“Poor Bridget,” cooed Sabine, “maligned by her new best friend.”
He chuckled and she said, “No laughing.” Stoker bit his lip and carried on, sparing a glance at her face. Her expression was determined as if she saw a finish line at the end of the corridor. She held herself slightly away, despite the burden of his weight. She looked like a woman caring cautiously for a wounded animal. It unnerved her to be so very close to him—he knew this. At the altar when they’d married, she’d stood three feet away. She never accepted his help on or off a horse. There were no handshakes or, God forbid, a proffered hand when they said hello. They had been friendly enough these past four years, but her evasiveness was ever present, an unseen sentry that stood between them. He did not question it. He had, in fact, encouraged it. Evading him was one of her best instincts.
But she could not evade him now. Now she bloody carried him.
“Have you heard lately from the duke?” she asked lightly.
“You are trying to distract me,” he grunted.
“Perhaps, but I also would not mind knowing. I got rather caught up in researching the illustrious Duke of Wrest, I must say. It prepared me to investigate Sir Dryden. How proficient I’ve become at watching old men stagger from their clubs or rendezvous with their mistresses. Trailing His Grace was good fun while it lasted, but then your letters stopped.”
Stoker missed a step and groaned. It allowed him to postpone his reply, and he took a deep, pained breath.
The letters.
She was referring to their one sustained exchange over these past four years. He’d sent her a series of letters asking if she might undertake an errand now and again to check up on an aging aristocrat—the impoverished Duke of Wrest—who, through a solicitor, had mounted a campaign to claim Stoker as his long-lost son.
This old man, of whom Stoker had previously never known, insisted he had been one of his mother’s customers long ago. Not merely a customer, a great favorite who had actuallysiredStoker some thirty-six years ago. Certainly, Stoker’s mother, Marie, had entertained many men, but Stoker was quite certain that none among them was a duke. Now the old man apparently lived in a crumbling mansionette in Chelsea, just blocks from Belgravia.
Stoker, away from England for months at the time, imposed on his estranged wife’s proximity and cleverness to play the role of spy. It was the only time he allowed the never-ending scandal of his childhood to brush up against the bright tidiness of Sabine’s own life.
The man didn’t really know Stoker, and certainly they were not related. The grasping nobleman had read about Stoker’s success in the papers, and when he’d learned a few basic facts, he’d embarked on a scheme to cousin up. Research into Stoker’s humble beginnings had been the only backstory he’d required to cast himself as long-lost papa.
When Stoker wrote to Sabine and asked if she, living so very close to the duke’s home, might quietly discover anything about the old man, her response had been immediate:It would be my pleasure to snoop on an opportunistic old duke.
And so began their chain of spirited correspondence. That is, her letters were spirited, clever, and wry. Stoker’s replies were cynical and to the point. It was the one and only time in his life when he awaited the post with bated anticipation.
But then Wrest’s overtures to Stoker turned from imploring and sentimental to demanding and downright threatening, and Stoker felt that Sabine’s involvement, even her confidential involvement, put her at risk. He would not have her harassed or menaced by a desperate old man who, by all accounts, was out of money and saw opportunity in an invented bastard son (who was also a newly minted millionaire). Despite the pleasure of corresponding with Sabine, Stoker put her investigation to an end.
“I did not like the tone of the letters I was receiving from the duke’s solicitor,” he said now. “It’s one thing to pretend to be my long-lost papa, and quite another to suggest that he is owed some recompense from me. He was a curiosity for a time, and then he was a nuisance. He is not worth the bother.”
“It was no bother to me,” she said. “I rather liked spying on the man.”
For this, Stoker had no answer. He’d stopped her snooping because it seemed unsafe. She’d promptly embarked upon the investigation of her uncle, putting herself in the path of a far more dangerous set.
“You’re a natural sleuth, it would seem,” he said.
She shot him a look but shouldered on.
They’d staggered onward, walking nearly cheek to cheek. He could smell her—wind and grass and just the faintest whiff of... butterscotch. He tried to turn his face away, but it took all his strength just to make his way forward without crushing her. He breathed her in, filing away the memory. He felt her skirts, heavy against his legs; her thin shoulders, strong and upright. Her hand was small but tight in his own.Remember,he thought through the pain. He would fall asleep to these details for a year.
Sabine was tall compared to many women, with deep curves and legs that ate up the ground with long, purposeful strides. She did everything, including carry his damaged form, as if it was the most important task of the day. When Sabine applied herself to something, everything else fell away. Distraction was never a threat. Time and again since his arrival, he’d found himself caught up in the simple pleasure of watching her. He was thoroughly entertained by the sight of her diligently rolling a bandage or tossing a ball to the dog.
Now that he actually touched her, he thanked God for his wound. It was the double-edged sword that allowed him to hold her without disgracing her, or himself.
“How did you manage to get so very far from the bed?” she asked now, glancing up to catch his stare.
Stoker jerked his gaze to the floor. “The stitches tore when Harley helped me into your chair. I was quite mobile before that, actually.”
“Congratulations,” she said, “for reversing days of progress in the length of one afternoon.To writecorrespondence.”
He grimaced, allowing the excuse of extreme pain to preclude any answer. What could he say? She was exactly bloody right.
Jon Stoker was a lot heavier than he appeared, and that was saying a lot. He appeared very heavy indeed. He was a foot taller than Sabine and twice as broad. He could scoop up Bridget with one giant hand. His sleeping body made Sabine’s comfortable bed look like a cot.
With drunken progress, they skidded along one wall, then the other. It was strenuous, sweaty work, with copiousoofsand profanity and a litany of excuses and denials from a gasping Stoker.
Sabine was surprised by none of this—of course he was large and heavy, and of course it was a trial for him to be dragged, especially by her. What surprised her was how little it bothered her to be so very close to him.
