The heavy oak door of the carriage slammed shut, sealing them inside a box of velvet and tension.
The horses lurched forward, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones of the London street. Inside, Delaney Kingsley let out a breath she felt she had been holding for an hour.
She looked down at her feet.
One foot was clad in a sensible, soft black leather boot. The other was still clad in the burgundy satin slipper that felt like a torture device.
Rowan sat opposite her. He picks up the second black boot sitting beside her. He didn't look like a Duke who had just negotiated a railway empire. He looked like a man on a crusade.
"Give me your other foot," Rowan commanded as he knelt down.
His voice was low, leaving no room for argument.
Delaney pressed her back against the squabs. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs that had nothing to do with the business deal and everything to do with the man kneeling on the floor of the moving carriage.
