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 table 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 himsmile.
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.”
