Sabine could, she knew, simply put it to him plainly—she was not shy—but she also had her pride, and if he denied a bald statement such as, “I believe we should have another kiss,” any such future requests would be even more fraught and difficult. She did not want to make things worse.
And, she thought, he probably would deny her. She knew this deep down, no matter how hotly he watched her or how suggestively she teased him. He’d made it very clear that denying himself (as he put it) was, in his mind, the same as protecting her. It was an obstacle she had no idea how to get around. Was the guise of “protecting her” simply a gentle way to say he did not fancy her? She did not think so, but this assumption did nothing to make his detachment go away.
Meanwhile, she herself had grown fixated on the reason he believed she required protecting. She’d not been able to get the threat of his . . . feral, rough, and raw desire from her mind. Night after night she sat opposite his bed and listened to stories of his adventures around the world, of fights with pirates, survivals in the face of ocean squalls, and near misses with sharp, rocky coasts. It was impossible not to be stirred by such stories, and even more stirring was the prospect of being held by a man with the courage and skill to fight and sail and survive as Stoker had.
My needs are raw, my desires are wholly untamed, he had told her, and I have discovered during my time here that I have only the loosest hold on my self-control.
Sabine examined this threat on a nightly basis. She thought about it while he perused one of her maps, or slipped food to her dog, or relayed some daring rescue from his past. All the while, she thought, Yes. Yes, I should like to experience all of that.
And yet, the notion of how to manage it escaped her. She’d grown so frustrated one evening, she had burst in on Mary Boyd in her workshop.
“Is it possible,” she had asked, “that some women enjoy . . . wild, untamed relations with their husbands—and the pace and, er, ferocity of that kind of exchange is appropriate? That is to say, decent?”
If Stoker would not subject Sabine to such passion, at least she would learn if anyone else ever did. Or would. Or had.
“Well, it’s clear why you’ve been taking your dinner in your rooms with Mr. Stoker this past week,” Mary had chuckled, arranging swaths of fabric across a sofa.
“Oh no, nothing has happened. I was just wondering. In general.”
“In general?” asked Mary.
“In theory. Because, when I was younger, if ever I gave any thought to the type of husband I might one day have—a very rare thought, I assure you—I suppose I had the rather vague notion of someone quiet and bookish. Accommodating and helpful. Someone who would never contradict me or endeavor to inflict anything upon me or restrict me.”
“Quite so,” clucked Mary. “The girlhood Sabine wished for a sort of eunuch steward as her husband, and how useful he would be. I dare say most women have thought the same one time or another. But now?”
Sabine had shrugged. “And now all I can think about is Stoker, and how he might, er, inflict or restrict me. I mean, in a manner.” She’d blushed to the tips of her ears and turned to go. “I can’t believe I’ve come to you with this. I’m sorry.”
“Pray don’t succumb to bashfulness now, Sabine,” Mary had called. “Our days with you are diminishing rapidly, I fear. I’ll not waste a single opportunity to relish your thoughtful questions before you fly away.”
Sabine had stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Oh no, Mary, you mistake me. This is only supposition. I’ve no plans to go away, none at—”
“Deny it all you like, but I have a sense about these things. I made the same predictions with the other girls, and how right I was.”
Sabine had slowly turned back. “Perhaps, but Willow and Tessa never regarded their arrangements as true marriages of convenience. They were always going to fall in love.”
“And what were you always going to do?”
Sabine had shrugged. “Remove my uncle from Park Lodge. Go home. Look after my mother. Curate my father’s work.”
“Well, there is nothing that says that you cannot do all of those things and fall in love.”
I’m already in love, Sabine thought, shocking herself.
She spun around.
“Are you quite alright, dear?” asked Mary.
Sabine blinked at her. “I . . . I believe I may already be in love with him.” Her voice was a rasp. The tower of teetering footstools beside her could have crashed down on top of her and she would not have been more stunned at this revelation.
Sabine asked, “Is this possible?”
Mary chuckled. “But of course it is possible. I find it highly unlikely that you would harbor a sick man in the cellar if you had not fallen in love with him. You are a generous girl, I’m sure, but you are not that generous.”
Sabine laughed, but she wasn’t really listening. She thought back over the weeks since Stoker had come. Was it possible that she did not host Stoker in her bedroom so he could heal, or so he could advise her about smuggling, or even because she enjoyed his company? Certainly, all of those things were true; but was it also true that she kept him in her bedroom because she could not bear to let him go? It is why she waited twelve days to share him, even for an afternoon, with the Courtlands. She awakened each morning, thinking about him, and she tossed and turned in her bed at night, fantasizing about him.
“I think I do,” she whispered, more to herself than Mary. She lowered herself into the chair.
Mary went cheerfully on, “Of course you do, dear. And you may rest assured that there is no impropriety in loving your husband with a bit of wildness thrown in. Likely you were attracted to some ferocity in him all along. His passion will answer that need inside you. The reason I could foretell of eventual love matches for all of you brides is because otherwise sensible young women do not consent to marry disagreeable strangers, no matter how dire their situations. All three of you agreed to marry, however suddenly and anonymously, because of some spark of promise each of you saw in these men. It was a great stroke of luck and more than a little bit of providence. And now you will have to see it through to the end, won’t you? Passionate lovemaking and all.”
“I had not thought that far along,” Sabine had admitted. She had barely allowed herself to consider kissing Stoker—in fact, she was quite preoccupied with it—and had not looked beyond. But the moment Mary had said the words, a vague, distant tableau began to flicker in the back of her mind, like a disjointed reflection on the surface of a pond. It was hazy and unclear, with blank gaps representing missing details that were not yet formed, but she saw herself and Stoker—
Well, she could not say where they were and what they were doing, but she realized that the image of them sharing a life together had been hovering there for quite some time—and whatever it was, she wanted it, very badly.
Suddenly, she’d leapt up. “Thank you, Mary!” she had called and darted from the workshop. Her question about wild lovemaking had not necessarily been answered, but an entirely new question had taken shape. What did it mean to love Jon Stoker and what of their futures together after he had his own life back?
The next day, as they had planned, Stoker sent a note to Bryson and Elisabeth Courtland, which prompted an immediate reply by the same messenger: Please come to us straightaway. We have been desperate to see you. This afternoon would not be too soon.
And now here they were, that very afternoon, trundling up to Denby House in Grosvenor Square. Stoker flashed Sabine a rare smile, young and carefree, one she could not remember seeing. Something about the newness and the eagerness of it unsettled her, and she found herself grinding her teeth as he handed her down from the carriage.
Stop being ridiculous, she scolded herself. Of course he hadn’t smiled youthful, carefree smiles in Belgrave Square. He’d been fighting for his life, not to mention frequently at odds with her about smugglers and assassins and Bridget, who left a thicket of fur on his bed and hounded him for ta
ble scraps. It was shocking, actually, that he had remained in Belgrave Square, subjecting himself to her headstrong ways, when he could have been recovering here, in the relative splendor of a townhome mansion in the company of a woman who made him smile.
To his credit, he did not bound up the steps and abandon her on the sidewalk. He waited patiently for her to frown up at the towering facade of the Georgian townhome and stomp resolutely up to the great steps together.
“How is your wound?” she asked. Every day he leaned on her less and less. His strength was returning.
“I could do without these stiff layers of clothing cinching the scar,” he said. “But I could hardly languish about in pajamas forever, could I?”
“And here I thought you’d dressed to impress the Courtlands,” she said.
“I’ve dressed to suggest how very fit I am. Only you know the staggering invalid beneath.”
Sabine felt a rush of strange pride that she, alone, had discovered him, and nursed him (however distractedly) back to health.
Get hold of yourself, she ordered just as the door swung open, revealing a beaming Elisabeth Courtland.
“It’s them!” Mrs. Courtland called over her shoulder, shouting back into the house. “Come quickly, Bryson, it’s them!”
Elisabeth Courtland, beautiful but understated in a simple blue dress, swept the door open and ushered them inside, shooing away a confused butler.
“Oh, but what a welcomed sight. Just look at you,” Mrs. Courtland exclaimed. “But I thought you said you’d been hurt? I can’t remember ever having seen you so tucked and polished and upright. Are you certain you were stabbed? Come let me get a hold of you.”
“Careful,” Stoker mumbled before Elisabeth Courtland pulled his cheek to hers and clasped his hands. “I could collapse at any moment.”
Elisabeth drew back, alarmed. “You could?”
“No,” he clipped dryly. “I’ve quite surpassed collapsing, haven’t I?” He shot Sabine a conspiratorial look.
Sabine affected a small, uneasy smile, standing awkwardly at the edge of their affectionate greeting. Mrs. Courtland followed his gaze and then pivoted, smiling at Sabine.
“Please forgive me,” Mrs. Courtland said, reaching for her with two hands. “At last, Sabine. What a pleasure it is to meet you. Welcome. You must meet my husband, Bryson.” There were footsteps and she motioned an unseen person to her side.
“How do you do?” Sabine murmured, putting on her most genteel and pleasant face. Mrs. Courtland didn’t answer as she clung to Sabine’s hands, squeezing and shaking, staring into her face with a hopeful smile, searching for . . . for . . .
Sabine could not exactly say what she wished to find, but some instinct told her that it was not necessarily gentility or pleasantness. Mrs. Courtland’s expression was open and honest and hopeful, with no trace of the expected judgment or superiority. She looked as if she expected very little of Sabine, except for perhaps to know her. Her expression seemed to simply say, Please.
Sabine exhaled, letting go of a long, fraught breath. She felt her own expression relax into something more natural, something that answered the entreaty in Mrs. Courtland’s face. Sabine ducked her head, looking at the plush rug between their joined hands, and when she looked up again, she smiled a real smile. Happy and curious and a little bit afraid.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Sabine said. “That is—inviting Stoker. This is his first foray out, and I cannot think of any errand that would motivate him more. He was so eager to see you.”
“Well, there is a first time for everything,” said Mrs. Courtland, squeezing her hands. “We have learned through the years to take what we can get when it comes to Jon Stoker.” She continued to stare into Sabine’s eyes, her expression almost . . . grateful. It was nothing like Sabine had expected.
Behind them, a middle-aged gentleman emerged from down the great hall, both arms extended in welcome. He winked at his wife and descended on Stoker to vigorously shake his hand and slap him on the back.
“Oof,” Stoker said, cringing at the force of the slap.
“Oh sorry, man,” Bryson Courtland said. He looked uncertainly at the women.
Stoker closed his eyes, pain tightening his face, and Sabine stepped up to take his hand. “Not to worry,” she said lightly. “He’s alright. The stitches have not completely fused, and he makes an effort to brace for sudden movements if he can help it. You simply caught him off guard. He has also been known to whinge to great effect, haven’t you, Stoker?” She eyed him carefully, hoping he wasn’t really harmed. He looked down at her with narrowed eyes.
What? she tried to silently ask. Put your friends at ease. It’s the English thing to do.
“Yes,” he rasped, “whinging is now second nature.”
Sabine laughed and turned back to their hosts. The Courtlands smiled uncertainly, clearly as unsettled as Sabine and Stoker.
“May I introduce myself,” Sabine asked Mr. Courtland, trying to move the moment along, “Sabine Stoker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Her introduction interrupted the odd moment and propelled the couple into apologies and handshakes and sentiments of general delight. They ushered them into an adjacent parlor and sent a servant for tea.
“How beautiful your home is, Mrs. Courtland,” Sabine remarked, taking in the soaring ceilings and lavishly furnished rooms. Bright fires warmed the large parlor.
“I insist you call me Elisabeth,” she said. “And thank you. Denby House belonged to my aunt. I came to live here as a young woman, after my parents died. Bryson and I were in a lovely home in Moxon Street when the children were born, but then Denby House went up for sale a second time—my aunt and her husband live in the Caribbean now—and Bryson bought it as a surprise. It’s useful as the children grow and so much better suited to entertaining. Throwing parties is a necessary evil for charity work, I’m afraid, but Bryson relishes these events. We’ve a ball next week, in fact, don’t we?” She looked at her husband with a scrunched nose.
“The twenty-five-year anniversary of my shipyard,” Mr. Courtland replied. “A cause for celebration, if ever I’ve heard one.”
“And you hear many,” Mrs. Courtland replied. She went on, “But this is the house where Stoker first came to me and we began our infamous association as brothel raider and—” she laughed at Stoker “—and whatever role I played. Charity Administrator, I suppose.”
“You are the one who changes lives,” Stoker said. “I merely knocked heads and ran in the streets after dark.”
Mrs. Courtland winked. “Do not listen to him. Stoker cut a far more dashing swath through London because he is more dashing—in every way. Even our first meeting. He climbed up the rose trellis outside my room and tapped on the window. The first of hundreds of times. I daresay you’ve never entered this house through the front door before today, have you, Stoke?”
Stoker gestured to a sofa, settling Sabine and then eased himself uncomfortably beside her. “Who can say?” he said.
If Sabine expected him to slide into a reverie of remembering days gone by, she was mistaken. He seemed far brusquer and less willing to elaborate than usual, which was saying a lot.
“But you must tell us the nature of this injury of yours?” Mrs. Courtland asked. “What happened? Where were you? My God, I was beside myself when I read your note.”
Stoker apologized for the alarm and gave a brief description of the wound and ensuing infection. He and Sabine had not discussed what he would say, and she was surprised to hear him leave out key details. He said nothing of his suspicions about the Duke of Wrest and, more affectingly, he did not relate Sabine’s role in discovering him. Instead of the great coincidence of the morgue and the Dreadnought, Stoker simply suggested that he “went home to Sabine” in Belgravia to recover.
Sabine listened quietly and said nothing, turning to smile at the Courtlands as they clucked and sighed, clearly horrified by the unbelievable story. Stoker dismissed their obvious concern, insist
ing he was nearly fully recovered. Sabine, too, listened quietly, contributing little to nothing. She simply sat beside him and, in some small way, cherished the knowledge that the two of them had their own secret version of the story.
She wanted, suddenly, to settle her hand on his leg, to scoot closer to him on the sofa. Quite out of nowhere, she felt bold enough to make the small physical overtures that had escaped her for the past week and a half. She refrained, of course, but she did relax. She sat back and relished the hot tea in its beautiful, delicate cup. His friends were lovely, just as he’d promised. He was not their son or their brother or their nephew—he was simply Stoker, and he did not belong to them any more than he belonged to her. And yet, there was something that he and Sabine shared . . . some undefined, unspoken bond that tied them to each other and their shared history as they sat across the tea service from his friends. They did not touch, they did not explain, but they were . . . united. At least for now.
Sabine glanced at Mrs. Courtland and saw her watching them over the rim of her teacup. Sabine smiled and blushed a little. She was suddenly very glad she’d not given in to her impulse to touch him.
“Sabine?” Elisabeth said. “Would you like me to show you some of the work that I do?”
“Oh,” said Sabine, nearly dropping her teacup, “that would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Courtland.” She’d prepared herself for Elisabeth Courtland to steal away with Stoker, but she had not expected the older woman to require time alone with her.
“Elisabeth—please,” the older woman corrected, kissing her husband on the cheek. “Just a short little turn about the house,” she said with vague promise, leading the way to the door.
Chapter Sixteen
Sabine followed Elisabeth Courtland down the great hall, chatting about her travel guides. She had clearly read all of Sabine’s books. It had been rude, Sabine now thought, not to make Elisabeth’s acquaintance before. Even if she and Stoker were estranged, Sabine might have just said hello. The woman wanted, clearly, to know her.
You May Kiss the Duke Page 17
