She lay against the side of the tub. The copper had taken on some of the heat of the water and it felt so good against her back. Her husband had done this for her.
Ester was so in love with Bex that she was frightened. Did he love her like this—so much so that the strength of it shook him to the core of his soul?
He hadn’t said the words, but the bath and prioritizing her over a rally that could get him injured or killed—was that the deepest love?
Maybe she should find out.
But what if she wasn’t perfect like he said? What if he looked at her, short and busty and brown, and wasn’t pleased?
With her palm, she cupped water and drizzled it down her neck. It felt so good, heating her spine with courage. Bex said that he wanted her as his wife. He’d never lied to her or made her feel as if his word couldn’t be trusted. She needed to stop being afraid.
Though he wanted her to take a long bath, she couldn’t. She was ready to be loved. She was ready to commit everything to him, and that meant now, not an hour from now.
Leaping out of the tub, she toweled off. Arms and head through the chemise, she tugged on the muslin. She scooped up her corset but didn’t put it on. The boned linen garment was just another thing separating her from the man she loved.
She giggled. She loved Bex, the man, her husband, and he’d have all of her to cherish, the short height, all brown and busty, everything.
Against the door she laid her head, barely able to catch her breath. She loved him.
Forming a fist, she knocked on the door three times like he’d asked.
One-two-three, the reply sounded, and her heart echoed with the same force.
The door opened, and she scrambled behind a big towel.
It wasn’t Bex, but Jonesy, grinning as he stood there. “Mr. Bex said to make sure you made it back to his rooms.
Raking a hand through her hair, she followed. Maybe he had expected her to dwell longer. The way she went on about the importance of a bath, he surely thought he had time to review his lines.
Jonesy opened the door.
“Bex. Bex,” she said as she ducked inside, through the empty sitting room and into the empty bedchamber. Her carriage dress was folded on a chair. It had been put there with care and forethought. Hope still lived. She pulled on her robe. “Jonesy, did Mr. Bex go run an errand?”
“No, ma’am. He went to the rally.” He put his hands to his mouth. “Don’t tell him I told. Not supposed to tell.”
The rally.
The dangerous rally.
She couldn’t breathe. He’d be killed, without knowing of her love. And she’d be alone with no Bex and no parents.
“Mrs. Bex? You look faint. You sick?”
Ester put a hand to her head and sank onto the sofa. “Jonesy, I won’t tell.” Her voice sounded reasonable and calm, though she seethed inside. But maybe she could save Bex. “Can you get me a jarvey? I’ll be ready in less than a minute.”
Jonesy scurried out the door, and Ester started to braid and pin her hair. It was all she could do to keep from exploding. She wasn’t a couch woman, or a sofa girl. She wasn’t ready to play the part of an unconcerned wife, a woman tricked by a deceitful man.
Chapter Seventeen
Rally to Danger
The jarvey let Ester out at the Duke of Simone’s residence in Mayfair. With her prim bonnet and smooth gloves, she hoped she looked calm and elegant, but how could she? Her heavy silk carriage dress was wrinkled, her hair was only partially tamed.
Oh, and her heart was breaking.
Bex had deceived her. He had used a bath, her special treasure, to trick her. She swiped at her brow, rubbing away the perspiration of fury. He had put himself at risk. She didn’t even know where to go to protect him. The man could die of violence from the rally. How could he do this to her?
When the butler asked who called upon Frederica Burghley, she offered the name, Ester Croome. The man should recognize her as much as she visited, but the butler was stodgy, conforming to rules. Those unwritten rules, such as: do not fool your wife, don’t hurt your mama.
