Before they could take a step, the drunk careened into him. “No fun, Bex. Can’t have the fancy all to yourself.”
Temper rising, Arthur did a quick jab, coupled with a fast punch, which sent the man flat to the floor. “Good day, gentlemen. Come, miss.”
She followed him up the stairs, even as others snickered as they passed.
“Miss, from the cut of your clothes, I can’t imagine you need to be saved very often, but mind my friends. They can become very animated when disturbed. It was a men’s only meeting.”
“Maybe you need better friends.” Her voice was low. Her olive cheeks deepened to henna when he turned his head and gazed upon her.
“You may be right.”
“Arthur Bex thinks I’m right.” She looked as if she was about to faint. When she stumbled on the last step, he took her hand, the one free of a notebook, into his. A stalk of lilac was crushed between their linked palms.
“Lilac is a wonderful flower,” he said as he led her back to the main level of the coaching inn. His pulse raced. This was the woman he had exchanged letters with, his potential newspaper advertisement bride. “We have much to discuss.”
She tried to leave him, but he steered her to his table. Her small frame was rather easy to navigate, putting a hand here and a nudge there.
Fanning her face, she looked very unsteady, so he took her book from her and guided her into a seat. Would she faint when he displayed his signal to meet, a matching stem of lilac from his pocket?
She looked caught. The sense of shyness about her made him smile inside. Even though he was applying through the papers for a marriage of convenience, his masculine pride demanded that it still feel as if he’d won someone’s approval.
“I’m here with my friend. I should find her,” she said. Her voice had a nice tone, clear and low.
“Of course, miss, but let us take a moment to get to know one another.”
“You want to know me? Arthur Bex wants to know me.” She put a hand to her bonnet and fanned. “I must be dreaming. This is nothing but a dream. The famous actor, Arthur Bex, is sitting with me, saving me from a drunk. And he wants to know me.”
She pinched herself. “No. I still don’t believe.”
Phineas came up and tipped his hat. He looked ready to leave the coaching inn but then decided to take a table. It wasn’t close enough to overhear, but it wasn’t far enough for Arthur to let his guard down. Then he thought about the odds that a Blackamoor woman would answer his advertisement, a Blackamoor marrying an abolitionist. Anger swept through him. This might be a trap. He put his hand upon hers to keep her from squirming or leaving too quickly. “Who sent you?”
Over her creamy kid gloves, the exposed part of her wrist pimpled. “I sent myself. This is obviously a mistake.”
The blush, the fear induced bumps—that couldn’t be an act, could it? He sighed. “Well, it is obvious that you know me, but I… Wait. I recognize you from the Fitzwilliam-Cecil wedding celebration. Your family’s in textiles?”
Her eyes, glittering topaz jewels, grew wide as she pinched herself again. “You can remember that? You remember me?”
He caught her other hand. “You need to stop doing that.”
She looked around, her cheeks darkening again, but deeper than before. “You have both my hands, Mr. Bex. As wonderful as this is, it’s not right.”
Self-conscious about their location and Phineas looking for scandal, he released her. “Sorry, Miss…”
“Miss Croome.”
“Ester Croome, if I recall what Fitzwilliam-Cecil said.”
She dug into her reticule and found a fan. “I barely said two words to you. I can’t believe I am making complete sentences now. And you remembered my name.”
“You have a very memorable face and figure, and now I hear a memorable voice to match.”
Blinking ten times, like she’d just awakened, Miss Croome crossed her arms, then uncrossed her arms, then put her hands down. “Arthur Bex noticed me. I’m going to go back to mumbling and broken sentences.”
She had wit, a sharpness of mind. Something he’d noticed at the wedding party when she’d spoken to others, but not him. He dipped his head closer. “I wish you would continue communicating, or how else am I to get to know you? How else will you determine to marry me? Well, you know of me. Have you made up your mind?”
“Marry you?” She dropped the fan to the table with a thud. “Arthur Bex, the greatest actor of the London stage, wants to marry me.” She put a hand to her temple and rubbed like it held a smudge.
His latent sense of humor began to enjoy her shyness. He wondered what other ways he could tease her to embarrass her and how bright her cheeks would turn if she were thoroughly flattered by him. “What can I do to put you at ease? I’ll look at your book. It’s a sketchbook?”
