You May Kiss the Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Now he will go, she thought again. Before she could stop herself, the words were out of her mouth. “Now you will go.”

  “Go . . . ?” He looked confused.

  Her heart was pounding. She hadn’t seen him for five days, and now he would go. “You will leave Belgravia.”

  “That depends,” he said.

  “On Dr. Cornwell’s assessment?”

  “On whether you,” he said, walking to the stone bench, “can be compelled to curtail your dangerous sojourns around town, trailing after criminals.” His tone did not accuse so much as complain. He sounded weary and worried and impatient. He tossed his papers next to the hat.

  “My what?” she asked.

  “Where were you today?” And now he did accuse.

  “Today? I went to Hampstead. To a charcoal kiln.”

  “A kiln?” he said with emphasis, crossing his arms over his chest. “A kiln in Hampstead?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She took a step toward him. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve discov—”

  He cut her off. “Hampstead Heath is miles from the city, Sabine. A kiln is an ancient furnace, hot enough to—”

  “I am well aware of the nature of a kiln.”

  “I suppose you also know they are operated by rougher men than you’d find in a workhouse or the docks, and yet you went there alone?”

  “I had Bridget—”

  “Stop.” He glared at her.

  “Forgive me if I’m surprised that my whereabouts are of any concern to—”

  “Do you know why I haven’t gone?” he asked.

  “To Hampstead?” She was lost.

  “To my boat and my crew and the suite of rooms I keep across London?” he gritted out. “Why I impose on your home, and your time, and the Boyds’ staff?”

  Sabine thought of Mary’s suggestion that he remained to be nearer to her, but he did not sound interested in nearness. He sounded frustrated and temperamental.

  She ventured, “Because your health is still very much at risk?”

  “Because,” he gritted out, “it scares the bloody hell out of me that you come and go to places like a charcoal kiln in Hampstead and no one is the wiser.”

  “Perry knew my plans for the day,” she countered. “I may have even mentioned it to the Boyds. I am not accustomed to reporting my location to—”

  “I know you relish your freedom, and I understand why. But it’s one thing to visit tourist sites in London and sketch maps—”

  “I give equal time to the investigation and the guidebook maps, so please don’t deceive yourself that I’ve been plotting walks through Hyde Park until now. I was gathering clues in every corner of London well before I stumbled upon your weakened form. I might remind you that I found you because of the investigation. Next came Marylebone—”

  “Forgive me for worrying when I learn that you are lurking around a charcoal kiln in Hampstead!”

  She stared at him, trying to decide if his anger was rooted in concern or control. She said, “If you care where I’ve been these past few days, why didn’t you call for me?”

  The bluster drained from his face, and he looked away. “This is my fault, I am well aware,” he said lowly. “I . . . I dishonored you and . . . and struggled to know the best way to proceed. I apologize.” Color rose to his cheeks, and Sabine realized he was blushing.

  “Oh yes, well,” she rushed to say, “perhaps it’s not entirely your fault. I am also to blame. I myself stayed away because the . . . er, encounter between us was new and untried and a bit overwhelming—although not in a terrible way. Certainly, I don’t feel dishonored, as you say. I have been trying to understand how I felt about it. The silence was rude, I’ll admit, but I required some solitude. I should have made some sign of wellness, but I—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “This is new to me. As I’ve said.”

  “This?” he said, spinning to her. “There is no this. What happened between us was a one-time lapse in my self-control, and it won’t happen again. You owe me no excuse for your distance. I . . . I am surprised to see you, even today.”

  Sabine blinked up at him, trying to keep track of all the won’ts and one-times and distances. “You do not control our experience, Jon,” she said, invoking his given name for the first time. His eyes went wide and she felt a burst of gratification. Yes, I will call you Jon.

  She continued, “You cannot dictate how I will remember it or how I will respond to what happened.”

  “You are in control,” Stoker vowed stoically, raising his hands in surrender. “That is what I said.”

  “No,” she said patiently. He’d missed her point entirely. “You said that you lost yourself, and you said you won’t do it again. You’ve suggested that I should stay away if I know what is good for me. Do you deny it?”

  Stoker opened his mouth but then shut it.

  “Well, please be aware,” she said, stepping closer, “that is not how I see it, and I don’t appreciate having you characterize what happened on my behalf. I would never assume how you felt about it.”

  Did you like it? she wanted to ask. Would you do it again?

  He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I think it was obvious how I felt about it.”

  “Actually, it’s not. You are cryptic by nature and this is no different. I won’t guess at your feelings, but I also won’t make you say them. In return, you will not tell me how I feel.”

  Tell me your feelings, she willed in her head.

  “You want to discuss what happened? In detail?” he asked lowly, turning a little white. “After avoiding me for a week?”

  She plucked a leafy frond from a hydrangea bush and spun it in her fingers. “I do, in fact,” she breathed. “But perhaps not . . . right this second. You’ve blustered at me about my investigation without even saying hello. You’ve had some breakthrough of your own of which I know nothing. We’ve not spoken in days. This conversation has become too adversarial, too quickly.”

  She took a deep breath and tucked the leaf in her hair. “May I first ask simply how your wound is faring? Are you comfortable out of the house? Perry told me she helped you out. According to her, you are entirely recovered and I’m holding an able-bodied man captive in my bedroom.”

  He huffed, but his posture relaxed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Do not blame Perry. She feared she was betraying you, as you alone are meant to care for me.”

  “As any self-respecting captor would insist.”

  He nodded, staring down at her. She felt him look at her, really look at her, not in guilt or worry, but to simply see her face. She smiled up at him. He held her gaze, his green eyes appreciative and hungry.

  “I am much improved, thank you,” he said, looking away. “The wound is closing. The infection is entirely gone.”

  “So, you are ready to move on from my—From us?” She looked at the ground.

  “Are you ready to cease this trailing around London after known criminals?”

  Her head snapped up. “No.”

  “Would you tolerate a security detail to accompany you?”

  “Absolutely not. They would bring attention to my otherwise stealthy investigation.”

  “Will you allow me to call in a runner from Bow Street or the police?”

  “And have them bungle the investigation or scare Dryden into hiding? Not until I have enough solid evidence to put him away.”

  “Then no,” he said. “I’m not ready to move on.”

  Sabine turned her face away to hide the relief. He wouldn’t go. But it was not because he wanted to be near her.

  “I’m not trying to evict you. I hope you are aware,” she said. “I was always prepared for you to stay until you are fully healed. But I would be mortified if you remained merely to check up on me.” This was true. She felt a little mortified already.

  “I’m not checking up, Sabine, I’m . . . I’m—”

  “Shall I tell you what I’ve discovered, and you can see for yourself that there is no th
reat?”

  “The world is a threat, Sabine, when you are a beautiful woman prowling the streets alone.”

  “The only real threat I’ve known in my twenty-seven years is Sir Dryden, and he is the reason I investigate the smuggling.”

  “Fine. Tell me of these past few days, when a kiln in Hampstead was so very safe and justified.”

  “Actually, I began in Regent Street,” she said, excited to finally tell him, “looking in on a chemist.”

  “Oh yes. The chemist.”

  “Another frequent guest to my uncle’s meetings at Park Lodge. The reports sent by my mother’s maid mention him repeatedly. He’s a young professor at the London Polytechnic Institute.”

  Stoker limped across the clearing to the hedge. “Go on.”

  “I observed the professor lecturing to students, doing some desk work in an office, puttering around a laboratory.”

  “How long did you follow him?”

  “A full day. I also made detailed notes on Regent Street and roughed out a preliminary map. I am always doing two things at once.”

  “And what of the chemist?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t make sense of it. Through the window, I saw him weighing something on a scale and making notes. God only knows what he was doing. But earlier in the day, he gave a lecture to students on combustible substances.”

  “What?” Stoker had been pacing, exercising his legs, but now he stopped short. His alarm was so very satisfying.

  “Explosives,” she confirmed proudly. “Compounds that blow up mines or cause cannons to—”

  “I’m aware of the function of explosives. This is the man who frequently calls on your uncle?”

  Sabine nodded. “The very same. And at teatime, this man left the institute and made his way to a public house in Piccadilly, and Bridget and I followed from a safe distance.”

  “You followed him into a pub?”

  “I am a married woman,” she reminded, dropping onto the bench, “and I can patronize a pub if I choose. I took a table adjacent to his, and within ten minutes another man arrived, and they began a conversation about charcoal.”

  “Charcoal?”

  “Yes. It took me some time to determine what, exactly, they were discussing, but then the new man said something like, ‘We’ll have to burn the kiln for a fortnight, working ’round the clock, to turn out that much charcoal, but it can be done.’”

  “Charcoal is a major component of most explosives,” Stoker said. “But a chemist whose research deals with explosives could require charcoal for any number of things that have nothing to do with smuggling or your uncle.”

  “Except that the next thing the professor said was, ‘It must be absolutely dry when it reaches Dorset. We take a great risk, acquiring the charcoal in London . . . putting it in barrels and on wagons.’ And then the other man said, ‘Yes, but not every furnace master is willing to take the risk, is he? There are ways to keep it dry.’ And then the professor said . . .”

  Now Sabine was overcome with enthusiasm, and she strode to Stoker and smiled up into his face. “And then he actually said, ‘Dryden Noble chose me for a reason.’”

  She beamed, and then forgetting herself, she reached out and grabbed him by the arms. Stoker frowned into her smiling face but she pressed on, squeezing his biceps and giving him a shake. “He actually said Dryden’s name. They are all working together. The chemist and the charcoal kiln master and the man with the barrels. It’s a coordinated effort to do . . . something off the coast of Dorset.”

  Stoker dropped his gaze from her face to her hands. Sabine rolled her eyes—he was so touchy—and stepped away.

  “So of course,” she said, “I was given no choice but to seek out this kiln in Hampstead.” She stalked back to the bench. “The professor eventually left the pub and I followed him the rest of the day. If I returned again so soon, I would risk suspicion. There was no choice except to go to Hampstead and poke around.”

  “Sabine,” Stoker said, lowering himself onto the bench, “do you never feel unsafe, poking around pubs and furnaces?”

  “No,” she said simply. The bench was small and he was sitting very close. Her arm tingled where their sleeves brushed.

  “Do you feel unsafe with me?” he asked.

  “No.” This was the truth.

  “When we met, you told me that you would never allow any man close to you. You told me you’d never put yourself in a position of danger from any man.”

  “What I told you was, I would never adhere to a man. I would never be bound to the dominion of a man. These men I investigate have no hold over me. They barely notice me. And you? You’ve never tried to dominate me. You don’t force me to adhere to you.”

  “I dominated you when we kissed.”

  She laughed. “No, you didn’t. You just . . . lay there.”

  Stoker ran a hand through his hair and squinted into the distance. “This just keeps getting worse and worse.”

  “Stop,” she said. “There is nothing worse about this conversation. It’s a good conversation. I’m rather enjoying it. I can’t believe I’ve kept away for five days.”

  “You kept away because I embarrassed you.”

  “I insist that you stop telling me how I feel. Honestly. I was never embarrassed.”

  “You were ashamed.”

  “No.”

  “You were confused.”

  “Possibly. But not because of anything you’d done. Stoker, you do not intimidate or subjugate me. If anything, I took advantage of a sick man. But will you always be so very sick and so very stranded here? Will you always just lie there in my bed? No, you will not.” She paused, gathering her nerve. “Would you like to know what I’ve been considering these past five days? I’ve been asking myself if it feels prudent to explore a physical relationship with you when I know you will eventually sail away and leave me.”

  “Sabine, we will not have a physical relationship.”

  She looked up at him. “Truly? You’ve decided this? After what we . . . shared? Simply to—leave it?”

  “God save us from what I want, Sabine, we’re dealing in—”

  “Because I’m not so sure we should leave it. And,” she said, “I believe we should decide together.”

  “You don’t know what you ask,” he rasped.

  “I know you must stop trying to protect me,” she cut in. “You sought to protect me from the Duke of Wrest, just when that got interesting. You seek to protect me from the smugglers. And now it feels as if you endeavor to protect me from . . . yourself? Have I got that right?”

  He stared at her, not answering.

  She went on, “You said you gave up rescuing women when you married me. Stop, Stoker. I don’t need rescuing. I’m not a victim.”

  “You are not a victim yet,” he said, speaking to the ground. “But only because these smugglers, or saboteurs, or whoever the hell they may be have not caught on that they’re being followed by a woman bent on their demise.” He looked up, leveling her with his intense green glare. “And only because I’ve not unleashed the . . . the . . . maelstrom of my desire for you and ravished you, mind and body.”

  Sabine sucked in a little breath. His words felt like a lightning strike to the newly awakened part of her, so attuned in his presence. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Jon, because you don’t seem to like it, but I find statements like that very exciting. And they only make me want it more.”

  He blinked. “Make you want the smuggl—”

  “Make me want you,” she corrected, cutting him off. The bashfulness and indecision of the previous week were suddenly nowhere to be found, gone from her head and her heart. Even his confining protectiveness was forgotten. She glanced at his mouth. The words unleash and maelstrom and desire heating her skin and places deep inside her.

  “Sabine,” he warned lowly, fixing his own gaze on her mouth.

  “Yes?” she whispered. Her breathing hitched and accelerated. Their gazes l
ocked; the air was charged between them. Sabine felt something monumental was about to snap or implode or burst into flames. She bit down on her bottom lip.

  “Do not,” he said, not looking away from her mouth.

  She laughed, a mix of nerves and excitement. There was no help for it. His resistance in this moment felt comical. “It can’t be helped,” she said, laughing again. “I quite like the idea of being ravished, mind and body.” She crossed her arms over her chest. She scooted closer to him. He flinched, toppling his hat and his cane to the ground.

  He swore and swung his gaze back, looking at her the way a Spanish bull stares at a matador’s flag. He shook his head. Once, twice. He swore in a language she did not know. She raised her face, tipping up her mouth, leaning in.

  He swore again and descended on her mouth. Sabine stopped breathing, joy exploding in her chest. He was so close now, finally, after five days. She swam in the musty, soapy, male smell of him.

  He’d taught her how to kiss in his bedroom, and five days had not dulled the lesson. She would never forget how to kiss him. She tasted, and sucked, and sought his tongue with her own.

  He did not reach out. He didn’t touch her at all. He claimed only her mouth, feasting, breathing hard, kissing her as if his life depended on it. Sabine lost her balance—she lost rational thought—and fell a little against him, clasping his shoulders to stay upright. The bench spun, the garden spun, the world spun, but they were perfectly still, the only spot in the world that mattered, doing the thing that Sabine had wanted to do since she came upon him in the clearing.

  He wants this, she thought, consuming his need. He wants me. His desire could not have been clearer. He would easily kiss her off the edge of the bench and onto the grass if she had not pressed back, insistent with her own return kisses. She could barely breathe. It was thrilling and wonderful and not enough, all at the same time.

  She was just about to wrap her arms around his neck, crawl up his body and into his lap (his wound be damned) when the wind picked up; a sharp, cooling gust. It lifted the escaped tendrils of her hair and also the letters on the bench, strewing them across the clearing.