Her pulse raced a little more as she absorbed his smile. Yes, she was a phaeton woman with charcoal instead of yarn. Resigned, she picked up her charcoal and positioned it within her fingers. The ride jarred too much for her to work on the delicate lace of the dress, but the contours of the hem could be refined. “I couldn’t wear something like this, not without adding lace up to the neck and maybe some sleeves—and in pink, not red. It would look too revealing on someone…of my height.”
“It will show off that beautiful neck of yours and the delightful figure you try to hide. Maybe you should wear it for me, and me alone.”
Was he trying to make her spark like a flame with such notions? “Please keep your eyes on the road, Bex, but thank you. This dress is for my friend Frederica Burghley. I make designs for her and Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil.”
“Pity. That scooped neckline would be quite fetching.”
“No…I’m a bit…” She found her hands floating closer to her bosom before she forced them down.
Passing a yawn, he waggled a brow. “Buxom? Beautifully buxom.”
She swallowed, but the unease lodged in her throat. “Yes.”
“Ester. You seem embarrassed, but you’re beautiful.”
Cheeks burning, she covered up with her shawl, rolling the silk tight about her neck. “I have a pretty face, but I think I’m…”
“Well-endowed? A woman of substance? Possessing a round figure? You don’t need to be embarrassed. I think the cut of the gown would accent your curves.”
“You noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed. I’m sleepy, not blind.”
If I hit him with the sketch pad, will he wreck the phaeton?
“A man in the company of a woman sees many things—her modesty, her manners, her loveliness. I’ll be very proud to have you on my arm and in them.”
His voice sounded so strong and overpowering, but Bex’s fine posture had become slumped, curving into a C-shape. More than once, before they’d stopped, she’d seen him blinking his eyes and shaking like he’d been caught napping.
If only they’d pull over again. He could nap, she’d draw and not have to fret about him. “I won’t think less of you if we stopped for a rest.”
Bex yawned loud and long. “Don’t ask. I’m fine. Just a little tired, but we are almost there. So close.”
His hand jerked as the ride became uneven. The high slope of this section of the path seemed hard for the horses and for stubborn Bex.
She tugged on his coat sleeve. “I think you should stop on the side of the road. You’re very unsteady and the horses, they don’t look so good, either.”
“We’re not at our best. Don’t fret, my dearest Ester. I’ll rest soon, with my wife at my side.”
The phaeton swayed again as Bex looked over at her. He latched a finger on to hers. “We’ve a few more miles of travel. Once we are married, I’ll sleep for days before we head back to London. I’ll make it up to you. Will you trust me to make amends later?”
“Bex, you give good speeches about freedom, but I’m not free if you won’t listen. My voice and concerns should matter to you.”
Maybe it was her bluntness, but he swerved a little and the horses left the road. Their hooves kicked up choking dust.
“Sorry.” He blinked a little then straightened his posture. “How do you and your friends make do? Every time I see Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, she is smiling.”
“She’s in love with her husband. They don’t always agree, but they listen to each other.”
“I mean, how do they make do? How do they navigate society?”
“My friend is very smart. She knows the best days to shop, when merchants will be more amenable to us. She makes arrangements or utilizes her footman or butler to accomplish tasks. We all make do.”
“It’s not right. Should never have to be this way. Men are equal. We bleed and die the same.” His voice rose, roaring like thunder. “We both drown if we’re bound in chains.” His palm flew to his face like it perspired.
“Bex, what is wrong? Are you feeling more ill?”
“Do you think of marrying me as a loss?” He sounded more in control, his tone had lowered. “Are you losing things by being with me? Tell me, Ester.”
