His brows lowered as he examined her, as if he was trying to see inside her mind. “Alice?”

A tear slipped out of the side of her eye and she brushed it away quickly. “That was perfect,” she said, looking away as she struggled to sit up.

“Wait.” He reached for his undergarment and used it to clean off her stomach. “Are you sore? Shall I fetch a warm cloth from the washroom?”

“No.” She swung her legs toward the floor and sat up, wincing slightly at the tenderness between her legs. “I’ll take a hot bath back at the hotel.”

“Are you certain?” His hands flopped at his sides, gaze darting around the room. He appeared adorably flustered. “Why were you crying just now?”

“Kit.” She reached to stroke his jaw. “I’m fine.”

They dressed in silence, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Considering she was hardly eager to share her own thoughts, she didn’t dare ask him. She needed the walls between them, a tiny bit of distance to keep the disappointment at bay. Otherwise, she might start bawling for real.

It took much longer to put her clothes on than it had to take them off. He helped her with a competency that depressed her further. There had been many women before her in Kit’s life and there would be many women after, as well. He would never suffer for “companionship,” as he’d once called it. She would become a distant memory, one of the faceless women he’d bedded.

He deserved more than meaningless affairs. He deserved to be loved and cherished, as she did. Perhaps someday he would seek it out and allow a woman to reach his heart. Alice would have moved on long before then, however.

Taking her hand in his, he led her out of the office and through the club. The room was eerily quiet, the jocularity of earlier like a fever dream. Yet it had happened. She and Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Henry’s children had prepared Franconi’s food and dazzled this room full of New York’s crème de la crème. Pride filled her, and she would not allow her sadness over losing Kit to rob her of such joy.

He peeked out the door, then closed it. “John is waiting for you out front. I . . .” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he grimaced, not meeting her eyes. “Alice, I don’t know how to thank you for tonight. For dinner and for . . .”

Afterward.

“Don’t thank me. It was my pleasure.” A lump formed in her throat and she forced it down. “Both were my pleasure, actually.”

The edges of his lips twitched. “Good. I’m glad.”