“I’ve nothing to say to a nosy reporter, but ‘leave.’”
“You’re hiding a secret, and I’m close to exposing the truth.”
Fury ripping through him, Arthur took a step toward Phineas, but Ester held on to his tailcoat.
“Please, Bex. Don’t.” Her whisper was soft, smothering the fire in him, at least the one to pummel Phineas. “He’s not worth it.”
The reporter clapped his hands. “When you change your mind about an exclusive story, Bex, send for me. Same for you, Mrs. Bex. I love informants equally. See you tonight, if you can bear to get away. Bang. Bang. Gunpowder.”
Phineas marched away, all while almost singing, “Exclusive: Arthur Bex is married to a bashful Blackamoor bride. Will the sham last beyond the rallies? The ones he feels are worthy of his presence.”
Arthur’s anger raged again. “He better not put you in the papers.”
“Bex, you said it yourself. We can’t hide if we are to create change. I suppose that also includes from the reporters who want to do you harm.”
With a sigh, he turned to unlock the door but caught her big, wide eyes. The pique Arthur had felt over her not defending him subsided. She was fearful…for him. Again, that protective nature of hers had come out and made a play for his heart. “Phineas is a nuisance, but harmless.”
“He’s not harmless. He’s out to hurt you. He’s baiting you to go to that rally where you could be hurt.”
There were no words to comfort her. He had to go to the rally. He’d promised to be there, had encouraged others to go. Slipping his other hand in his pocket, he dug for his key. “I still think you are much bolder when you think our lives are at imminent risk.”
“I don’t want to be at risk. I want to be happy. I want you safe. Don’t go to the rally.”
No pleading or soft lilting voice would deter him, not from his calling. He jiggled the fob, metal clicked against metal, and the door opened. “Welcome.”
With her chin high, his bride entered. Her head turned from side to side as she took a lap about the freshly papered pale-yellow walls that he’d helped the widowed boardinghouse owner finish a few weeks ago. “Very clean for a bachelor.”
The scent of pine soap wafted as he lugged her bag inside and closed the door. “The landlady must’ve come through this morning. But you are right, I like a clean house.” He took off his tall-crowned felt hat and set it on his desk. “Saturday morning chores to swab my decks are not out of the question.”
“You sound like a sailor.” She took a full circle about the sitting room. “Papa likes a clean warehouse, but some of his workers don’t seem to know what clean is. This is very nice,” she said in a tone that reeked of is-this-it? before she sat on his sofa.
“I’m a simple man. I live within my means.”
Ester stood and came toward him. “This isn’t my father’s house. I didn’t marry him or the rich man he hand-picked.” She put a hand to Arthur’s cheek. “I could learn to be happy here. I like clean and honest, too. I like safe more.”
“Safe is fine. But risk made you jump out a window and into my arms. Taking a risk made me come to Nineteen Fournier to catch you. Taking a risk can be worthy.”
Her bright topaz eyes were light and filled with hope among the ribbon flecks of gold. “You are worthy.”
If he could dip into those molten pools and come out dripping of virtue, he would, for he wanted to be what she saw. He kissed her palm. “You believe I can make you happy?”
“You already do.”
She tugged him to a chair and stood upon it. They were now eye to eye. “I’m happy, Bex.” With arms about his neck, she kissed his jaw. “Bex, I know you want to go to the rally tonight, but we just made it here. I want you home and safe. Is that too much to ask on our first night in Cheapside?”
Her lips went to his, and she kissed him. Soft, tentative, encouraging. “Choose me, Bex. Let’s begin our life tonight.”
Arthur slipped off her shawl and stepped closer to the little woman, fingering the lace and buttons that separated them. He wanted his wife. He wanted to love and care for her. With his blood pumping faster, swooshing in his ears, he needed to draw near the woman who had risked everything for him.
But the rally needed him, too.
He broke from her kiss and sat his chin on her head. “Ester, this rally is of my making. I have to go.”
“You’ve birthed it, Bex, but it can happen without you.”
It could. The rally might have other foot soldiers that could lead the movement forward.
“But what if it fails, Ester? How do I look at myself in the mirror, knowing I could have helped but didn’t?”
“Don’t go, Bex.”
His neck bathed in sweat, he took a step away from the chair. “Ester, my mind won’t be with you tonight. It’ll be out on that field. I’ll be thinking of the words that need to be said to make those in power understand. To sway the ambivalent to action”
“Why does it have to be you? Why you, Bex?”
He should just tell her. Maybe if she knew of how his testimony had made a difference and had given justice to those who’d died, she’d understand. Maybe she’d understand the guilt he bore at being on his uncle’s ship for six years and not wanting to recognize that his cargo wasn’t crates, but men. “Ester—”
“You could be hurt. Bex, I need you.”
He needed her, too. But if he told her the truth, she’d think him a liar, like her father. He’d rather be a risk-taker than a deceitful lout who should’ve told her something so vital before they wed.
She tugged on his shoulders and pulled him closer, again eye-to-eye. “I want you to choose me. I chose you over my parents, Bex. I need you to choose me over these dangerous rallies. I must have you here, snoring in my arms.”
Big topaz irises sated with passions enchanted Arthur, for Ester wasn’t talking about merely sleeping. He knew it, and his mouth salivated. His fingers tingled at the thought of tucking his arms about her and finally claiming every bit of her, every inch of olive skin. She’d be all his, once and for all.
Ester was that one person to recommend and love him. Wasn’t that what Arthur always wanted? If he stayed, wouldn’t he have that?
“Please, Bex. Don’t go.”
If he kissed her now, he’d not make it to the rally. She’d be in his arms. He’d be unwrapping her from the carriage dress and tasting her goodness—all night, until dawn broke through yonder glass. Ester was his sun, his bright moon, the love he’d always wanted.
The woman he loved.
Perhaps her love would smother the screams that met him in the night, the unquenchable memories that tormented him—all the wrongs he hadn’t been able to right.
“Bex.” Ester clutched his lapels, wove her hands about his neck. She wasn’t shy anymore. With this kiss, bold, encompassing, heated—her intentions to keep him were explicit.
“I need you to you stay, Bex.”
But the voiceless needed him, too. He’d promised to be at the rally. He’d given his word.
“Bex?”
“A man is no better than his word. I want you to be happy. I’m committed to that.” He played with the cravat that choked his hot skin, then scooped her up and set her feet on the ground. “There’s a small closet and a chest of drawers in the bedroom. Go settle in, and I’ll retrieve something to eat.”
Before her sweet lips opened, he fled the room.
…
Ester paced in Bex’s flat. Unpacking had not taken long. Two dresses, a nightgown, and a robe made little work. Placing her bonnet and gloves upon his small chest of drawers also took no time.
The small clock on his mantle read four minutes after six. He couldn’t have gone to the rally this soon, could he? Well, he hadn’t promised that he wouldn’t. “Bex said he’d be back. He’s a man of his word.”
Saying her thoughts aloud didn’t diminish her fears of him being killed at the rally.
After she’d taken three mor
e turns about his sofa, the door opened.
The boy Bex had called Jonesy lugged in two big buckets of steaming water. Bex was behind him with something that smelled like beefsteaks. He put the basket on the table and handed Jonesy a key. “Go clean that other thing for me.”
“Yes, Mr. Bex.” The boy took one of the buckets, turned, and ran out of the room.
Bex was up to something, but since he hadn’t gone to the rally, she didn’t care. His causes were important, but now she knew she was important to him, too. She walked over to him, reached up, and tossed her arms around him. “You didn’t go.”
Before she could stop herself, she stretched and claimed his mouth. She kissed him with all the love she had for him—not the worship she had for the actor on the stage, but true feeling for a man who stayed true.
His hands were in her hair and had unpinned the braid of her chignon. Wild spirals probably bloomed like flower petals raining down on her shoulders. She wanted to stop and pin up her tresses, but this was truly her, and he needed to see it.
Still kissing her, he picked her up in his arms and started toward the bedchamber.
It was time to be his wife wholly. Her hands clawed into his cravat. She wanted to be close to him like they were at night.
But he stopped moving and set her slippers on the ground. “Ester.” His voice was husky. He pulled both her hands to his chest. “Ester,” he said again, panting. “I’ve a surprise for you.” He laced his fingers with hers.
She didn’t want a surprise. She wanted Bex, but how could she say such a thing?
Cheeks on fire, she let him lead her.
When he reached the flat’s door, she panicked. “My hair’s not up. I’m not fit to be in public.”
He kissed her ear. “Listen to me. You’re beautiful, every inch of you, from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head. I ache to behold all of you, but not until everything is perfect.”
“It is now. You stayed.”
“Come with me.” His arm was about her waist, her feet barely touched the ground—partly from the strength of his arms, partly from floating on love. “Bex?”
“Shhh.” He blew the sound over her lips and brought her to a door at the end of the hall.
Jonesy came out even before he knocked. “All clean, Mr. Bex.”
“Good, go get the other bucket, Jonesy.”
As the boy left, her husband opened the door. The white room was small but in the center was a glistening metal tub. A pile of snow white towels sat close by and a fresh bar of lilac soap. The scent of it was sweet. “Bex, you did this—”
Jonesy came back with the bucket sloshing and dumped the hot water into the tub. “Anything else, Mr. Bex, Mrs. Bex?”
“No,” Bex said and pulled a coin from his pocket.
“You’re a good tipper, Mr. Bex.” The lad seemed to skip from the room.
Her husband pushed the door closed and clicked the lock. Before she could thank him, he had her in his arms, kissing her, unbuttoning her buttons, whispering her name against the pulsing vein along her neck.
When her carriage dress hit the ground, she couldn’t breathe. She was alone in a chemise and corset with the man she loved.
His hand wandered the length of her, and she stood up tall. She trusted him. This was the beginning of a communion between them, of how things should be, the mystery of a husband and wife.
Loosening the lacings of her corset, his fingers smoothed her skin. He stood back and gazed at her, but Ester wasn’t afraid anymore, for she was his and he was hers. “You’re beautiful.”
He took a step back and folded his hands behind his back. “I need to remember how hopeful you look.” A loud sigh fled his nostrils. “You’re first in this clean tub, Ester. First. You deserve to always be first. He scooped up her dress. Take a long soaking bath. I know how you love them. Get good and wrinkly and enjoy the water and know how I wish to kiss you everywhere.”
She breathed hard, but he had the fortitude to part from her now, and that built the anticipation of what was to come.
At the door, he turned. “When you are done, knock three times. When you hear the same repeated, know that it’s me, and I’ve come to take you to our wedding bed. Not as friends or roommates, but as man and wife. A man very infatuated with his beautiful wife. Soak a long time and think of me.”
He stepped outside. “Lock the door, Ester, and enjoy.”
Her pulse raced as she turned the lock.
“Take your time. You’re worth the wait.” His steps disappeared, and she stayed by the door a few moments until all was silent in the hall.
Turning to the metal tub, she looked at the hot water condensing moisture on the sides. She moved to it, and her eyes felt moist. Stirring the clean, hot water, she fought the tears wetting her cheeks. Bex did this. He must love her. Lordy, how did I get so lucky, so blessed?
She brushed at her face and inhaled the lilac soap. Bex knew what a hot bath meant to her, what this night would mean to them. Giddy, she took off her chemise and corset and climbed into the warm water.
The bath was hot, permeating her tired muscles. She let the water, the clean water, baptize her arms and legs. The dirt and sweat of their travels melted away in the suds.
She lay against the side of the tub. The copper had taken on some of the heat of the water and it felt so good against her back. Her husband had done this for her.
Ester was so in love with Bex that she was frightened. Did he love her like this—so much so that the strength of it shook him to the core of his soul?
He hadn’t said the words, but the bath and prioritizing her over a rally that could get him injured or killed—was that the deepest love?
Maybe she should find out.
But what if she wasn’t perfect like he said? What if he looked at her, short and busty and brown, and wasn’t pleased?
With her palm, she cupped water and drizzled it down her neck. It felt so good, heating her spine with courage. Bex said that he wanted her as his wife. He’d never lied to her or made her feel as if his word couldn’t be trusted. She needed to stop being afraid.
Though he wanted her to take a long bath, she couldn’t. She was ready to be loved. She was ready to commit everything to him, and that meant now, not an hour from now.
Leaping out of the tub, she toweled off. Arms and head through the chemise, she tugged on the muslin. She scooped up her corset but didn’t put it on. The boned linen garment was just another thing separating her from the man she loved.
She giggled. She loved Bex, the man, her husband, and he’d have all of her to cherish, the short height, all brown and busty, everything.
Against the door she laid her head, barely able to catch her breath. She loved him.
Forming a fist, she knocked on the door three times like he’d asked.
One-two-three, the reply sounded, and her heart echoed with the same force.
The door opened, and she scrambled behind a big towel.
It wasn’t Bex, but Jonesy, grinning as he stood there. “Mr. Bex said to make sure you made it back to his rooms.
Raking a hand through her hair, she followed. Maybe he had expected her to dwell longer. The way she went on about the importance of a bath, he surely thought he had time to review his lines.
Jonesy opened the door.
“Bex. Bex,” she said as she ducked inside, through the empty sitting room and into the empty bedchamber. Her carriage dress was folded on a chair. It had been put there with care and forethought. Hope still lived. She pulled on her robe. “Jonesy, did Mr. Bex go run an errand?”
“No, ma’am. He went to the rally.” He put his hands to his mouth. “Don’t tell him I told. Not supposed to tell.”
The rally.
The dangerous rally.
She couldn’t breathe. He’d be killed, without knowing of her love. And she’d be alone with no Bex and no parents.
“Mrs. Bex? You look faint. You sick?”
Ester put a hand to her he
ad and sank onto the sofa. “Jonesy, I won’t tell.” Her voice sounded reasonable and calm, though she seethed inside. But maybe she could save Bex. “Can you get me a jarvey? I’ll be ready in less than a minute.”
Jonesy scurried out the door, and Ester started to braid and pin her hair. It was all she could do to keep from exploding. She wasn’t a couch woman, or a sofa girl. She wasn’t ready to play the part of an unconcerned wife, a woman tricked by a deceitful man.
Chapter Seventeen
Rally to Danger
The jarvey let Ester out at the Duke of Simone’s residence in Mayfair. With her prim bonnet and smooth gloves, she hoped she looked calm and elegant, but how could she? Her heavy silk carriage dress was wrinkled, her hair was only partially tamed.
Oh, and her heart was breaking.
Bex had deceived her. He had used a bath, her special treasure, to trick her. She swiped at her brow, rubbing away the perspiration of fury. He had put himself at risk. She didn’t even know where to go to protect him. The man could die of violence from the rally. How could he do this to her?
When the butler asked who called upon Frederica Burghley, she offered the name, Ester Croome. The man should recognize her as much as she visited, but the butler was stodgy, conforming to rules. Those unwritten rules, such as: do not fool your wife, don’t hurt your mama.
“Wait here. I’ll go see if Miss Burghley is taking visitors.
If Frederica were home, she’d help. Ester fidgeted, but her bold friend would know what to do.
The man came back down the long hall of polished mahogany floors and detailed, gilded trimmings. His shiny, powder-blue livery held nothing to Clancy’s uniform. “Follow me, Miss Croome.”
Musical scales filtered to her, happy loving tunes, but Ester grieved too much to be moved. She focused on her slippers, which now appeared worn and old. Nothing like a fairy princess, as they had looked a week ago.
The butler escorted her inside to the music room, where Frederica practiced her pianoforte. The man held open the door, and Ester went inside.
Frederica lifted her spry head. The music stopped. She stood up from the polished chestnut instrument and floated to Ester in an emerald silk gown with epaulette braiding about the sleeves, a dress Ester had designed.
The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2) Page 20
