I want a family. I want people who are glad to see me when I walk in the door. That was the part of Ellie’s situation that bewildered Jack. How did she carry on year after year with no people to call her own? No mates, no sisters to gabble with once the children were all asleep? She spent maybe two hours a month in Pammie’s parlor, coming to call like some representative from the visiting charities.

“I’ll go to the agencies,” Jack said, “but I’ll also keep an eye on our Ellie. She knows things she shouldn’t, and she’s not keeping her regular hours at the bank.”

“Mind your own business, Jack.”

He picked up his bread and jam, probably the last decent food he’d have for a while. “Ellie has had a lot of good luck, but luck can change. Ask Grandpapa how that works. When her luck turns sour, we will still be her family.”

Pamela remained at the table, the baby cradled against her shoulder. “Just make sure you aren’t the reason her luck turns, Jack Naylor. Ellie has toiled too long and too hard for you to wreck everything with one of your schemes.”

*  *  *

Eleanora Hatfield is kissing me.

That dazzling reality landed in Rex’s awareness like a match struck in stygian darkness, which made no sense. He’d kissed dozens of women—scores, rather—from his sisters and aunties and dear Mama, to opera soloists with a Continental view of intimate recreation, to the occasional frolicsome widow, and the even rarer courtesan.

He knew the difference between a friendly peck on the cheek, a cheerfully naughty buss, a prelude to copulation, and the many gradations in between.

Knew them and enjoyed them all.

Eleanora Hatfield’s kiss wasn’t sorting itself into any tidy column. She pressed her mouth to his and her body to his in a lusciously erotic manner. Her hands—those marvelously competent, usually ink-stained hands—wandered his chest, ribs, and back as if she were wrapping arrows of desire around his entire person. Then she sank her fingers into his hair, angled her head, and gentled her kiss from plundering to wondering.

Two minutes ago she’d told him they would focus strictly on business. All Rex could focus on now was her.

He kissed her back, accepting her invitation to taste and touch. She was more slender than he’d thought, her clothes bulkier. Petticoats and corsetry frustrated the craving to touch her bare skin. He settled for stroking her hands and face, especially the tender join of her neck and shoulder and the soft flesh of her bare wrist.