Chapter Twenty-Two
Perry and Bridget were waiting up for them when Sabine and Stoker reached Belgrave Square. Although Sabine had draped herself almost in Stoker’s lap in the carriage, they’d ridden in sleepy silence. The dog’s barking and Perry’s horror over her loose hair and ruined dress were both jarring and unwelcome. Sabine scooped up the excited dog and thrust her at Perry, hoping the two would cancel each other out.
In the end she was given no choice but to allow Perry to attend her in her upstairs bedroom. She could not navigate the ripped dress or mangled corset alone, and she had ivy in her hair. For once the maid did not drill her with questions. She chatted pleasantly and helped her from the dress, agreeing it could not be mended. She brushed out Sabine’s hair and plaited it in a single fat braid down her back. After she helped Sabine into a nightgown, Perry moved to turn down the bed.
“Don’t bother,” Sabine said. “I will sleep downstairs tonight.”
“In the study, miss?” asked Perry.
“No,” said Sabine simply. She handed the dog to her a second time with an imploring look.
“Very good, miss,” said Perry and she bustled away. Sabine drew a deep breath, took up a candle, and descended the stairs to her old bedroom.
Stoker was in bed, reading correspondence. He looked up, his gaze capturing her eyes for a moment, then dropping to her thin white nightgown, her bare feet, and up again. His expression could not have been more alarmed if an elk had walked into the room.
Sabine had already made up her mind not to discuss her intrusion in favor of simply doing it. They’d already discussed too much, for too long, with too little progress. She’d been unforgivably rude, heartless, really, not to mention brazen and demanding. If he had deserved it, well, it did not mean he enjoyed it.
She approached the bed and blew out the candle. The room fell to half-light. She settled the candle on the floor and regarded the bed. He was situated dead in the center, frozen in place, gaping at her. He wore a dressing gown open at the throat, and spectacles.
“I did not know you wore spectacles,” she said. She drew back the covers. If he did not move, she would have only a sliver of space.
Can you scoot?The words were on the tip of her tongue, but—less talking. She was determined. When it came right down to it, she was certain he would make room rather than bump up against her.
She turned to sit on the mattress, her intention clear.
“You mean to kill me?” he rasped. “After I survived the morgue and the stabbing?”
She swung her legs beneath the covers and fell back on the pillow. She squinted at the letters in his hand. It was the report from Portugal by his investigator. “You will not die,” she said.
“I am already dead,” he mumbled, dropping the letters and spectacles on the nightstand. He turned on his side, facing her.
She had prepared a brief speech. She turned her head on the pillow. “I’ve not asked you how long you will stay here.”
“You ask me every day if I am preparing to go.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve not asked you how long you will stay,” she repeated. To her horror, a lump was forming in her throat. She coughed. “I’ve asked many other things of you, but pride and the value I put on my own independence prevents me from asking this. As long as you remain, this is what I want. To share your bed. Even if it’s only for a time. You said that the nature of our marriage would change if we made love. That has happened, and I agree. And I should like this to be part of the change. Do you mind so terribly?”
Her heart pounded. She was certain that he did not mind; yet it was one thing to be overcome by passion and quite another to deliberately slide into bed with some measure of calm.
She’d vowed she would not launch into a lecture if he began down the road of wanting her too much or not trusting himself, etcetera, etcetera. She would not indulge him, but she was weary of all of the talking.
He stared at her, saying nothing, and the thoughtI have no idea what I’m doingflashed in her brain. Thank God she’d fallen in love with a man whose footing was as uncertain as her own.
“Sabine, I have wanted you in this bed every night that you occupied the chair instead.”
“Well, then, we’re in perfect accord.”
“We arenotin perfect accord.”
“But we are in bed,” she said.
“Where else am I to go?”
To the Courtlands’. To your own suite of rooms in Regent Street. To Cassin in Yorkshire. To Joseph in County Durham. To anywhere your ship will sail you.
There were so many places for him to go, but he remained and it felt significant, just as Mary Boyd had said.
“Did you discover anything new,” she asked, “rereading your investigators’ letters now that you know about the duke?” Her leg slid against his beneath the covers, and she was intrigued by the feel of hair and skin and tight muscle.
