Page 35 of To Steal a Kiss

What was the point?

There was no point. There had been no point for much of his existence. Only, for the last six years, he’d lived in blissful ignorance of that fact. Now, however, his mind had been focused, his thoughts marshalled and herded—protesting as they went—and forced to come to the point.

Only to discover… there wasn’t one.

He sighed, and then swore again for having done so.

Pitiful. That’s what it was. Nathaniel Hunt flat on his back, prostrate, like a fighter being counted out while his opponent celebrated and raised his fists in victory….

Flattened by love.

He’d told Tilda it was like being run down by the mail coach and that had been no exaggeration. In those brief, glorious, heady moments with Alice in his arms, he’d glimpsed a world he’d forgotten existed. He’d made himself forget. He’d made himself despise the idea because he’d thought it lost to him.

Domestic bliss was something that caught you like a noose about the neck, and once caught your pleasure was as cooked as your goose, not to mention other vital parts of the male anatomy.

Except it hadn’t felt like being caught. It had felt liberating, as if at last he might be free to be himself. With Alice he’d thought he’d found someone in whom he could put his trust, someone who wouldn’t expect him to always be the charismatic scoundrel everyone knew him to be. He hadn’t really meant to become that man, except that after his father had lost everything and tossed him and Matilda into the gutter, what choice had he had?

His pride—the fierce pride of a young man too aware of his own failings—had been crushed. His friends pitied him; some cut him dead, others were kind. Nate had never been sure which was worse. So, he’d fixed a careless smile to his face and adopted a cynical air, and lived up, or perhaps down, to the reputation his father had gifted him: that of a dissolute gambler and libertine. The only difference being, Nate was good at it. Winning needed the luck of the devil, and Nate seemed to have that in spades.

Or he’d thought so, until it had run out last night.

Hunter’s was all the rage, frequented by the famous and infamous; a place where dukes rubbed shoulders with self-made men, if their pockets were deep enough. That was something Nate always took a great deal of trouble to investigate. No one got membership to Hunter’s if there was a risk it would ruin them to do so. Nate refused to bear the burden of that guilt. Yet, that gave the club an exclusivity that made men fall over themselves to gain membership. It had become a badge worn by the elite, and only those who could lose a fortune and not blink needed to apply.

So, Nate was a vastly wealthy man, and yet his reputation was besmirched, his sister ruined, and any chance of anything decent long gone, or so he’d believed. Alice had opened his eyes to the possibility that maybe, just maybe the right woman might see past the persona of The Hunter. Just maybe, she might realise there was someone else waiting in the shadows of that reputation. He’d believed it. For the space of those moments they’d shared, he’d been fool enough to lose his heart for it.

Hearing her reject him so summarily, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, and in front of Edgar Bindley… he’d been that awkward young man all over again, with his pride in tatters.

Nate sighed.

A knock at his office door had him scowling. He’d expressly forbidden anyone to disturb him. At least here he’d expected to mope in peace. Hopkins was on duty, and he should have more sense.

“Go away,” he yelled, folding his arms and staring up at the ceiling.

“Can’t,” yelled back an indignant voice. Yes, that was Hopkins. “There’s some fancy bit here to see you.”

Oh, good lord, the last thing he wanted now was some sordid dalliance. It wasn’t unheard of for married ladies to seek him out here, in the hopes of excitement and the illicit brand of pleasure he could provide. Today the idea made him sick. He was tired of being some woman or other’s dirty secret. He’d had a glimpse of another life and the longing for it consumed him.

“Tell whoever it was I’m not here,” he shouted, before inspiration hit. “Better yet, tell them I’ve got syphilis.” That ought to cool their ardour, he thought with a grim smile.

“No need,” Hopkins replied, sounding amused. “She heard that. Besides, the chit reckons she’s your fiancée.”

Nate froze, his heart pitching in his chest.

Fiancée?

He scrambled to move so fast that he fell off the settee and bashed his knee on the floor. Cursing, he hurried to his feet and struggled to smooth down his hair, before realising he was wrecked and there was little he could do about it now. If that was Alice… if she’d come here….

Nate snatched the door open. Hopkins’s burly figure filled the doorway.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

Hopkins moved a little to one side, and there she was. Petite and lovely, dressed in a light, sprigged muslin gown, a summer green spencer and matching bonnet, with her fiery curls framing her face, she took his breath away. Nate felt suddenly giddy and then told himself to stop being such a bloody fool; there might be any number of reasons she was here… not that he could think of a single one.

“Hello, Nate,” she said, her cheeks scarlet as she twisted the handle of her reticule all out of shape. She was nervous. “M-May I come in, p-please?”

For a moment Nate just stared at her, too stunned to do anything as intelligent as reply to her.

“Well?” Hopkins demanded, staring between them both. “Do you want to see ’er or shall I put her back outside?”