The meaning of the women’s exchange was of no consequence. Arthur noted the important things. Miss Croome knew who he was, and unlike the last two women whose newspaper advertisements he’d responded to, she didn’t seem to mind he was an actor…and she liked him. “I’ll be honest, Miss Croome, when I thought of a marriage of convenience, I hadn’t thought a Blackamoor or mulatto woman would respond.”
“I hadn’t thought of writing to a Blackamoor or mulatto woman, either, and my father wouldn’t want me writing to an actor.”
Her easy humor made the idea of them marrying more comfortable. “So, Miss Croome, my race does not matter to you or your father, but my profession and lack of fortune do?”
“The lack of a fortune, the profession, and your race will bother him, but my happiness seems…is no longer his concern.”
“And those are not your concerns, Miss Croome?”
With wide, toasty, topaz eyes, she looked unafraid, even alluring. “No. Just my happiness.”
Given to gambles, he’d test her, even though he had mostly made up his risk-taking mind. “In a jaded way, a well-spoken Blackamoor would cement my credentials for the cause that I fight for—abolition. Who could doubt my sincerity to end slavery if Miss Croome could attest to my heart? That’s how the reporters will put our marriage.”
“Or the fabric princess debases herself and her family with an actor—the gossips aren’t kind on my part of town, either.”
A sense of realism with her humor. That was something else he liked. Another good point in her favor. Arthur drummed the table again. “We should get to know each other over a pot of tea. How would you like that?”
“The same as you, with honey and a little lemon.” Her voice was stronger now. She must be getting used to him. “And chamomile is my favorite, too, just like you.”
“You know this?”
“I’ve studied everything about you, Mr. Bex, for a long time.”
Three points in a row—she’d won the tally. Newspaper advertisement number eleven seemed more and more the one, despite the obstacles. He stretched and signaled to a barmaid.
Once the flabbergasted woman took his order, he returned his full attention to Miss Croome and her lovely eyes. “So why are you seeking a husband by newspaper? The fabric princess has other options, as your friend put it.”
“I must be honest with you. Honesty and fidelity are the two things which are most important to me. You have been corresponding with Miss Burghley. I helped with the wording of her advertisement, but it was she who placed it, not me. But she, all my friends, know I am in awe of you. I have been for two years. She was the lucky one who you wrote to. I should just retrieve her or leave. Starting out under a falsehood is a bad omen.”
He put his hand on hers. “You are the one who’s here now. The one I wish to share tea with. Stay.”
She nodded and slipped her palm to her lap.
Miss Croome with her button nose, and her noticeable figure hiding beneath the blousy spencer, blushed again, a deeper shade of henna, the color again commanding all of her face.
She smiled as she took her tea. Her long lashes fluttered as she gulped. “Done, Mr. Bex. Now you can send me home, back to reality.”
She was definitely all woman, definitely attracted to him, and definitely a pleasing mixture of boldness and shyness. Unlike other theatergoers and sycophants who’d taken an interest in him because of his celebrity, this woman seemed cautious. Perhaps she needed convincing that a marriage of convenience could work. Point four, a challenge. A challenge was something Arthur appreciated, something inescapable in his foul blood.
He looked over at Phineas. The bloodhound nodded. He wouldn’t stop chasing until he found Arthur’s scandal. A respectable wife to recommend Arthur would deter questions, give the hounds a new story to chew. Miss Croome was the answer, but she needed to be swayed in this instance, or he’d lose her before they had a chance to begin.
Chapter Three
A Surprising Proposal
Ester sipped the second cup of tea Arthur Bex had ordered for her. Arthur Bex. As hard as she tried not to rattle her cup, and to drink with an unaffected air as Mama had instructed her daughters, Ester failed miserably, clinking her cup, sloshing the sweet fragrance of chamomile.
But what could one expect? She was sitting with a demi-god, the man she had dreamed of almost every night, his voice luscious, thick, and sweet like honey. Arthur Bex sat beside her, discussing marriage.
“Miss Croome, while I do find the cups at the White Horse Cellar quite fascinating. I would appreciate it if you’d look up at me and tell me about yourself. It was Miss Burghley’s advertisement that brought us here, but are you looking to be married?”
“Yes.” Particularly since Papa’s surprise this morning.
Bex was even taller and more handsome up close. Even sitting, he loomed above her, and she thought of how secure she’d feel snuggled in his well-built arms.
“Miss Croome, I met you at Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s home. It seems to me that two consenting adults looking to be married could have spoken months ago.”
“I’m painfully shy around strangers.” She breathed deeply, looked up, and retook his gaze. There was kindness in his cobalt-blue eyes. It made it a little easier for her lungs to keep functioning. “Words come easy for you, Mr. Bex. Your voice holds command even when ordering a pot of tea. I’ve a great imagination.” She put down her spoon and tapped her bonnet. “But it never conceived of this.”
