“Then your imagination is limited, or perhaps trapped beneath that pretty bonnet.”
He moved a little closer and fingered the ribbon beneath her chin. “You could take off your hat. If that will make you free.”
“No, that will invite more stares. Curly thick locks compared to yours will get everyone talking. Can’t you see how they are looking at us, wondering what Arthur Bex is doing taking tea with me?”
“Maybe they are pondering why Miss Croome is taking tea with an actor? My profession, as you’ve said, isn’t quite what everyone wants for their daughter’s husband.”
“Not in this part of London, Mr. Bex. Closer to Cheapside in the old Huguenot areas, the Croome name is better known. Lord knows a few of my mother’s friends would be running to tell her if they saw us.”
“You mean the areas closer to the textile warehouses, or where the Blackamoor populations congregate?”
She looked at his sly, cutting smile, his dark chestnut-brown hair, and swarthy sun-kissed skin—not a trace of stupid. “You know what I mean, sir.”
He nodded. His fingers brushed her hand again as he reached for a biscuit. “Yes, yes, I do. But I’m thinking that may not matter so much when it comes to compatibility.”
He could’ve spoken French, though she was fluent, or Russian. It could be gibberish, and she’d still nod her head. His voice had wrapped around her and crushed her in warmth. There was no escaping her attraction to him, but she would for Frederica. “My friend Miss Burghley is very kind. Some consider her my prettiest friend. Her complexion is lighter, her connections are higher. She is looking for a lifelong companion. I’ve no problems going and retrieving her from her carriage. You both may have more in common.”
He wiped crumbs from his mouth, and his deep smile captured her with a draw that couldn’t be denied. “How would that sit with you, Miss Croome?” His voice became sultry as he leaned closer. “Would it do well with you if I whispered my intent in her ear, not yours?”
Her face felt hot. He was teasing her, and his confidence was alluring. She was her father’s daughter, and she liked a confident man. “No. It would not. You’re very sure of yourself.”
“A good actor knows his audience. I can tell that you like me, Miss Croome. And I think I like you, too.”
Her worst day had become her best, but now it was bad again for evening would come and this affair would be done. She’d be engaged to a troll, the son of a troll.
After another sip of his steaming tea, Bex said, “Fitzwilliam-Cecil, the playwright, says you can quote Shakespeare as well as he. What’s not to like about that?”
He’d asked about her, then? Could one burst into flames from blushing? If he kept it up, they’d both find out.
“If you are done passing me to your friends, let’s discuss your intentions. Are you wanting to be married, Miss Croome?”
How many times had she thought of Bex, heard his voice riveting her soul? But not once was he telling jokes. He wasn’t being serious. Marriage was serious. If he wasn’t focused on their union, distractions could come upon him. He’d stray like Papa. She sat up straight. “I’m not done with my questions. Just because I like you, that’s not eeeeeenough. Have you ever been married?”
“No, Miss Croome. If we decide to pursue you liking me, you would be my first and only bride.”
“Do you have a mistress?”
His face sobered. “Not now, not for a year.”
Her brow raised on that answer. Bex was a handsome man, the rage of London. It was hard to believe he was alone. “So you’ll take one after we wed? I hear that’s what important men do. It makes them feel powerful.”
He frowned for a moment. “I made jokes to put you at ease, but I’ll be perfectly serious in answering you. I want your trust. I need a wife who will believe in me wholly, so I’ll take no mistress. A man has no honor if he cannot stay true to his vows. The same for you. There should be no one other than me.”
She swallowed, thinking of her father’s failings. Anyone could fall, even with the best intentions. “You’re not diseased or running from the law?”
He scratched his chin which held a little shadow. “Miss Croome, aren’t you being a little dramatic?”
“Answer the question, if you can.”
“Everyone knows Arthur Bex.” He waved at a patron who seemed to be staring, then settled his hand back to the table, again next to hers. “I could hardly run from illegalities. Why don’t you tell me your true objection? Am I not what you expected?”
“No. This is some cruel joke. I want to pinch myself again, but you stopped me from doing that.”
“You could pinch me if that would help.”
She rolled her eyes and peered around his broad shoulders at the other patrons of the inn. No one glared at her and Bex anymore. They’d faded into the noise. “This is the most I’ve ever said to you. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“Not in the least. A shy woman will run from scandal. The widowed countess I last spent time with seeded the newspaper men with gossip about me. I want privacy for my home, my loved ones—if I had any.”
