“I cannot imagine saying something so milquetoast or devoid of manly swagger.”
You embody manly swagger,she thought. It surprised her, because she was not in the business of considering manliness or swagger, except perhaps to avoid it—but it was true. Jon Stoker exuded a sort of quiet, watchful stoicism; a fierceness; a hard edge that was pure male. He’d been every inch a man, even when she dragged him, half-dead, to this bed.
Now he seemed entirely alive.
“Why didyouagree to marryme?” Sabine asked. They’d spoken at length in the days since he’d come, but not about personal matters, not really. Sabine was hardly an idle gossip, but she could venture from the topic of wagons and barrels and smugglers, just this once. The question of why he’d married her had crossed her mind a thousand times in the past four years. She’d wondered about it after their brief encounters and after she’d read his letters. Sometimes simply as she lay in bed at night, dreaming of where in the wide world he might be at that moment and if he ever thought of her.
He was here now, and they’d finally stumbled into an intimate conversation. She repeated the question. “Why did you agree to marry me?”
“Because of your brazen tattoo,” he said.
She laughed. “Valiant effort.”
“Because of the dowry money.”
“We both know this is a lie. Tessa and Willow have told me that you were the richest man in the partnership at the time of our marriage.”
“Just to be clear,” he said, “I’m still the richest.”
“High time for another tattoo.” She smiled. “Take the shine off that respectability.”
“I will never be respectable.”
She laughed with incredulity. “Why not? Joseph Chance is a former serving boy who is running for Parliament. He’s every inch the respected statesman.”
“Joseph was not—” Stoker stopped and looked down at the newspaper on his lap.
“Oh yes,” Sabine said sarcastically, “your terrible past. Your courtesan mother and the brothel and your life on the streets.”
Stoker looked up and crossed his arms over his chest. Sabine blinked at the new shape and breadth of his muscled arms. He said, “Never let it be said that Sabine Noble is overly sympathetic.”
“My name is Sabine Stoker, actually. And I should like to know why you did it. Come on, then, it’s only fair. Itold you why I agreed to marry.”
“Ah, you told me some part of why. I know the tattoo wasn’t your only reason.”
“Oh, and now you would have me say more? Fine. I agreed to marry you because you seemed to pass no judgment on my miserable situation—you didn’t even appear shocked. You took remarkably creative initiative when you stuffed Sir Dryden into the cupboard. And you were available.”
“Available?”
“Right time, right place. So fortuitous.”
“I am the fortunate one,” he said quietly, “marrying you.”
“Stop,” she said, but she felt a flutter of warmth shimmer in her belly. “You don’t even know me. We never see each other—” He opened his mouth to interrupt but she spoke over him.
“I’m not complaining,” she said, “God knows I would not complain. This was our agreement. But you are present now, and we are having this conversation, and I’ve shared my part—twice, in fact—and now it’s only fair that you share yours.” She leaned across the bed, a bridge over his legs, propping herself on her hand.
Stoker breathed in, either to brace himself or make some pronouncement, she couldn’t say. He rubbed his jaw and the back of his neck. He shook his head slightly.
A proper woman,Sabine thought, her heartbeat suddenly very loud in her ears,would drop the matter. A proper woman would have shied away after his first evasion. A proper woman would not be inching closer to his half-naked body, forcing him to reveal bold truths.
Perhaps I am not a—
Well, I’m not so much improper as tenacious.
“I’m tired,” he tried.
“You don’t look tired to me.”
