“It’s not right, Miss Croome, and I won’t allow anyone to disrespect my wife.”
It was an admirable thought, but that was the difference between them. “You were born with no boundaries, and you have the right to question the world, even pound through doors. I don’t have that right. No one that looks like me does. And if we have children, the brown ones won’t be able to, either.”
“It’s still wrong, but I do like that you’re thinking of our children.” His humor had returned, and his voice held a sultry tone, one that made the hair on her neck curl with anticipation.
Adjusting her skirt about her slippers, she refused to be distracted by his charm. This was for his safety. “You know I speak the truth, Bex. Even Fitzwilliam-Cecil has to be more careful, and he’s the son of a peer.”
“I know, Miss Croome, but I must do something to change the world. I owe it to you and those future children you don’t want to talk about.”
He was teasing her, and she wanted to box his ears. Yet, she couldn’t help but admire his conviction. Nonetheless, words meant nothing in the face of brutes or bullets. Ester was better at holding her peace in public than in private. Bex probably never had to live so carefully. What if this was too much for him, having to learn to act not only on the stage, but in public with his Blackamoor wife?
Chapter Eight
On the Road Again
Arthur stormed out of the Bear Claw Inn. His hands shook but there was no one to punch. The innkeeper actually offered him some choice advice about bringing his fancy to his inn.
A fancy.
Referring to Miss Croome by the crude American term for an enslaved mistress. Miss Croome was no loose woman. She was enslaved by no one.
He trudged to the stables where she waited on his phaeton as the horses were changed. Had he known about the prejudice of the innkeeper, he would’ve tried to make it farther and dusted the dirt of this place from his boots. How would he tell her?
From the threshold of the stable, he saw her clutching her bag in her lap as if she feared it would be taken. He wiped his face with a handkerchief from his pocket. Injustice, complications, sharing bad news—all had a way of making him perspire.
He walked to the phaeton. The glow of the stable lamp showed on her face. Her lips were pinched, her grip on the bag, deathlike. The girl sat in fear. He didn’t need to wipe his brow anymore. That sense of injustice had turned to sadness. Time to act, acting for her benefit, so she’d know the world he was drawing her into would be safe. He’d make it that way for her. “Miss Croome. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
Her eyes went wide as she looked up. “You look happy. Does that mean you rented two rooms without any problems? You were right. I’m fretful. I have to learn to trust more.”
Wrenching at his neck, he took the reins from the groom and tossed him a coin, then climbed aboard.
“What? We’re not staying?”
A quick tug and a click of his tongue made the phaeton start to move. “No. We’re not. The place is subpar, and I began to think we’ve not made enough progress.”
“But you were tired? You said we’d get a few hours of sleep then start fresh in the morning.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Bex?”
Looking for an excuse other than the obvious, he scanned the sky. The scant bit of clouds seemed far, far away. “Red sky at night, a sailor’s delight.”
“What Bex? What did you say?”
“Nothing, just an old poem came into my head.” He wanted to punch at his skull for letting a kind thought about the man who had raised him after his parents died enter his head. His uncle had been a monster even if he had been nice to Arthur.
He glanced at Miss Croome, prim and proper with her blue dress with its sheer netting. She was fancy, nota fancy, and not chattel, as his uncle and his ilk would claim.
“Bex, I can tell you are trying to protect me, but if you can’t be honest with me about the inn, what type of marriage can we have?”
She was right. Not just about the inn, but about his past. But how could he tell her now, miles from her home? What a lout he’d appear to be. So far from London, Miss Croome wouldn’t be able to be affronted, slap him silly, and leave him like the countess had done when she was mad. “I’d like more miles between us and Nineteen Fournier. Then you could catch a coach back to London if you feel we can’t make a good marriage.”
Her lips became an O-shape. “I’m not changing my mind about us. I’m a little nervous. Since we stopped, I have the odd feeling we are being watched. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
He pushed the brim of his hat back a little. It felt weighty on his tired neck. “You must not be used to long travel.”
“The Fitzwilliam-Cecils live outside of town. That is about as far as I typically go. And this trip will take us about two or more days? I’ve never been this far, not without Papa.”
Her hand shook as she wrapped her arms around her bag, and she squeezed it tight like a found lost puppy.
His gut twisted up. Didn’t she know he’d protect her with his life? No. Maybe she didn’t. “Miss Croome.” He made his voice deeper. “You have nothing to fear. You’re with me, my wife-to-be. No harm will find you.”
