“Please don’t.” She said as her dimpled cheeks, all her face, reddened.
“Now I have to look.” He flipped it open and saw beautiful sketches of dresses and a page of signatures. Mrs. Bex, Mrs. Arthur Bex, Ester Bex. “You seem quite confident that we will agree to marry. You’ve practiced writing your marital name. You guessed I was the one.”
“I’m embarrassed, and Arthur Bex is flirting with me. This has to be an illusion.”
He put two fingers on each side of her squirming temples. “Is this an illusion? You act as if you have forgotten our exchanged letters.” He dipped into his pocket and pulled out the fragrant lilac stem he’d purchased this morning from Covent Gardens after being given the part of Antony—his big next play.
The girl’s face became crestfallen, her voluptuous lips sagged. “There’s a mistake.”
“Miss Croome,” a woman said. “There you are, and you found…Arthur Bex?” She gasped, holding her mouth wide open for a few seconds. “Arthur Bex, the actor?”
“Guilty,” he said. It was the other friend of Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s bride. She was tall with a very light complexion, much lighter than Miss Croome’s olive skin. In certain lighting, she wouldn’t be taken as a Blackamoor woman at all.
Life might be easier for an interracial couple because of it, but the class differences, her being a duke’s daughter, on such a higher rung than an actor, would be insurmountable.
He looked at Miss Croome again and was glad it was she writing him, someone in textiles, with humble beginnings like his own.
The standing woman squinted. “Arthur Bex. The man you… In the plays. The fellow—”
Miss Croome grabbed her hand. “Miss. Burghley, this is the man who responded to the newspaper advertisement. He’s the one with the lilac. The one you—”
“No, Miss Croome, he’s the one you’ve been waiting for. Sir, don’t keep my friend too long. I’ll be in my carriage waiting for you, Miss Croome.”
There had to be some confusion, something underfoot, for his table companion wouldn’t release Miss Burghley’s hand.
“But,” Miss Croome said before being shushed by her friend.
“I know you’re shy, but this is your one chance at marrying a man you admire. Mr. Bex, no one is a bigger student of your performances than my friend. I know you two have much in common.”
Miss Croome didn’t seem satisfied and still gripped Miss Burghley’s glove in a seemingly desperate clutch. “Are you sure, Frederica? Your chance at happiness… Your father—”
Miss Burghley hugged her. “I still have time. And no friend could be happy at another’s expense.”
Now Arthur knew something was amiss. If these weren’t Fitzwilliam-Cecil friends, he’d again think this was a plot by Phineas to trap him in a scandal. He swirled a thumb along a scratch in the table. “What does that mean, Miss Burghley? At another’s expense? Everyone’s happiness has some cost.”
The woman’s expression went from sober to impish in a blink. A wicked smile graced her light features. “It means I’ll be very put-out if you don’t declare to my friend all the reasons you wish to marry her. She’s very busy. I wouldn’t want her time wasted. She has other options.”
Other options? Of course, other men would have answered her advertisement. Her race might put off some, but her family’s money would make others forget the differences. As for Arthur, he didn’t know. Would it be helpful to have a Blackamoor wife when he sought to be a leading voice in the abolition movement, or would the marriage be a distraction from the cause, another way for men to marginalize his voice? “Options are a good thing.”
Miss Croome sat up. “This man has many options. He’s Arthur Bex, the man whose performance as Romeo made the critics cry.” She smiled at him. “Made me cry, too.”
The woman, barely ten minutes into their discussion, had leaped to his defense. He had to get to know her better. He needed a wife who would attest to his character, who would believe in him above everything. Given his family’s history, he wasn’t sure a Blackamoor woman, even one that looked upon him with charity, would want to be his wife, but his goal was for that history to never be known. He craned his neck to find a waitress. “Let me get you all tea.”
“None for me, Mr. Bex,” Miss Burghley said, lightly tapping the table with her finger. “What do you have to say to my friend? She’s clever, a Shakespeare lover, and usually very articulate.”
“Yes, when I’m not having palpitations in my chest.” Miss Croome took her sketch pad and pushed air toward her face.
His seatmate possessed a sense of humor. That was something he treasured. Though she seemed shy now, it had been quite bold of her to come down to the cellar.
A woman like Miss Croome, who possessed a delicate nature, boldness, and humor, didn’t come around every day, in any race. Arthur caught her gaze again and held on to it, as if reaching for polished gems. Delicate, shy, bold, pretty—though, she frowned as if she couldn’t decide whether to stay, leave, or even be sick.
He hated to lose. It was the one unfortunate trait he shared with his uncle, the man who’d raised him. Losers straddled the fence. Winners decided. “I intend to declare myself to be of sound mind and body, and I want to marry this woman if she’ll have me.”
Miss Croome’s cheeks were definitely darker now, and if she proved this easily delighted, the marriage might even be a happy one.
Whipping the lilac under her nose as if it were smelling salts, Miss Croome lowered her gaze. “I never dreamed to be sitting here with Arthur Bex. Are you sure, Miss Burghley, you don’t want to change your mind and sit with us? Arthur Bex is a wonderful man. He’ll make anyone a good husband.”
“Not anyone, my dear Miss Croome. You. Upon seeing you look at him and how he’s looking at you, I know this is right. When you are finished here, we’ll head to the party where your other suitor will be.” Miss Burghley offered a final pat to Miss Croome’s hand and left.
