In those elite circles, the Wards were nothing more than a tragic example of marrying outside their class. His blue-blooded mother had married for love, after all, choosing a working-class man instead, and then he took her money and deserted her. All afternoon, the women at the tea party had looked down their noses at him over oolong and macarons, setting his teeth on edge at every turn. It had been a miserable day.

You’ll have to woo her the old-fashioned way.

Thus far, he’d tried flowers and one failed society party. Not off to an encouraging start. He needed to do better to prove to Alice that he was serious about her. About them. About marriage.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he strode toward the bar. After all that tea, he was looking forward to a stiff drink. He poured a neat whiskey and then checked his pocket watch. His appointment should arrive at any moment.

His eyes drifted toward the office door. Heat and longing rushed through him, an ache that hadn’t dissipated since the night of the preview. Nellie was right. He wasn’t willing to let her marry another man, and his reasons for rejecting marriage had been based in fear. Once he’d admitted it, the barriers hadn’t seemed so great, so insurmountable. Because while they might share blood, he and his father were nothing alike. Kit had a firm handle on the concept of right and wrong. His father could not say the same.

Nor was he like Forrest, self-destructive and isolating. Kit didn’t want that future. No, he needed Alice by his side—not just at funerals and in the kitchen, but every morning. Every night. Every moment in between. He would never tire of her or want anyone else. The question was how to make her believe it. He’d spent more than a month telling her the exact opposite . . . and time was running out.

The bell sounded and Kit put down his drink. At the door was a man in a dark brown suit. He struck out his hand. “Mr. Ward?”

“Indeed, and you must be Mr. Littleton.” They shook and Kit brought the man into the main room. “May I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you. I’ll take a few notes and be on my way. Nice place.” Littleton glanced around. “Mr. Hearst said it was quite a night.”

Littleton worked for the New York Journal, Hearst’s paper in the city. The newspaper magnate had asked to do a feature on Kit’s club, which would only boost its popularity. Needless to say, Kit had readily agreed. “Shall we sit?” He gestured to a table.