The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(71)

Although she pretended to pout, she took the hand he held out to her, and they traversed the hidden corridor, sounds of the club filtering through the walls. Past midnight, the festivities were just getting underway.

“I can’t stay out too late.” She’d pinned up her veil, her eyes luminous in the dimness. “I have plans on the morrow. I’m paying a visit to—”

“Mrs. James and the dowager countess. Yes, I know.” He aimed a wicked look at her. “I’ll try not to tire you overmuch.”

“How did you know about my plans?”

“Kent told me.”

“Papa?” She blinked owlishly. “You spoke with him today?”

“Most every day, sunshine. To coordinate your protection.”

He stopped, opening the panel that led into his office. As he led her into the room, she was uncommonly quiet. Pensive. He recalled her initial resistance to him contacting her father, his buoyant spirits deflating. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to minimize her family’s exposure to him. He wondered if she was embarrassed about having an ex-prostitute as her lover, and his gut balled.

“The meetings are brief and address only the plans for your safety,” he said in clipped tones. “Your father and I discuss nothing personal. I have no wish for an appointment with him at dawn.”

“I trust you.” Her voice was quiet as she removed her bonnet and veil, placing her woolen cape over the back of a sofa.

“Then why are you disquieted?” Opening a drawer of his desk, he searched for the key he needed with studied carelessness.

“I’m not disquieted; I’m surprised. Papa didn’t mention that he was meeting with you. Actually, I am glad that you and he are getting to know one another.”

He gave her a swift look. “Are you?”

“Yes. I imagine the two of you get along. Being so alike.”

“You think your father and I are alike?” he said incredulously.

Ambrose Kent was a gentleman, one who commanded respect due to his honorable character and pursuit of justice. Andrew was a bastard and a pimp.

“Well, yes.” Primrose faced him across the desk, running a gloved finger over the polished edge. “You’re both men of honor. Both protective of those you care about.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you both like to tell me what to do.”

Her words flooded him like sunlight, reaching into his darkest corners and chasing away shadows—ghosts that he hadn’t realized still lurked. Out of nowhere, Bartholomew Black’s voice emerged. Every man’s got a weakness. Beware o’ females, Corbett—they’re yours.

Andrew couldn’t deny that he’d been used by women in the past. By Kitty, his customers, even his former employee, Nicoletta, who’d manipulated him as part of her nefarious plot against the Earl of Revelstoke. He had ample reason to be cynical, hardened toward the opposite sex.

Yet with Primrose, he couldn’t form any sort of callus over his emotions. With her, he felt everything. She was different from other females: she didn’t just take from him… she gave.

Rounding the desk corner, he caught her by the waist.

“The difference is that you like doing what I tell you to do,” he said. “Admit it.”

She looped her arms around his neck. With her dimples peeping out, she looked so adorable that his heart stuttered. “Perhaps I don’t mind that dictatorial side of you too much.”

“Then kiss me,” he challenged.

Her lashes fluttered. Then she rose on tiptoe. The soft brush of her mouth set fire to his blood. When she lapped at the seam of his lips like an inquisitive kitten, he let her in. The kiss grew hotter, and, before he knew it, he’d planted her arse on the desk, her skirts ruched in his fist— A banging pierced his haze of lust.

“Corbett? Are you in there?” Fanny’s insistent tones filtered through the door. “I need to speak with you.”

With an oath, he set Primrose on her feet and instructed, “Wait here.”

He stalked to the door, cracked it open. Fanny stood there, fist raised to knock again.

“I’m busy,” he said shortly.

“You’ve been busy for the past week. We need to talk about the Nursery—”

“What nursery?” Primrose’s voice emerged from behind him.

Fanny’s gaze darted over his shoulder. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here with Andrew,” Primrose shot back.

Christ. “Fanny, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said impatiently.

“But I have a new list of items that need to be approved for the Nursery—”

“What is this nursery she’s talking about?” Primrose demanded.

Before he could answer, Fanny drawled, “A milk-fed miss like yourself wouldn’t understand. Then again, there’s a lot you don’t understand about Corbett here, isn’t there?”

“I know him better than you do,” Primrose snapped. “You’re nothing but his employee. A bumptious old bawd.”

“Better a bawd who knows how to really please a man,”—Fanny’s hand slapped onto one out-thrust hip—“than some green chit who thinks lying on her back is all it takes. Really, Corbett, don’t you get tired of showing her around the bedchamber by her leading strings?”