//CLARA//

We settled Oliver into The Hoffman House.

In 1879, it was the pinnacle of Gilded Age luxury—all marble floors, mahogany accents, and a bar that had witnessed more million-dollar deals than the Stock Exchange. A far cry from a prison cell. The look of pure, disbelieving relief on Oliver’s face almost made the hole in my chest close up.

And guess who owned the building?

Yep. My beloved guardian darling.

Oliver stared at the crystal chandelier, then at me, then back at the chandelier.

"I cannot afford this."

"You are not paying for it."

"Eleanor—"

"Casimir is." I patted his arm. "Consider it reparations for the broken nose."

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then he just shook his head and followed the bellhop toward the stairs.

"Thank you," he said quietly, not looking back.

But before the move, I’d made one more call.

Beatrice arrived for tea. I barely recognized her. Her hair had been re-pinned three times—I could tell by the way the strands fought against the tortoiseshell combs. Her gown was not the pale yellow she usually wore but a soft blue that made her eyes look like summer sky.

She had even pinched her cheeks for color.

I raised an eyebrow.

"The heat," she said defensively. "The carriage was stuffy."

"I did not say anything."

"Your eyebrow did."

I smiled and gestured toward the drawing room.

"Oliver is in there. He could use a friendly face."

She smoothed her skirts, checked her reflection in the hall mirror, smoothed her skirts again, then walked through the door with the measured grace of a woman approaching her own execution.

Aunt Cornelia, true to her word, remained barricaded in her room. She’d made it clear that she considered Oliver’s new money aspirations a literal toxin, and she wasn’t about to risk respiratory failure by sharing the same oxygen.

An hour later, I watched Beatrice and Oliver over the rim of my teacup. The way she hung on his every word. The way Oliver’s posture straightened under her genuine interest in the conversation.

It was like watching the warehouse days again, back when the biggest crisis was a shipment of faulty copper and the only thing bruised was Oliver’s ego.

Night fell, and the house felt quiet. I was making my way toward the stairs, my heels clicking on the hardwood, when a shadow detached itself from the doorway of the study.

A large, warm hand clamped around my bicep, the grip firm and uncompromising. Before I could even gasp, I was hauled into the room, and the door was immediately kicked shut behind me.

Casimir leaned back against the wood, blocking the only exit. The gas lamps threw his shadow across the floor into, transforming it into something that belonged in a nightmare. He looked like a predator who had finally cornered a particularly troublesome prey.

He sauntered to his desk and dropped into his chair. The leather groaned under his weight.

"The Linotype is dead, Clara. There is nothing to revive."

Ah, so this is what it’s all about. I see.

"There is Oliver."

I didn’t stay by the door. I walked toward him, the silk of my skirts whispering against the floor, and leaned against the edge of his desk.

"And there is us. Write to Mr. Chamberlain. Remind him of the potential. Offer him terms he cannot refuse."

"Terms I cannot refuse, you mean," he countered.

I smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips. "Same thing."

"You hung me out to dry this morning," he said, the bridge of his nose pinched in that way that meant he was losing his grip on his professional mask. "Publicly volunteering my capital? That was a bold move, even for a woman who thinks she’s untouchable."

I didn’t flinch. Instead, I closed the gap, stepping into his space until I was climbing onto his lap. He shifted in the leather chair, his thighs tensing to accommodate my weight as I trailed my fingers down the silk-covered buttons of his waistcoat.

I leaned in, breathing him in—a heady, intoxicating blend of sandalwood and expensive scotch that coated my lungs until my head was spinning with it.

"Oliver’s name has been cleared. The court record is public. It’s a smart investment, Casimir. Don’t let your pride cost you a fortune."

He let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest. "You aren’t going to let me sleep until I sign those contracts, are you?"

"Not a chance," I whispered, inching closer until our lips almost brushed. "You were just too busy being a jealous prick to see the potential."

A low, dark chuckle escaped him. He reached out, his hand diving into my hair and winding it around his fist to tilt my head back.

"A jealous prick? Is that what I am?"

"You tell me," I challenged, my breath hitching as he pulled my scalp tight. "You spent all night trying to fuck the thought of him out of my head. If that’s not jealousy, I don’t know what is."

He didn’t argue. He just groaned and crushed his mouth against mine. It wasn’t the punishment of last night. It was a desperate, starving reclamation. His tongue laved past my lips, tasting of scotch and absolute possession.

One of his hands slid down my spine, bunching up the silk of my skirts until he found the bare skin of my thigh, his fingers wasted no time. They slipped between my legs, parting my slick folds with a single, knowing stroke.

I inhaled sharply, my fingers digging into his shoulders like I was trying to pull him even closer.

"And I don’t regret a single damn second of it."

He leaned back just an inch, his eyes dark, the pupils so blown with heat they nearly swallowed the gray. The air between us felt ready to ignite.

"Tell me, little bird... are you still sore?"

I looked him dead in the eye, thrill thudding in my throat.

"I’m exactly as used as I wanted to be. But if you’re asking if I’m too tender for a second round... the answer is no."

His breath hitched. He gripped my waist and hoisted me up into his desk. My legs automatically hooked around his hips, my wetness soaking into the fine wool of his trousers. Right where the insistent ridge of his cock dented the fabric against my thigh.

His hand fumbled with the buttons of his fly, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.

"I’m going to fucking ruin this dress," he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of my neck.

"I don’t care. You’ll buy me another one," I hissed, arching my back as his thumb found my swollen clit. "You’ll buy me a hundred more."

He let out a jagged breath, his forehead dropping to mine. His cock notched against my silken entrance, the head already spreading me. One shift of his hips and he would be inside—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fuck!

"I’m going to kill someone."

Casimir’s grip on my hips tightened for a second, a silent curse rumbling through his chest. He pressed a chaste kiss to my lips and set me on my feet.

I stumbled to the far side of the desk, smoothing my skirts, my thighs pressed together as my cunt throbbed with the ache of being left unfinished.

Damn it.

Casimir turned away, his shoulders heaving as he re-buttoned his trousers and adjusted his waistcoat. He looked like he wanted to put a fist through the door as he opened it.

Aunt Cornelia stood in the corridor, a letter in her gloved hand. She did not step inside. She simply held out the envelope like a proclamation of war.

"The Goulds are hosting the annual closing ball in Newport," she said. "We have been invited. All of us."

Her gaze flicked onto me.

"The social season is ending, and you haven’t secured a formal engagement. We are going to Rhode Island, Eleanor. And you will be the jewel of that ballroom if it kills us both."

She turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.

Casimir closed the door and leaned against it, the letter dangling from his fingers. His eyes met mine. Dark. Hungry. Frustrated.

"Newport," he said.

I bit my lip and smiled. "I have always wanted to see the ocean."

He sighed and shook his head.