His fingers lay so close to her hand. She could count the dimples in his knuckles or trace his off-kilter index finger, the one he’d injured last year when the skull of Yorick fell upon it during a rehearsal.
Yes. She knew too much of him and the Countess Devoors, the last woman the papers had linked him to. The countess seemed vivacious and was always in the gossip stories. Nothing like shy Ester. She gripped the gnarled table’s edge. “I remember reading that your parents died at an early age.”
He looked away, maybe for the first time. Had she offended him, or was the memory of such early loss painful?
“There is no one close to me, now. Just a would-be groom who runs errands for me.”
His wondrous voice held notes of sadness. She couldn’t let him stew in loss and pushed the saucer with the last biscuit his way. “You could have any woman, Mr. Bex. I’ve seen how they follow you. Even the barmaids here are ogling you. Why seek a bride by newspaper?”
“You’ve watched me?” He edged closer as he munched the last treat. His whisper fell across her brow. “You feel you know me?”
Skin heating from his biscuit-laced breath, she willed her chin to rise so she could bask fully in his close gaze. “Like you said. Everyone knows Arthur Bex, the great actor, but I wonder about the man answering advertisements for a wife.”
“I’m a simple creature, Miss Croome. I love the theater, but I’m driven to right the wrongs of this day. I wasn’t given my talents to squander them. I aim to make a difference, but it’s time to have a wife. I wish for one that understands the demands upon me, one that’s logical, and not compelled by the twists of a long courtship, one who is as resistant to scandal as I am.”
“That is admirable and good. But a wife of another race could be problematic. I wouldn’t want to cause harm to your reputation.”
“There are worse things to harm a reputation than a different type of wife. You seem to keep saying why you’re not the one for me. I say, why not you, Miss Croome? Fate, a friend, and a newspaper have brought us together. I say, why not us. What is your true hesitation?”
“My father has other ideas. He wants me to wed a business colleague’s son.”
He stopped toying with the shrinking distance of their fingers and took her hand, sending another spark up her arm. “Ah, the other option. I sense that the son is your father’s choice and not yours? I still want to know why not you and me?”
She closed her gloved palm about his and dropped it to the bench. “We are not engaged yet. You can’t be so familiar.”
He chuckled, then swooped in. “I sense you are on the verge of deciding. I’ll take an unfair advantage. Besides, I like the hint of henna that blooms on your face when I touch you.”
She folded her arms about her as if that could keep her heart from racing. “Do you know what it’s like to hear your deep baritone say those sweet words to me?”
“Then hear my soul speak, dear lady. The very instant I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.”
He was quoting Shakespeare to her as he had quoted it on stage when he performedThe Tempest, but those words of instant love couldn’t be Bex’s. They were Ester’s. She closed her eyes, forgetting the noisy inn and even Bex’s honey voice and said, “‘The very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service, there it resides to make me a slave to it.’”
“No. No one is a slave, or they shouldn’t be. No, you have choices. I want to be your choice, Miss Croome.” His tone had hardened, then softened upon saying her name.
“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Bex. I can’t pretend not to be awed by you.”
With a sigh, he sat back. “You are free to walk away from this moment, but I think we should try. Where else will I find a lover of Shakespeare’s words? Yes, you are special. I think you should accept me. You, too, I assume, are not married, have no benefactor arrangements. I presume you are not sick or hiding from criminality. On your criteria alone, I think we are perfectly suited.”
How many times had she thought of this man during theater season and hushed Frederica or their friend Theodosia, just to hear his voice, clear and true? How many times had she kicked herself for lacking the courage to say a few words to him at Theodosia’s wedding celebration? Ester picked up her sketchbook and waved cool, sweet air to her face. “I don’t have time to rationalize this, Mr. Bex, or think about it a hundred and five times. This is either madness or a dream come true.”
“I hope for truth and righteousness. I feel that it is, but I won’t rush you, Miss Croome. You can take—”
“No, I must rush you. If we are to do this, we must elope tonight.”
“Tonight? There would be no time to get a license. The banns have not been read. We’d have to go to Scotland.”
“Yes.”
His brow wrinkled. “The blacksmith at Gretna Green who’ll do the ceremony is at least four or five days away. It will be a ten-day trip in total to return to London. That is traveling day and night, unsupervised. It would be better if we waited for a proper license. We could get to know each other, without testing each other so soon.”
“It must be tonight. A harrowing escape will bind us together. Doesn’t adversity do that? It does for friends. Why not man and wife? But if you’re not inclined, I won’t push.” She put her hand on the table to rise but his palm pressed atop hers.
“I’m inclined. And a woman who can make up her mind so quickly and in my favor is to be treasured. I was thinking of you. I don’t want to run as if this were illicit, like we are wanted criminals.”
His voice had changed. It seemed to hold the softness of a bad memory, one that he failed to repress.
Her weak-for-him heart softened more. He deserved to hear the whole truth. With a quick breath, she forced her tongue to admit it. “If we don’t elope tonight, I’ll be forced to marry my father’s choice on my twenty-first birthday, a month from today. The man is a womanizing brute.”
