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Feltham looked haggard beneath his round black hat, his complexion taking on the greenish hue of his coat as he regarded the latest turn of the wheel. “Suppose you put your nose in the business of all your patrons, Rowden, or is the honor mine alone?”

“I’d only hate to see you leaning on friends if you play a little too deep.” Rowden flicked his glance over Fanny, who straightened, putting her bosom on display. The low ribboned neckline of her round gown made this feature hard to miss. But Fanny’s abundant charms couldn’t draw a glance of interest from him now. He’d kissed Sophronia, and no other woman could compare.

Damn her beautiful eyes for rejecting him.

“Fanny will expect to receive gifts from you, not be asked to pay your debts,” Rowden added. “And should you go stalking Sophronia for funds, I’ll hear of it, and I won’t be pleased.”

Feltham puffed out his chest. “Ordering me how to conduct my family affairs now, are you? What gives you the right?”

“I am very interested in her well-being.” Rowden gritted his teeth on the words. He was revealing too much to Fanny’s watchful eye. “She is a friend of the family, after all.”

“I’ll have a word or two to say about her friends do I marry the harridan,” Feltham said.

A cold flush shot through Rowden’s body, as if he’d been raked with an eagle’s talon. “She’d never have you.”

“She might find I’m the best available choice.” Feltham moved his marker and watched the next spin of the wheel.

Fanny looked furious, her eyes gleaming with anger. “When you could do so much better, Humphrey.”

“Ro has her pick of suitors.” Rowden clenched his hand around his walking stick, hoping he wouldn’t lose control and use it on the man. “She wouldn’t choose an indigent, and she’s not fond of dandies, either.”

“She married the first time when the money was right. And I might be the only one to persuade her bank’s partners to release the funds due her from her husband’s estate.”

The cold turned to a warm rush of fury. “What possible influence could you have with Hinton’s? You have nothing to do with the bank.”

“Aye, but perhaps I’ve had a thing or two to do with a certain banker, aye? And mayhap the man is in my debt, rather than the reverse.”

“You wouldn’t dare force Sophronia to marry you.” Rowden would call the man out and run him through before he’d permit that to happen.

Hell’s teeth, he’d be in the Helvetic Republic if he listened to Foster and Grenville. He wouldn’t be here to protect Ro from anything.

“You’ve never been so obvious over a woman, Rowden,” Fanny remarked. A thread of contempt wound through her voice, but her eyes held a hint of hurt.

“Did you care for me, Fanny? At any point?” he asked roughly. The words shot from him before he could reconsider.

She pursed her lips. “As if I’d give any man such a hold over me.”

Rowden went still as the realization hit him with all the force of a bull ramming him in the chest.

That was how Sophronia would feel. She’d gained her freedom after sacrificing twelve years of her life to Henry Hinton, in courtship, marriage, and proper mourning. She was free to do as she liked now. She’d not easily submit to the noose again.

Not even if she did desire Rowden, and he knew she did. She had held nothing back in that kiss, and the way her body bent toward his, the way she twined her arms around him— She’d longed to surrender just as much as he longed to have her surrender.

So what held her back? What did she fear Rowden would take from her?

Nothing. He’d take nothing she wouldn’t freely offer. And if she didn’t want him, in whole and forever, he’d offer himself in pieces. Perhaps he simply hadn’t made that option clear. They could enjoy one another as two adults, enjoy a brief and dazzling passion, and then, finally, he’d be able to let her go.

The dining room smelled of glazed sugar, whale oil candles, and the assorted perfumes of expensive ladies. Sophronia sat at a table with a set of women that Rowden recognized by sight and by reputation.

Beside her was the Countess of Renwick’s sister, Lady Amalie, laughing as she twirled a bite of tart on a fork in one hand while the other arm lay in her lap, tucked into her ubiquitous muff. The other women at the table were Lady Bessington, a formidable matron who had been a moving force in political circles for decades; the Marchioness of Arendale, who was a famous singer as well as an avid supporter of many London charities; and Lady Darien Bales, known as Lady Daring for her staunch and vocal championship of reforming causes. With them sat Lady Selene, sipping a white soup and listening to the conversation with wide eyes.

Somehow, Sophronia had insinuated herself into the circles of the most powerful women in town, women admired and envied for their influence, their wealth, their intelligence, and their conscience.

These were the kinds of circles where Sophronia belonged. Of course she would find her way into them. Rowden harbored a brief stab of envy that these women got to enjoy unguarded Sophronia, Sophronia laughing and eager, Sophronia as he had not seen her in London outside of their morning rides.

“I hope the offerings are to your liking, ladies?” Rowden came to stand behind Sophronia’s shoulder, drinking in the sight of her relaxed and ready smile, the scent of her perfume, which reminded him of the downs of Hungerford when they burst with wildflowers in the spring.

“I can have the chef prepare anything else you desire. Or our pastry chef could whip up one of his specialties,” he added.