“Move from me, Bex, if you don’t love me. I know you, Arthur Bex. With every inch of my heart, I love you, and I know you love me, too. If I’m wrong, you have permission to move.”
“I need permission to sleep in this bed? I was here first.”
She lifted her face from his chest and stroked each nostril with her thumb. “I know you, Arthur Bex, better than I know myself, but sometimes the talking has to stop.”
That’s all he ever wanted, for someone to believe in him. “But Ester. I have to tell you—”
“Shhh.” She put a finger upon his mouth. “I know, and I love you, too.”
Ester was right. He loved her, more than he thought possible. He reached for her and took her lips.
It wasn’t a slow kiss.
Not one for good night.
It was one of forever, with her trembling in his arms, her wantonly stealing his breath, with her taking everything he had to offer and more.
Nightshirt gone.
Nightgown floated away.
Nothing mattered. He’d be Arthur Bex for her forever. For that man was loved beyond belief and had a temptress, a warrior, a caregiver, and a lover melting in his embrace.
Chapter Twenty
Get Your Newspaper
The sound of rain splashing the windowsill made Ester awaken. Her eyes were tired from too much watching Bex, too much not sleeping. She stretched and found the bed empty. That saddened her. She wanted to see him smiling at her again. Maybe he’d say aloud the whispers that nipped her ear. Snuggling his pillow, she pressed it against her bosom with her heart racing at the memory of him, the thought of his touches. The scent of ash and pine soap were faint, but the memories of his arms holding her, of him breathing life into her—those were vivid and warm.
The door opened, and she shrank into the bedsheets to cover her bare shoulders.
“Mrs. Bex, I thought you up,” Mrs. Fitterwall said as she walked in with a green silk gown in one hand and a poppy-colored one in the other. “I am here to draw you a bath. Mr. Bex said that a warm tub was your favorite, as if I didn’t know that.”
Ester sighed with relief that it wasn’t her mother coming to wake her. Though she was married, she’d die of embarrassment if Mama had barged in upon her. Fishing for her robe with her toe, she seized it and pulled it on. “Is it drawn already?”
“No, Mr. Clancy will bring the copper tub here. I’m going to fetch the hot water. You just need to relax and decide which dress you wish to wear.” The woman laid the beautiful morning gowns on the bed then dashed out the door.
Ester scrambled to her feet and wrapped her sash about her tightly. She formed a bun of her hair. The locks that Bex didn’t seem to tire of sinking his fingers into were wild and frizzy. A stiff brushing was in order.
A knock on the door made her dizzy. Was it Bex come to kiss her good morning? “You may enter.” She said, hoping her voice sounded dignified, not lost in love.
Clancy came into the room with another servant hoisting the metal tub. They set it down by the fireplace.
The housekeeper waited on the threshold until the men were done, then she brought in a bucket of hot water.
Clancy came back in with another bucket. The cheery smile she was used to seeing on him was missing. In fact, his long face had a frown. “Clancy what is wrong? Is Papa worse?”
He looked at Ester then toward the housekeeper. “An actor up in these parts. He should go back to his own.”
Mrs. Fitterwall gave him a frown, her lips looking as if she’d pressed them flat between book pages. “I suppose that you don’t want me here.”
“No, you’re different. You’re one of us. You know the struggle. What does London’s most famous actor know?”
It was good Clancy stepped away, for if he was closer, both Ester and Mrs. Fitterwall would have hit him.
“Mrs. Bex,” the housekeeper said as she moved to the door. “Your father is still in a great deal of pain. There’s no improvement.”
Ester clutched the post. How could she be so happy with her father doing poorly? “Perhaps Mr. Bex and I should stay while he recovers.”
