He had returned to his club the week before, not out of a need for companionship, but because he needed to hear something. Anything. And he'd heard plenty, and all of it useless. Nobody knew anything about her except that she was a wild harlot with an almost primal need to gamble. Oh, also that she was a duke's mistress and an uncontrollable and disloyal one at that.
She was rumored to have taken on Hart in every dark corner, and a few others as well. Richard Jones, Marsh, Lancaster, of course. Hart felt the small relief that he did not have to wonder about those tales. And the proof was the crux of his obsession.
Any day now, he expected her to stroll through his door, offer a sly smirk and claim that he owed her marriage. Though how she could prove ruination as a widow was another riddle. But that. . . he was beginning to wonder about that as well.
There was no proof that the woman—whatever her cursed name might be—was actually the Dowager Lady Denmore. She had breezed into town, charmed an old couple, rented some rooms, and flirted her way right into society.
She could be an imposter. She could be . . . By God, she could be pregnant with his child. He hadn't used a French letter with her, hadn't wanted to. And she might very well be just a wily neighbor of Denmore, or, at most, his maid or housekeeper.
It would not be hard to determine.
The paper seemed to glow with menace in the bright afternoon sun. All he need do was write Denmore's solicitor. Drop a note to the local magistrate. He could travel to her little hamlet. She might even be there, holding court with tales of her adventures in London.
But he knew, he knew in his heart that she would not be there. Knew she had played them all false. But he did not want to see.
He also did not wish to feed new rumors and deepen his own humiliation. If he began investigating, word would get out. Not just that she was a fraud—as she must be—but also that Hart was broken enough to put time and energy into chasing after her.
The mighty duke, brought to his knees by another harlot.
Watch how he raves and rages against his own stupidity.
There is a man who refuses to learn a lesson.
And it would all be the truth, and that was the worst of it. It always was.
But just one letter. Just one. He could not live his whole life with her lies hanging over him. He needed the truth so that he could hate her with clarity.
He was reaching for the pen when the sound of a woman's voice danced faintly through the air. The hair on his neck rose. Numbness flashed over his skin, followed by a wave of heat.
Emma.
"I will inform him myself," that voice said, as Hart rose woodenly from his chair. A woman's voice. Familiar, but. . .
"Hart!" the bright and happy voice called. The doors of his library flew open, and a petite figure stepped through, black curls trailing on the breeze she created. "Hart," she said again, and tears welled in her big blue eyes as she rushed toward him.
He opened his arms automatically as his little sister rounded the desk, but his heart had dropped with a thud. "What are you doing here?"
"I love you too," she sniffled, wiping her tears all over his coat.
"Alex?"
"I wrote you a month ago, you fool. And you can't tell me you didn't know. You wrote back!"
"I. . ." Oh, Christ. Of course. He'd even considered throwing a dinner party and inviting . . . that woman. "Where is your husband?"
"He's out front ordering your servants about. They seemed quite surprised by our arrival, Hart."
"I. . ."
She leaned back to regard him with an arched brow. Her small face was damp from tears and tight with the laughter she was holding back.
"I'm sorry, Alex. I'm afraid I forgot you."
Her mouth quirked up in a mocking smile. "Well, I have been gone seven months. Memories fade."
"Minx."
"Ah, so you do remember me." "It's starting to come back."