The words had been like a needle to the fragile bubble of contentment where she’d been floating.
Why had she let herself hope?
Yes, Nathaniel was fond of her. And yes, the sexual connection between them was undeniable. They knew each other’s bodies too well, too intimately, not to create fireworks in bed. Where to touch, how to caress. How to read each other’s responses inorder to inflame and satisfy. But fantastic sex didn’t mean he thought she was the right choice for his viscountess.
Hadn’t she already proven how unsuitable she was? Wasn’t he trying to divorce her? Probably so that he could marry a proper lady of the ton who could give him proper sons and daughters to continue his lineage. The thought of him married to someone else stabbed deep, sharp as a blade. It was unbearable. Inconceivable. Nathaniel washers.
Except…he wasn’t. Not anymore.
He was now Viscount Greystone. And she was still the bastard daughter of an actress. No wonder he had been so concerned about the possibility of her being the mother of his heir. They couldn’t change who they were. She wasn’t going to become an aristocrat. And to be honest, she didn’t want that role. It had only made her miserable when she’d tried.
She had never belonged anywhere. She was neither part of his world, nor part of the theater world where her mum had flourished. She was a hybrid creature. A chameleon. The only time she had felt she had belonged somewhere was in the wonderful early years of their marriage. Being an agent, being his wife. That had felt like her true calling. Her place in the world. The person she really was. But it hadn’t lasted. And now she was adrift once more.
A low rumble in her stomach pulled her from the spiral of her thoughts. A prosaic reminder that she hadn’t eaten since the evening before.
The arm around her tightened, and she felt warm lips brush her nape in a lazy kiss. His voice, gravelly with sleep, rumbled against her shoulder. “I see you’re awake.”
The sound of it curled around her like smoke—rich and warm, like the whisky he favored. The whisky she had learned to enjoy because it reminded her of him.
She shifted, rolling within his arms to face him. Nathaniel propped himself on an elbow, the sheet falling to his waist, revealing the lean lines of his chest and the faint smattering of hair she knew so well. A lock of sable hair tumbled over his brow, making him look boyish despite the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Lines that spoke of laughter but also revealed his age. He was no boy, but a man in his prime at five and thirty.
She reached up, brushing it back, her fingers lingering against the rough shadow of his jaw. She loved this man. Desperately. Irrevocably. Had done so for over a decade and would continue to for the rest of her life, no matter where their paths took them.
“Are you hungry?” he asked softly, his palm absently caressing her belly.
“Yes.” She wasn’t sure if she meant for food.
The glint in his eyes suggested he hadn’t meant food, either.
“I know. Me too.” His thumb traced a teasing circle low on her stomach. “But we need sustenance first.”
He kissed her quickly—just a brush of lips that promised more—and then swung out of bed in one smooth motion.
She couldn’t help watching as he stretched, gloriously naked, the muscles of his back flexing. Half aroused already and growing under her gaze.
He caught her look and laughed, pushing at his hardening cock. “Don’t look at me like that, you wicked woman. Later.”
There was a promise in his voice as he padded toward the bathing chamber, returning wearing only his smalls. Even partially clothed, the sight of him sent heat curling low in her belly.
“Is the maid coming today?” he asked.
“No. She’s due tomorrow.”
“Good, we have the house to ourselves. Let’s see what we can scavenge to eat.” He didn’t bother with the rest of his clothingas he sauntered toward the door before turning to wink at her. “Unless you’d rather we both starve in bed.”
He left the room, presumably heading to the kitchen.
Alice sat up slowly, dragging the sheet with her. Her muscles protested with delicious little aches, reminding her it had been too long since she had used some of them. She stretched, rolling her shoulders and tilting her head to ease the tension there, then slipped on her dressing robe, belting it loosely at the waist.
The cool satin whispered against her skin as she padded barefoot to the door. Downstairs, she could already hear faint movement—cupboards opening, the creak of the kitchen floorboards, the soft clink of china.
It was all …achingly familiar.
She found Nathaniel in the kitchen, bare-chested and with his underwear riding low on his slim hips, hair still slightly mussed from sleep. He was standing by the range, coaxing a small flame to life beneath the kettle. The sight of him there—so at ease in the modest kitchen they had once shared—sent a ripple of disquiet through her.
Six years ago, this had been routine. Them, together, preparing tea or toast after returning from a mission. Laughing over burned eggs or trading the newspaper back and forth. She used to believe such simple rituals were unshakable. Now they felt like memories from another life.
“Ah,” he said softly, glancing up. His eyes skimmed over her—bare feet, robe, hair mussed from their night. Heat flared in his gaze for a fraction of a second before he reined it in. “You’re here. Good. I haven’t been able to find the eggs.”
