You May Kiss the Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Mary laughed. “Right. Very good. But Willow is concerned that Stoker has suggested to you that marital relations between husband and wife involves some sort of . . . barter? Is that correct? Does he want something from you, Sabine? Surely not?”

  Sabine shook her head wildly. “No, no, it’s the other way around. And please understand. We’ve only shared so much as a, er, kiss—thus far. I mean, at all. He is still recovering—and when he is healed, I believe he will sail from London, just as before. There is no guarantee that ‘marital relations’ are in our future. But he made such a big fuss about the kiss, it raised the question. And that is why I wrote to Willow. Although I see now I should have simply come to you.” Sabine slumped on the sofa. “How has her reply reached you so quickly?”

  “Private courier,” said Mary, waving the envelope. “Willow felt this conversation was very urgent, indeed.”

  Sabine shook her head and choked out a laugh. But then she thought of Stoker, whom she hadn’t seen in five days despite her mounting desire to see him. Perhaps it was rather urgent. Perhaps she had been avoiding him because she needed some ruling on this issue.

  “But what do you mean,” asked Mary, “it’s the other way around?”

  Sabine nodded. “As part of this new . . . er, closeness between Stoker and myself, we have shared a kiss. Or two.” She took a deep breath. “I believe we both felt the kiss was rather . . . er, lovely, but he resisted the kiss at first. He was strangely resistant to embarking on anything remotely like, well, like physical affection—despite his obvious, at least to me, desire. Er, desire for it. He seems to believe—he seems to stridently believe—that all affection leads to sex, and that all sex takes advantage of the female in a way. As a result she must be compensated with a gift or protection or some favor. He further believes that this transaction, this trade, even in a loving marriage, is always damaging to the woman. Or something.” Sabine looked at Mary Boyd and shrugged.

  “Really?” marveled Mary. She tapped her index finger to her chin.

  Sabine told Mary some of Stoker’s terrible childhood and his years of crashing in and out of brothels. “He uses these experiences as his proof,” she said. “He has seen the worst of humanity, I’m afraid.

  “And so my question was,” Sabine finished, “could his view possibly be accurate? For all couples? Every time? Is there never mutual pleasure for pleasure’s sake?”

  “Absolutely,” enthused Mary lightly, taking up her polishing rag again. “You are right, and he is wrong, God save him. I can assure you, as a married woman of some thirty years, and as a woman who left a respected family to marry a carpenter who could offer me nothing but pleasure for pleasure’s sake, these sorts of relations happen all the time. Every night and day.”

  “I knew it,” said Sabine, a little breathless. She stared out the window at the treetops of Belgrave Square. “I knew Willow did not feel that Cassin takes advantage of her. Tessa, of course, was sorely abused—but not by Joseph. Joseph treats her like a queen. But I never got the sense that he did it to repay her for . . . for . . .”

  “There is no payment for sex in a happy marriage,” stated Mary, dipping her cloth in sticky mahogany stain.

  “But what about in a convenient marriage?” asked Sabine, the words out before she’d realized.

  “That is more difficult for me to define,” chuckled Mary. “My marriage was entirely inconvenient. My family disowned me, as you know. But perhaps this question is less urgent. And I can think of two women very dear to you who might expound on this at length by letter.” She winked and nodded to Willow’s envelope. “In the meantime, I believe you will be surprised how quickly you discover the answer for yourself. Assuming you can challenge Mr. Stoker’s notions about this bartering nonsense, whatever it is.” She applied the wet cloth to the chair and began to rub.

  Sabine watched her work for a moment, sipping her tea. “To him, it’s not nonsense. That is my fear.”

  “Yes, but you are hardly nonsensical, my girl. You are confident and proud and clever and your opinion will matter to him. If he truly wants you, it will matter.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t—”

  Mary cut her off with a tsking sound. “I’ve only met Mr. Stoker on two occasions, but I saw the way he watches you in both instances. Trust me when I say that he very much wants you. The real question may be, do you want him?”

  The real question.

  Indeed.

  Do you want him?

  “Well,” Sabine began slowly, “it has been far more pleasant having him here than I expected. He is very useful to the research I am doing on my uncle. He is not oppressive or demanding. I enjoy spending time with him—that is, near him.”

  She laughed. “I want to be in his room all the time.” She looked up. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that.”

  “Is it true?” Mary asked.

  Sabine considered this, trying to find truth in her jumble of feelings and fears and desires.

  “It is not untrue,” Sabine began. “And when I am in his room, and we are talking or he is taking his meal, I . . . I want to touch him. I’ve never been so overwhelmed with the desire to put my hands on another person.” Sabine stood up. “Does this sound mad?”

  “Not at all. It sounds very natural, in fact. There is a name for what you are describing, but I dare not say it. Not yet.”

  Sabine barely heard Mary as she began to pace. “But he will not stay in London. When he recovers, he’ll show his gratitude in some detached, informal way, and sail away. That was our agreement, and he speaks daily about recovering his ship and his crew. When he leaves, it won’t matter what I want. He only married me because I swore we would always live apart. He . . . he’s told me he is in the market for a piece of property to call home—his first ever home. He is hoping to settle down and find some peace after a lifetime of restlessness. It won’t be in London. It won’t be in England at all.”

  “Oh, lovely,” said Mary brightly. “Please remind him that I should be happy to design the interiors when he settles on a place. We’ve clients around the world. I’m so very good at helping wealthy men spend their money on peaceful first homes. He’s said to be one of the richest men in England, isn’t he?”

  “That is what is said,” said Sabine.

  “Imagine, one of the richest men in the country, convalescing in my cellar.” Mary glanced at Sabine. “Of all the places for him to recover. I wonder why a man such as this might linger . . . here . . . with us? When he could be anywhere?”

  “Oh, he is very ill,” Sabine assured her. “Far too ill to relocate.”

  Mary gestured to the letter again. “Forgive me if I don’t think he sounds quite as ill as one might be led to believe.” She gave another wink.

  Sabine considered this, drifting among the stacks of half-completed furniture.

  Mary called, “Will we see you tonight at dinner, dear?”

  “Perhaps not tonight, thank you,” said Sabine. “I . . . I will send Perry for a tray.”

  “Very well. Carry on. Lovely chat.” Mary Boyd smiled, took hold of the chair, and flipped it. “I’m always here when you have need of me. Do not forget.”

  “Thank you,” Sabine mumbled, drifting out the door. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Perry?”

  Stoker heard the rapid scuttle of footsteps that he knew belonged to the harried maid. It pained him to shout through the apartments, but he knew of no other way get the girl’s attention. “Perry?” he called again, swearing in his head.

  The girl had taken very seriously the edict that Sabine and Harley alone would manage his care. He’d yet to see more than the blur of her uniform zip by outside his open doorway, although a blur was more than he could say for how much he’d seen of Sabine.

  Sabine.

  He’d not seen her since The Lapse, as he had come to think of the afternoon of their kiss. Five days ago. She’d sent notes, apologies, forwarded letters from friends
through Harley and even Dr. Cornwell, but he had not seen her.

  It was exactly as he had expected. Actually, he’d expected immediate eviction, but perhaps she clung to some guilty notion of Christian charity. He was, as she said repeatedly, nearly dead.

  But how near dead could he have been to erupt into a torrent of desire so stunningly aggressive, she’d kept away for five days? Stoker had devoted the solitary time to ruminating in utter misery, trying to second-guess how overwhelmed and . . . plundered she must feel. It was no wonder she’d not shown her face—despite her pride and her resilience. There was a possibility he would never see her again in this life.

  No, stop. He reminded himself not to become operatic. Sabine was not a coward, nor was she missish. No doubt she’d tolerated the ministrations, but it would take more to compel her to actually flee from him. Instead, she had abandoned their easy regard. They would return to the thrice-per-decade in-person meetings, and she would be civil if not warm. Warmth, in particular, would be out of the question because she would not wish to encourage him. Little did she know (and thank God) how very little encouragement he required. Even now, even racked with guilt and anxiety, he wanted her still.

  He detested himself for his own weakness and the ever-present strumming lust. What before had been an underlying throb had been elevated by her presence to the thunder of a thousand horses. His blood ran hot, his body was hard, and his mind drifted to private, unspoken things. Even before, when he was burning with fever and light-headed with lack of blood, he’d watched her in the most elemental way. His skin had buzzed beneath her most innocuous touch. How could he be expected to resist when she moved so very close, when she reached for his arm, when she bade him explain such base, torrid things?

  When she’d passed along the letter from Joseph, and Stoker had realized he had no friend who could be bothered to leave his happy life to assist him when he was nearly bloody dead (he would address this with Joseph and Cassin at a later date), he’d vowed, then and there, to hire his own team of caregivers to move him to his own suite of rooms in Regent Street. But then Harley had mentioned Sabine’s plans for the week—stalking a chemist in Regent Street one day, followed by (Stoker’s throat still closed at the thought) poking around a bloody charcoal kiln in Hampstead the next—and he realized there was no way he could go. She put herself in too much danger.

  Oh, the irony. She was in danger here, from him and his lust, just the same as she was in danger when she tailed suspected criminals around London. A fair comparison? Possibly, also possibly an overstatement. There was always the chance the chemist and kiln master were harmless.

  I can resist, he told himself. I’ll not meet her half-dressed again. She won’t lean in, or rub my arm. I won’t give explanations for explicit things that invoke coarse words and vivid images.

  She’d already kept away for five days, which proved his point. Her regret would be safeguard enough.

  As to the London smugglers and her investigation, he could offer no effective security, invalid that he was, but at least he could track when she left, where she was going, and when she returned. And perhaps, by some miracle, she might have some question or theory urgent enough to supersede the damage caused by The Lapse. If she needed him, he would not be in Regent Street; if she needed him, he would be here.

  Except not this afternoon, he thought, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. This afternoon I will walk around the bloody block if it kills me.

  Stoker listened for the maid’s footsteps outside the door and called out again. “Perry?”

  He heard a small intake of breath and faint throat-clearing.

  “Perry, if that’s you,” he went on, “might I beg a favor?”

  Silence.

  Stoker squinted at the doorway. “Perry?”

  Ever so softly, he heard four hesitant footsteps. He stifled the urge to shout, waiting instead. Eventually, after what seemed like five minutes, the slight, head-bowed profile of the young maid appeared in the open space of the door. She did not look up.

  “Perry. Good. There you are. Ah, do you remember me?” he asked gently.

  The girl nodded.

  “Right. Harley tells me that you’ve come to London to assist Sabine. I’m grateful to you. I’ve arranged for a substantial bonus to appear in your wages for the month.”

  “Oh, his Lordship the Earl of Cassin pays my wages, sir,” reported Perry, shaking her head at the floor, “and quite generously, I might add. A pension too.”

  Stoker exhaled, thinking of his formerly impoverished friend Cassin, before the guano fortune rolled in. “Of course,” he said. “I presume too much. You honor the earl with your service, and you honor Sabine by coming all this way. If you’ve no use for an increase to your salary, I wonder if I might beg a favor outright?”

  “A favor?” Perry said to the floor. Her voice was deeply suspicious.

  “I’m suffocating in this bedroom and I should like to step outside, walk around the block or into the gardens of Belgrave Square. Harley has helped me dress, but I wonder if you might lend a hand to locate my cane. I’ll need a hat, if possible. You get the idea.”

  “Oh no,” scolded Perry, shaking her head, “Miss Sabine has given strict orders that no one should look after you but herself or Mr. Harley. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Yes, but Miss Sabine is not here, is she?” Stoker said. “And Harley has been called upstairs. I can see sunshine from the window but there’s no guarantee it will remain. I should like to take some air while I can.”

  “But sir?” challenged Perry, “what would the doctor say about—”

  “Perry? Look up, if you please. Look at me. I’m fully clothed. I am unarmed. I am merely asking for a favor.”

  The maid lifted her head but kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  Stoker sighed. “You’ve suggested that you’re immune to monetary incentive, but I’ve got a ten-pound note for you if you’ll simply spare five minutes to help me out the bloody door.”

  Perry gasped at his language, but she also opened her eyes. Stoker had managed to heave himself to standing and now hovered beside the bed. He raised his hands, palms up. There, you see?

  Perry gasped again. “But you’re not half-dead!” the maid exclaimed.

  “That remains to be seen,” he chuckled, taking a careful step. “Can you find where they’ve hidden my hat and a cane?”

  “But you look just the same as before, Mr. Stoker!” the maid praised, gawking from the doorway.

  “Is that a compliment or an insult? Where is my hat?”

  “They told me you were burning with fever, starved down, thin as a blade. They said you were swollen with infection.”

  “Thin as a blade and swollen with infection,” Stoker mumbled. “Well, I don’t do anything half measure. Do you see a cane in the corridor? I could find my own hat, if I only had the cane.”

  “But what will Miss Sabine say when she comes home to discover you’ve gone out?”

  “Likely she will be relieved. How warm is it? I despise London weather. I became a sailor to escape this frigid island.”

  The maid had finally moved from her spot and dashed about, producing items Stoker might find useful for a walk. She piled her arms with an umbrella, a week-old broadsheet, two shillings from her own pocket, a stack of biscuits from a discarded tea tray, a lady’s fan, his hat—praise God—and two editions of Sabine’s Noble Guide to London.

  “Would you like to take a chair into the gardens, sir?” she asked.

  “Just the cane, Perry, if it can be found.”

  “Oh right.” She piled her armful of provisions on the bench and produced the cane from behind the door.

  “Thank you,” he said. Slowly, taking care to protect the pulling stitches and soreness in his side, Stoker walked through the door and out into the September sunshine.

  “Stoker?” Sabine called, stomping through the overgrown path that led deep into the gated garden of Belgrave Square. The builders of
Belgravia had made great strides, constructing an exclusive neighborhood out of former marshland in only five years’ time, but garden pathways had been an afterthought, clearly. “Stoker?” she called again.

  She held her breath and listened, expecting to find him collapsed on the ground. She rounded a large birch tree, its trunk crowded with overgrown rhododendrons, and stumbled into a sunny clearing with a stone bench and birdbath. Thick foliage, lush from September rains and just beginning to turn red and gold, hung over the bench, filtering sunlight like stained glass. Swirling leaves fell intermittently, floating on the surface of the birdbath and dotting the soft green grass. Jon Stoker, dressed in trousers and shirtsleeves, stood at the outer edge, where sod met hedge.

  Sabine came up short when she saw him. He was dressed in day clothes, his head was bare, but a hat rested on the bench. He was steady and tall on uneven sod and his broad shoulders pulled against the white linen of his shirt. He was . . . whole.

  “Stoker?” she said again, more softly.

  He turned, cringing a little, putting a hand to his wound. When he saw it was her, he said, “Sabine.” A statement, not an invitation.

  “You’re here,” she said, the first appropriate thing that popped into her mind.

  You’re well; you’re dressed; you’re beautiful—it was all wrong.

  “I could not lie inside another hour,” he said. “I’m reading correspondence by the light of the sun instead of your smoky lanterns.”

  “You must be recovered,” she said, surprised by his progress in just five days. Now he will leave, she thought. She felt her chest deflate.

  “Not recovered so much as . . . improved,” he said.

  “I’m glad,” she told him, even while Now he will leave circled round and round inside her head.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  He looked at the paper in his hand. “I’ve hired an investigator in Portugal, and he finally has something to report. My ship has been found. One by one, members of my crew are sending word from ports around Spain and the North of Africa.”