Nicholas also knelt, wrapping his arms around the two of them. “You are my family,” he said. “Bothof you. And I’m happy when I’m with you both. I’m not happy when you run away because you think you know better, Soph. You worried us.”
“I’m sorry,” Sophia mumbled.
“It’s all right.” Isadora held her tighter. “But just don’t do it again, all right?”
“I won’t.” Sophia sniffed and reluctantly pulled away, wiping at her eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Nicholas said immediately, and although Isadora watched the scene with open delight, she felt a tiny pang at the ease with which he said the words. She knew how she felt, but Nicholas had never come close to saying that to her.
The thought was a selfish one, and she pushed it away.
A meowing shape wound its way between their legs, and Sophia looked down, staring at Molly the cat. Her eyes widened.
“She’s had her kittens!”
The cat meowed again, seeming to confirm this, and trotted to the door, looking back briefly.
“She’s leading us to the kittens.” Sophia wiped her eyes again, a smile replacing her tears. “That must mean she trusts us!”
“Well, she certainly trusts you,” Isadora said, taking her hand. They followed the cat upstairs to the same guest bedroom Sophia had hidden in all those weeks ago, and there, in the tinyin-built closet Sophia had shut herself away in, the cat led them proudly to a small nest she had made in the linen.
Tiny, blind faces peeked out, their noses wet and pink, and their eyes slitted shut. By the looks of them, they could only be a week old at most.
Isadora clasped both hands to her heart and sat back on her haunches as Sophia, the trusted cat-friend, crawled in to lie beside the nest. Molly, content with this display of affection, returned to her position by her babies, all three of which immediately squirmed, seeking her milk.
For a strange, unidentifiable reason, the sight made Isadora want to cry. Her eyes stung, and she pressed one of her hands to her mouth, holding back the emotions. Sophia, engrossed in watching the suckling kittens, didn’t notice.
But Nicholas’s hand squeezed Isadora’s shoulder. “They’ll be all right,” he whispered. “We’ll look after them.”
Isadora didn’t know how to tell him that her fear for the kittens’ safety was not why she felt so…much. The emotions were not necessarily negative, but they were overwhelming, crushing her underneath their pressure.
Nicholas’s hand moved to her neck, gently reassuring, and she scolded herself for feeling in any way jealous of Sophia’s claim to his love. She was his wife, and he treated her as such. What more could she ask for?
What more could she ever expect to want? She had her family, and they had chosen her, just as Sophia had chosen the cat and her kittens. That was what love was, wasn’t it? A choice?
Isadora leaned against Nicholas and decided to choose to trust. He had proven himself—she needed no other assurances that he wouldn’t let her down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Nicholas stretched his legs out at the gentleman’s club, the glass of scotch in his hand. Smoke twirled hazily about the ceiling, and ladies with rouged cheeks tried their luck with the other gentlemen, perching on their laps and enticing them with their promises oflater.
Nicholas had already sent one such lady packing. Perhaps things were not perfect with Isadora—even now, he could not help feeling as though a thin pane of glass stood between them, preventing him from being fully open with her. She had almost all his secrets—almost. But thatalmostchewed on him in his quiet moments. Uncertainty convinced him that things were too good to last.
He hated it.
Oliver sat beside him, eyes droopy. “I think I’ll do it soon,” he mumbled.
“Do what?”
“…Propose.”
Nicholas cracked an eye. “Are you asking for my permission?”
“Will you deny it?”
“Not in the slightest. I vanquished the right to deny Marie anything long ago, and if it brings her happiness as much as I see it in her, then I encourage you to pursue it as far as you will. Ask her to marry you. I suspect she’ll agree.” Nevermindsuspect—Nicholas was certain that Marie would have half of York deaf with her good old shrieks of excitement.
He took a sip of the scotch and might have brought up the subject of finally forgoing pugilism—if another gentleman hadn’t approached them. At first, Nicholas almost didn’t recognize him—the man’s face was bland, almost to the point of being unmemorable. A face he could walk past a thousand times and think nothing of.
