Alice wilted . . . until she thought of Kit and the adoration on his face last night.

You are gorgeous. Just fucking gorgeous.

She was not a charity case. Lockwood could choose almost any unmarried woman in New York, like the Vanderbilt daughter whose dowry put Alice’s to shame. Furthermore, Maddie hadn’t offered up as large a dowry and Lockwood had wanted to marry her.

No, if Lockwood was interested in Alice, then it must be real . . . regardless of her mother’s harsh words.

Mama was still talking. “Now, I think the cream Worth dress with the pale pink flowers for you tonight. You haven’t worn it yet since it arrived from Paris. The other girls will be positively green with envy.”

The other mothers, too? Alice didn’t dare ask it, however. The comment would only anger her mother, and Mama was worse when she was angry. “Of course,” she murmured as she stood. “I’ll let Mary know and she can begin steaming it.”

“Good. For once, you’ve done something right. Let’s not give the duke any reason to reconsider.”

The bed was rocking. And not in the good way.

Kit groaned but didn’t open his eyes. The spinning would stop eventually. He hoped.

“Damn it, Kit. Wake up.”

The deep voice penetrated his brain. He swallowed and forced moisture into his dry mouth. “Who?”

“Kit. I need you.” A rough hand on his shoulder shook him. “Now. Wake up.”

He took a deep breath, his stomach roiling as he turned over. Why had he drunk so much last night? Or rather, a few hours ago. Dash it, what time was it?

Peeling his lids open, he found Preston standing by his bed. It was pitch-black out. “What are you doing here?” He closed his eyes again, but Preston pushed on his shoulder.

“Do not go back to sleep, goddamn it. I—”

It was the anguish in Preston’s voice that startled Kit. Blinking, he lifted his head. “What is it?”

Preston crossed his arms over his chest and studied the wall. His throat worked, as if he couldn’t speak, and it was then that Kit noted how terrible his friend looked. Hair scattered atop his head, whiskers coating his jaw. Dark circles under his eyes. Concern had Kit raising up on his elbows.

“I . . .” Preston swallowed. “I need you to come with me. He’s been found. And I—” He broke off, his voice trembling.

Oh, Christ. “Forrest?”

Preston nodded. “They say he was found on the tracks. He’s . . .”

Kit’s lungs collapsed, unable to draw in air. He stared at Preston, willing his friend to take the words back. To wake up and discover this was a bad dream. Anything that would prevent this from being a reality. “Jesus,” he finally whispered.

“I have to go to the morgue and identify him. His parents won’t go and I can’t let—”