glass paused outside her door and attempted to twist the latch.

Tavia held her breath, trying not to make a sound.

“Damn and bloody hell.” A palm flattened with a resounding thud against the frame around her door.

Tavia reached for the latch, fumbling in the dark to find the key in the pocket of her skirt.

“Octavia?”

Her heart thrashed in her chest, and tears burned her eyes. “Killian, I’m here.”

“Thank God.” The relief in his voice echoed her own rush of pleasure at hearing his voice again. “Will you open the door, sweetheart?”

“I’m searching for the key.” She’d left the dratted thing on her desk and rushed back to search the blotter.

“I’m sorry, Octavia,” he said through the glass. “You must know that first and foremost.”

Cool brass brushed her fingertips. She snatched up the skeleton key and pivoted toward the door.

“You’ll make logical arguments, I fear.” With his fingertip, he began shaping the painted letters of her name. “But I—”

Tavia swung the door open, and her heart flooded with joy. He looked devastating in white tie and a black suit, with his golden-brown hair pulled back in a queue. Her mouth watered, and every part of her body began fizzing, as if she’d been jolted by electricity and its power hummed through her veins.

“Tavia,” he finally said on a gasp, as if he’d skipped a breath. He closed the distance between them and looked down at her, his gaze darting over every aspect of her face, as if he was memorizing her features. “God, I’ve missed you.”

I’ve missed you. She didn’t attempt the words because she couldn’t manage them and keep her promise not to cry. “Killian,” was all that emerged. And that was enough. It felt exquisite to have his name on her tongue again. “Killian.”

His arms came around her, warm and broad and strong. She didn’t melt as she wished to. First, she needed to know. “You do forgive me? I had nothing to do with your arrest. No idea that’s what Cecil had planned. As soon as you left, I sought out Caroline Bannister.”

Lines furrowed his brow. “So you’re the reason she changed her mind and retracted her statement.” His forehead smoothed as he smiled at her. “Thank you, my darling, clever love. But, Tavia, I came to ask your forgiveness.” He bent and placed a kiss on her forehead. A comforting, tender act that somehow managed to set her blood aflame. “I hate the way we parted.”

“Yes, me too.” She tipped her face up for a taste of his lips, but he demurred, taking his time and placing a kiss on the tip of her nose. Torturing her by nuzzling her cheek, and then the other. Even giving her chin a soft, tantalizing brush of his mouth. Then, finally, he took her lips. Slowly, gently, he stroked her with his tongue. Tasting, savoring, as if time was theirs now, and they would have plenty of it.

Afterward, he settled his hands around her waist and pulled her body flush with his. “As I was saying.” His gaze locked on hers, serious and yet lit with mirth. “Your arguments will not dissuade me. Not even the queen can dissuade me this time. You’re mine, and I need you.”

“I need you too.” Tavia knew there were arguments to be made. He was here when he should be at Gravesend. He was dressed for a ball, not a dusty office in west London. She’d been stacking up reasons they could not be together to justify their separation for days. But her mind was drunk on relief and her senses were thoroughly distracted by Killian’s nearness. Later, she would summon a rational argument. She was sure of it.

“Others have warned me,” he started, drawing in a deep breath, “that asking this will cost you your independence.” His hand came up, and he stroked his fingers along the edge of her jaw. “I never wish to take anything from you. I only want to fill your life with all the happiness you deserve.”

“But?” She almost let out a giddy giggle, recalling Queen Victoria’s disdain for but.

“Being my duchess won’t be a walk in the park.” He tipped his head, as if considering a difficult scientific equation. “Though there is a park at Gravesend and we can walk whenever you like.” A low masculine chuckle escaped. “Except nightly, once in the morning, and twice at tea.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll explain later. The matter at hand is this.” His tone took on the clipped, militaristic patter he sometimes employed. “I love you. I wish to marry you. I need you as my duchess and the compass to guide my way.” Clasping one of her hands, he lowered himself onto one knee. “Will you have me?”

Yes, her heart shouted. You are his and he is yours. Swallowing hard, she stroked a hand along his shoulder, reached back for the golden wavy queue at his back, tugged the ribbon loose, and threaded his hair through her fingers. Such simple pleasures were all she’d ever wanted. But below his knee, her scuffed office floor stared up at her too. Inches away sat the desk she’d nearly broken while attempting to drag the thing upstairs herself.

Killian turned to look at the desk too. “I won’t take your work away from you. If you wish to continue investigating, we shall find a way. Together.” Reaching up, he tipped her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. “On a short acquaintance, Miss Fowler, you’ve convinced me that every tangle, certainly every night, is better with you at my side.”

“Yes.” She couldn’t disagree. She couldn’t not take this chance with him, because whatever the challenges, they would be together.

He stood and pulled her into his arms, lifting Tavia off her feet to hug her tight. Then he turned and lowered her onto the edge of the desk. His lips crashed against hers, and he stroked every inch of bare skin he could reach, grasping and tugging at her clothes, as if he couldn’t get her close enough. A breathless moment later, he lifted his head.

“My duchess detective, would it be terribly unprofessional to take you here on this desk?”

Tavia bit her lip and gripped the edge of his loose cravat, pulling the smooth white linen until it slid down his neck. “Yes,” she breathed as he smiled and reached for the hem of her skirt. “But please do.”