"Cleav!" She startled at the unexpected embrace.
"You feel so good," he told her, pressing his body closely against hers. "I've been dreaming of holding you in my arms all afternoon."
Esme raised her head with surprise. "You certainly haven't." She pulled away from him and hurried to the washstand. Gazing dismally at her reflection in the mirror, she hastily poured water into the bowl and began stripping down to her chemise.
"What do you mean I haven't been dreaming of holding you?" Cleav asked her.
Esme found a towel and turned to give her husband a tolerant grin. "You've been hoping those men would come to Vader all summer. I venture to say you haven't had a thought of anything else in a week."
Raising an eyebrow, Cleav looked at her skeptically. "I beg to differ, dear wife," he said. "I have been excited about finally having someone with whom to discuss trout breeding," he admitted. "But it's you, Hillbaby, who've had nothing on your mind but this visit since the moment I told you about it."
"Well, it's very important," Esme said. She was scrubbing her face and neck now, removing every vestige of her long day in front of a hot stove.
"Important?" Cleav's expression was openly curious. "Pleasant is a correct word, I'd think," he said. "Even interesting, but important? This visit is not important."
"Well, it's not important in that sense," Esme agreed. "But it's important to you, so I want to make a good impression."
Cleav chuckled out loud. "I can't imagine how any gentleman could be other than favorably impressed," he said, stepping up behind her to wrap his arms tightly about her waist.
Pressing a gentle nip-kiss into the crook of her neck, he said, "I don't want the gentlemen too impressed, however, so keep those pretty legs of yours decently hidden."
Esme paled and jerked away from him, her expression hurt, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "Of course I would never shame you like that, Cleavis," she said quickly. "Surely you trust me not to make a spectacle of myself."
"Esme? What's wrong?" he asked her. "I was joking with you, of course."
He reached out to run a comforting hand along her arm. "What is it?" he questioned curiously. "Are you ill?"
"No, no, I'm fine," she answered, trying to regain her composure.
"You are not fine," Cleav said firmly. "Something is very wrong and has been for the last several days."
Esme shook away his concern hastily. "I'm just worried about the evening," she said. "Would you mind looking in on the preparations, the dishes and linens and such?"
"If you want me to," Cleav said.
"I'd just like for you to make sure that I've chosen everything correctly," she said. "The salt cellar and spoons don't match the celery vase. I don't know if that will do."
"Esme? What—" he began.
"Please," she interrupted. "I need to dress or I'm going to be very rudely late. Could you please have a look at the table, just to make sure that everything is proper and appropriate?"
Cleav agreed with a nod and headed toward the door. With his hand on the brass knob, he turned back to look at his wife. Esme scurried around nervously through her toilet.
"Proper and appropriate?" he whispered to himself. With a shrug that lacked understanding, he headed downstairs.
"So you've been livingin these mountains all your life, Miss Crabb?"
It was the blond gentleman's question that caught Esme's attention as she stepped into the front parlor.
"Oh, please call me Miss Agrippa," the pretty magpie replied with a chirpy twitter. "Miss Crabb sounds like an old maid schoolteacher."
The gentleman's pale face flushed with bright color and his eyes seemed glued to the vision in blue before him.
"No one could ever mistake you for such," he told her. "And because you've given me such honor, I must implore you to call me Theodatus."
"Oh, Mr. Simmons," she teased. "I should never do that."
"Oh, please, Miss Agrippa," he said. "I'll go down on my knee to beg if necessary."
