Ravenwood awoke with his forearm muscles tingling. He’d fallen asleep with his arms about his wife, and they’d slept the night wrapped in each other’s embrace.

He slid out of bed as carefully as he could without waking her and set about collecting his discarded clothing.

While it was unusual, perhaps, for a duke to spend the entirety of the night in his duchess’s bedchamber, he did not believe the practice to indicate a lack of propriety on the part of the husband—and he didn’t care a flying fig if it did.

As far as he was concerned, sharing a bed with his wife was about to become his favorite custom.

He felt himself smiling as he bathed, dressed, and prepared for the day. He felt like his entire body was smiling, inside and out.

Katherine had that sort of effect on him.

His step lighter than it had been in years, he made his way to his office. His thoughts, however, were still with Katherine.

He’d meant what he had said about her being brave. She opened her heart and loved completely and unconditionally, without reservation. Unlike him, she didn’t hold back when she feared the possibility of getting hurt.

He shouldn’t either. Not with her. Not when they were so close to having the sort of marriage, the sort of connection he’d always dreamed of having.

If he wanted that kind of life, then he had to risk opening his heart to get it.

Oh, who was he fooling? She’d been in his heart for some time. He sat down at his desk and unlocked the drawer that contained his poetry.

Slowly, he paged through the words he’d written since Katherine had turned his world upside down.

It hadn’t happened overnight, but the truth was as apparent to him on the page as it was in his heart. He’d fallen in love. Wholly, hopelessly, irrevocably. Every word on every page declared the truth.

He wondered what she might say if she knew he’d written such wistful, lovesick verses about her.

The memory of her dismissal of people like him as fools pretending to be Lord Byron made his ears burn with shame. He knew what she’d say. He slammed the book closed and locked it back in its drawer.

Perhaps someday he might risk showing her one of his poems. Years from now. When he was certain she loved him unconditionally.

He forced himself to turn to his ledgers. There was no House of Lords meeting tonight, but the Coinage Committee was scheduled to present their final recommendations tomorrow. He would ring for a breakfast tray and spend the entire day finalizing his portion of the report in order to keep his mind free from parliamentary duties.

Tonight was about Katherine.

He was so proud of her. Not just for daring to dream, but daring to accomplish her dreams. It wasn’t that she believed failure wasn’t an option. All that mattered to her was that she tried. And because of her optimism and perseverance, every time she tried—she succeeded.

The House of Lords could use a few more like her.

Ugh. Ravenwood rubbed his face. The blasted Coinage Committee.

Over the course of the next several hours, he worked without cease. He penned the final flourishes on the report he’d spent the past month on just as the light in his windows began to fade dramatically.

Dark clouds rolled over the fading sunset. If the black horizon was any indication, it was going to rain all night long. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Seven o’clock.

It was time to get ready for tonight’s performance.

He pushed to his feet just as his butler entered the room bearing a sealed missive on a silver platter.

“Pardon the interruption, your grace. An urgent message has arrived. A footman is waiting below to run your response back to his master.”

Ravenwood’s stomach sank as he recognized Lord Montague’s seal. The marquess was the only other member of the Coinage Committee with any brains. An importunate message at this time at night could not presage anything good.

He lifted the folded parchment from the silver tray and sliced open the wax. With trepidation, he began to read.

No.

His eyes fluttered closed and he curled his fingers into fists. The other half-dozen imbeciles comprising the Coinage Committee had decided to eschew Ravenwood’s clearheaded logic, and were instead at White’s gentleman’s club on St. James Street, attempting to sway the vote before it even happened.

They wanted to ignore the dismal slope of the post-war economy and cast all coinage in gold, and in larger sizes. They thought a nation rich enough to do so would raise England’s prestige in the eyes of all competing nations. They even considered pennies with the faces of their peers.

Montague and Ravenwood recognized such twaddle for the poppycock it was. What England needed was to stabilize its currency, not to unbalance it further.

They should be reintroducing silver, not hemorrhaging gold. They needed to define a predictable value for the pound sterling. Anything they could to curb its disquieting devaluation.

The ton, however, liked sparkle more than they liked logic. Who wouldn’t wish to see his profile silhouetted in gold?

Idiots, all of them. If such a foolish idea gained wings, the House would pass the motion with a near unanimous vote.

Ravenwood could not let that happen.

By himself, Lord Montague would not be able to stem the tide. The gold fanatics would poison the ears of anyone within reach and tomorrow they would disregard all of his month-long research as being capricious and irrelevant. All anyone would care about was the chance to see their face reflected back at them.

However, if Ravenwood could make an appearance at White’s right now, evidence in hand, he and Montague might be able to sway opinion for a few of the brightest minds and still manage to salvage a responsible fiscal program for the Crown to carry out over the following year.

Ravenwood threw the wadded up missive into the fireplace. “Summon my coach, Simmons.”

The butler hesitated. “My apologies, your grace. I had told them you wouldn’t need it for an hour. I’ll hurry and—”

“Leave that coach for my wife as scheduled,” Ravenwood interrupted with a sigh. “Send up the landau. I have an errand.”

Simmons’ eyes widened. “Shall I tell her grace you’ll meet her at the gala?”

Ravenwood set his icy ducal mask back in place to hide his regret. “I will not be attending the gala. I will be at White’s handling a parliamentary issue. One’s first duty must always be to one’s country.”

Simmons was far too well bred to so much as frown at the discovery his master would not be attending the duchess’s grand event, but the flicker of censure in his eyes matched the hollowness in Ravenwood’s stomach.

Yes, he well knew his duty to his country. But what about his duty to Katherine?

“Well?” he prompted.

Simmons flinched. “Yes, your grace. Summoning the landau this very moment.”

As his butler turned toward the door, Ravenwood couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Where is my wife now?”

Simmons paused. “Strolling the grounds, your grace. She says it helps to ease her nerves.”

Ravenwood nodded curtly.

Of course even his indomitable wife would be vulnerable to the occasional bout of nervousness. She was human.

She was also expecting her husband to lend his support and comfort.

He ran a hand through his hair. Damn those fools. He had to go stop this nonsense. Even if it took all night.

If the Coinage Committee managed to bollocks up the economy even worse than it was currently headed, all of England would suffer for it—including Katherine. He could not allow that to happen.

Nor could he allow her to think he wasn’t present because he didn’t care.

He hesitated for a mere heartbeat before unlocking his desk drawer and withdrawing his secret book of poetry. No matter how nervous Katherine was about the success of tonight’s gala, it couldn’t come close to the terror Ravenwood felt at showing her a single word from the journal’s pages.

It would mean exposing himself completely. A vein, laid bare. His heart in her hands.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and strode forcefully through the door.

Katherine was worth it.