“Goodness,” she said with a shaky laugh. “You did miss us!”
“Like I’d miss breathing.”
She petted at his shoulders and down his arms in a habitual motion, the same way she used to check him for injuries and sore muscles after a fight at The Nemesis. Nathaniel hadn’t been in a fight since the fire—at least, not a physical one. Fights in the House of Lords left their own kind of marks.
“Well, you’re home now,” Bess said.
“Home.” The curl of satisfaction in Nathaniel’s chest wrapped round his entire heart.
Nestling more firmly into the cradle of his body, Bess said, “How were the trustees? Is Thornecliff behaving himself?”
“Shockingly, yes.”
No one had been more surprised than Nathaniel to discover that the person who’d pulled him from the burning Nemesis was none other than the Duke of Thornecliff.
An uneasy truce had sprung up between Nathaniel and Thornecliff, based partly upon that entirely out-of-character act of heroism, but also due to Thornecliff’s role in uncovering the culprit behind the fire.
His erstwhile friend, Lord Phillip Dewbury, also known as Lord Pup, had turned up at Thorne’s townhouse the day after the fire in a drunken stupor, raving about deliberately setting the blaze in an attempt to get revenge upon those he felt had wronged him.
Rather than helping Lord Phillip to escape London, Thorne had summoned the authorities and handed him over to justice—an act that had prompted Bess to wonder if there was, perhaps, more to the worst duke in London than met the eye.
At his wife’s urging, Nathaniel had offered Thorne the chance to become a trustee of the Augusta Lively Home, never for a moment expecting the rotter to actually accept—only to find himself saddled with Thornecliff for good when the infuriating bastard handed him a sizable donation.
Now he had to see the blasted man every time he gave reports before Parliament and the trustees about the state of the Home. Never mind that it had been several years since Nathaniel had truly wished to pound Thornecliff’s face into a pulp.
“I met him at The Nemesis for a drink,” Nathaniel told Bess. Madame Leda had accepted Nathaniel’s help in funding the rebuilding of her beloved tavern. The least he could do, she’d sniffed, since The Berserker wouldn’t be fighting there any longer.
“How are Leda and Rufus?”
“Busy. She says the sheen of respectability from having a duke for a patron has kept the place full every night since it reopened.”
“And how is Thorne?”
Nathaniel grimaced. “He asked after Lucy. Not in so many words, you know how he is. But I know what he’s after.”
“Do you? I don’t think even Thornecliff knows what he wants with Lucy,” Bess observed. “Did you tell him she’s abroad?”
“And hinted strongly that she wasn’t coming back anytime soon, so he might as well forget about her,” Nathaniel growled. He might have softened a bit toward Thorne, but he’d be damned before he indulged the reprobate’s idle interest in Nathaniel’s sister.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Bess said. “Her last letter sounded a bit homesick to me. Perhaps the life of a globe-trotting explorer is wearing on her, finally. I predict she’ll be home before the last day of Christmas.”
The mention of Nathaniel’s favorite season brought a smile to his lips. Advent was upon them, Christmas Day only a couple of weeks away. Since the very first December after he and Bess had wed, they’d hosted the entire family at Ashbourn House for the holiday.
In the early years, it had been Gemma heavy with child and Hal buzzing round her like a particularly proud, protective bee, and Henrietta taking tea in the kitchens with Mrs. Drummond. Leda and Rufus had joined them on Christmas Day, still worn and reeling from the fire that had upended their lives.
Every December since, the entire house rang with laughter and carols, and smelled of spiced wine and pine boughs and the same gingerbread Kitty was now learning to bake.
And every December, Nathaniel felt as if he was wandering through a long-forgotten dream, the fulfillment of a wish he hadn’t even known he harbored.
Nathaniel was so busy thinking about Christmas, he almost missed the slow, secret smile that curved Bess’s lips. But he knew her face. He knew and loved every inch of her, better than he knew himself.
He knew what that smile meant.
Going still, his focus narrowed to take in the details of her face and figure, more sharply obvious after several days apart. He catalogued the softness of her breasts and hips, the beautiful roundness of her face, the lush antique gold gleam of her hair.
“Bess. Do you have another reason to expect Lucy will make the trip home from Europe before Twelfth Night?” he demanded thickly.
Her tiny smile grew. She took one of his large hands and placed it on the gentle swell of her stomach. “I do. Our family is growing.”
