He looked back toward the casket, and she couldn’t help but wonder what secrets Lushing had shared with him. More than she’d ever be willing to share. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him about Aiden Trewlove or her plans to return to the Elysium Club tonight. Only she wouldn’t settle for a kiss in the wee hours of the morning, no matter that her knees were going soft simply with the thought of his mouth once more on hers. No, Aiden Trewlove would bed her, or she’d move on to someone more willing to act quickly.

Time was not on her side.

Just as he had the night before, he spied her the moment she waltzed through the doorway. She wore the same gown of deep blue, no doubt purchased solely for her clandestine visits to his club, something she wouldn’t wear on any other occasion lest one of the ladies in attendance recognize it and realize she’d been recalcitrant in observing her proper period of mourning. That possibility had occurred to him as he’d been sketching what he did know of her features. Her fear of discovery had little to do with the sinning and more to do with the timing of it. He’d never understood the requisite mourning periods, spelled out so succinctly in books on etiquette. Not that he’d ever admit to reading about the subject, but he’d always been fascinated by what was considered proper behavior. Not to mention, as a boy, a secretive part of him had wanted to be prepared if his father ever deemed to publicly acknowledge him. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass his sire, even though his birth had managed to accomplish that, marking him as a child of shame.

So his widowed duchess was probably still in mourning. He’d wager tonight’s take on his having the right of it. With a bit of asking around regarding which dukes had passed within the past two years, he could probably discern exactly who she was. Odd thing, though. He who always wanted to know everything about his clientele and was quite skilled at discovering things they didn’t always know about themselves—family debts, by-blows, a distant uncle who liked to wear corsets, an aunt who had once posed in the nude for a famous artist, a sister who had turned to the church because of an affair—didn’t want to ferret out her secrets. He wanted her to confess them all, whisper them in his ear as their bodies writhed over satin sheets.