in a firm grip, then exited the office.
As he stepped out onto the pavement, he lifted his head and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun penetrate his face.
The image of Miss Hart swam across his vision—the passion in her eyes when he’d first seen her, and the look of horror on her face when he’d introduced himself as Duke Molineux. That passion had softened when she’d spoken of the plight of the women of the world and the forgotten classes. But it had intensified when he’d shown her the pleasures their bodies could enjoy. His blood warmed at the memory of her face, flushed with need for him, lips parted in surprise and wonder when he’d buried himself inside her as if he belonged there.
But passion was a weakness. Perhaps that was why Fraser had failed, where impassive creatures such as Dexter Hart thrived in a world where there was no place for hearts and souls.
But Miss Hart’s passion would forever place her in his esteem. No matter what she’d done, he couldn’t feel anything but high regard for her. The poems she’d written after they returned from Scotland had spoken to him on a visceral level, such that he couldn’t bring himself to give them back. He’d read them each night since the day they’d made love. They rivaled Burns in their beauty and surpassed the bland verses she had penned at first. Such talent needed to be nurtured and rewarded.
But Delilah Hart’s passion was not for him. She had betrayed his trust, and he had no wish to experience such betrayal again. Better for them both if they never met again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lilah stirred her tea and dropped a lump of sugar into the brown liquid, watching it dissolve. Lately, her constitution had been unsettled, and she’d struggled to finish her meals. Dexter hadn’t noticed, but he seemed preoccupied with renting an estate in the country, though he refused to discuss the details. Sir Thomas had remarked on Lilah’s constitution when he’d dined with them, but she had told him to keep his nose out of her business. Sir Thomas had laughed it off and defended her when Thea admonished her incivility.
She sipped her tea. The sugar, which she’d once found abhorrent, now soothed her stomach.
She lifted the sheaf of paper she’d been studying and read the words once more. Now frayed around the edges, the poems she’d penned were the only evidence of her love for him.
A week after he’d brought her home in disgrace, Lilah’s poems had arrived on her doorstep, wrapped in a single bundle, with no message. It was as if by discarding her poems, he had rid himself of the last remnants of her.
And now, two months later, it was as if he’d never existed. There was no sign of him in London, and save the occasional remark from Sir Thomas about barbarians, she could almost have believed that she’d imagined him. Her pitiful attempt to make amends failed at the first hurdle. Her request to Stock to publish a retraction of her last article fell on deaf ears. Instead, he’d laughed at her, then evicted her from his offices, threatening to ensure her work would never be published again.
It had all been for nothing. Instead of justice, her efforts had been rewarded with mindless destruction. Her hopes for a future as a poet had been destroyed as surely as her hopes of a life filled with love and passion.
Now, she must accept her fate and take a pragmatic attitude to life. Not even Sir Thomas’s encouragement could lift her spirits. Well-meaning as he was, he knew nothing of poetry, so his praise, though abundant, did nothing to build her confidence. He made all the right noises when he read Mo Chridhe, her favorite poem of the set. But he couldn’t be expected to understand the meaning behind her words.
She heard a knock on the door and set her cup aside. A footman entered, holding a dish bearing a single card.
“You have a visitor, miss. Shall I let him in?”
She plucked the card from the tray and read the inscription.
Jonathan Sandton
Chief editor, the London Ladies’ Weekly
“The London Ladies Weekly? I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “Have you, Charles?”
“No, miss.”
“Send him in,” she said. “Would you ask Sarah to bring another pot of tea?”
“Very good, miss.”
Shortly after, Sarah arrived with a tray, followed by the footman and his companion, a short man with a small mustache, neatly dressed in a dark