by Kristin Holt
“Look at this,” he said, gesturing to three open doorways.
The hallway offered three doorways all near one another. From where she stood, she took in three bedrooms, one on the south side already made up as a nursery with a crib, a tall chest of drawers, and a rocking chair.
Tears would flow if she weren’t careful, so she turned to look in the west-facing bedchamber over the front porch. This one was stately, a big bed dominating the middle of the room.
Her tummy tingled at the thought of sharing that bed with her husband.
“Guest room,” he murmured. “In case you have a friend or two wishing to come for a visit. “I suspect some of those other brides who left the Brown Textile Mill might want to check on you and Josie. Coming to scary Utah Territory and all.”
That made her laugh aloud. “I’ll write to them all right away.”
“Please do.”
He turned and showed her what must be their bedroom. But this one had been prepared for little children. Older than infants, with two low beds and a toy chest. Two chests of drawers, bright curtains at the windows.
Without saying so, her husband clearly prepared for the eventuality of fatherhood.
His recognition of the responsibility, as well as the hope for the next generation, made her soften toward him even more. He might be clueless about many things… but about this, about family and parenthood and looking to the future… he understood everything that mattered.
Tears threatened. She would not cry. Tears, even happy tears, were useless. So she shoved them aside and grasped for the closest topic of conversation that wouldn’t bring more emotion.
“Nowhere for us to sleep?”
“Surely you don’t think I’d plan for sons and daughters and not provide for you?”
“It did occur to me.” Teasing was so much easier than allowing his kindness and foresight to steal her heart.
“Come with me, Mrs. Cannon.” He strode toward the back of the house, passing closed doors. “Closet. Storage.”
A discovery for another time.
“Stairs to the attic,” he added.
“A lavatory.” He paused to turn on the gas light in the smaller room than the full bathroom downstairs. This one offered the convenience of a commode and a pedestal sink. But no bathtub. She couldn’t help but wonder if the enormous tub had been too heavy or too large to maneuver up the staircase during construction.
“I argued with the builder,” Richard said, obviously following her gaze and reading her too clearly, “about a bath tub upstairs. The only thing I dislike about this house is the only tub is downstairs, as close to the front entrance as any bathing room I’ve ever noticed. But the builder insisted the architect knew precisely what he was doing, and to mess with the design would be an affront to his sensitivities.”
She didn’t care. The convenience, inside, seemed so grand, so unlike anything she’d ever imagined she’d experience in her lifetime. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
“You haven’t seen the best part.” He kissed her forehead.
Her insides trembled. She almost didn’t want to see their bedroom. That had to be all that remained, didn’t it?
But into the bedroom he took her, his hand clasping hers. He turned on the gas lamps, one on each side of the bed and looped an arm about her shoulders.
This room was about the same size as the other three— a five bedroom home, counting the room on the main floor he used as an office.
A palatial house so far above her station she didn’t know what to think.
The big bed stood as a focal point of the room, the headboard tucked askew in a corner so that windows on the east and on the north allowed for a cross-breeze. She imagined the arrangement allowed for comfortable sleeping on a hot summer’s night.
No fireplaces… or stoves… in any of the bedrooms. “What about heat?”
She realized this room had to be above the kitchen and would stay warm, but what about the children’s rooms?
“Central heating.”
Her eyes rounded. The extravagance—
“Coal furnace in the basement. I’ll tend to it. You don’t need to do a thing.”
What had she done to deserve this kind of luxury?
She couldn’t meet her husband’s eye for fear the tears would creep back in. She fought the lump in her throat and noticed the closet door standing open… so much room for clothing. Many things of his already hung inside. The suite of furniture all had the same lustrous sheen of dark wood. A lady’s writing desk near one window balanced a lady’s vanity on the other. A large chest of drawers, twice the size of those in other bedrooms, completed the ensemble.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s wonderful. I do like it. Very much.”
“It’s actually the smallest of the bedrooms in the house.”
That surprised her. The room was so generously proportioned.
“The front bedroom,” he tipped his head toward the guest room facing the street, “is designed for the master, I suppose, but the window faces west. In the summer it’s far hotter than this east side. I moved in during the heat of July and wanted the cooler room.
That made perfect sense. She nodded in agreement.
“I also enjoy the sunlight in the early mornings. I enjoy waking to the rising sun.”
Oh, the luxury of sleeping that long. She’d spent so many years walking to work in the pre-dawn darkness, rising long before daybreak, that the thought of sleeping longer, until the rising sun nudged her awake, seemed the grandest privilege ever.
“Thank you.” Emotion clogged her throat, even as she turned to meet her husband’s eye. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Our home.” He smiled, so warm and genuine and hopeful. “I built this home for you.”
Chapter Eight
Lessie lingered in the luxurious over-sized bathtub. She soaked until the deliciously hot water cooled to tepid and then cold. She lingered until the sun well and truly set and the bathroom was doused in the darkest of shadows behind the privacy curtain above the tub.
She had to admit she was a little bit nervous. They didn’t really know each other, after all, and while the man might be her legal husband, he was still essentially a stranger.
Three soft raps sounded on the heavy bathroom door and she started, splashed in the cold water.
“Lessie?” Richard’s voice sounded hesitant. “I didn’t intend to frighten you.”
“No, it’s fine. I probably should be getting out anyway.” She stood, letting water sluice down her body, relishing the sensation of being truly wet from scalp to toe. She hadn’t been this clean in a month of Sundays.
She’d made good use of the new toothbrush and tooth powder Richard had given her, before bathing. She’d washed her hair and every inch of her person, two or three times. She smelled fresh and clean and like a flower garden.
The open window allowed a fragrant breeze in, chilling her wet skin. She reached for a fluffy towel, realizing Richard had plenty. She could have one for her hair and one for her body.
“Lessie?” Richard sounded worried.
“I’ll be out in a moment.” No way did she want to put her travel-soiled clothing back on again and she hadn’t thought to bring her bundle in. Perhaps if she asked nicely, Richard would pass it to her around the bathroom door?
“Do you need anything?” her solicitous husband asked. “Want me to show you how to turn the light on?”
Husband.
How odd. Just that morning, she’d had no one else in the world, no one but Josie. Now she had a husband.
She wasn’t entirely responsible for the fate of her family anymore.
“It’s all right. I’ve found everything.” She opened the door, forgetting to open it just enough to pass a bundle of clothing through. Lit from behind by the gas lights in the first floor hallway, Richard’s dark hair shone. He’d braced one forearm against the door frame, one big palm against the other side. As if fencing her i
n.
He searched her gaze, seemed to have a dickens of a time keeping his attention above her face and within seconds, his focus had fallen to her bare toes and worked its way up past her bare ankles, bare shins, over the fluffy pale towel, over her well-covered chest— as covered as any fine lady in an evening gown, lingered on her bare shoulders, and then her mouth.
He swallowed, so hard his Adam’s apple, exposed by the open neck of his shirt, slid all the way down and bobbed back up.
He’d removed his collar and rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned, strong forearms with liberal dark hair. She imagined his chest would be that hairy, too.
He held eye contact for a long moment. “I thought you intended to stay in there all night.”
“I was tempted.”
He winced as if her confession pained him. “About that… I think it’s the right thing for us to begin as we mean to go on. I can be a gentleman, Lessie, keep my hands to myself, but I genuinely think separate beds aren’t going to help us become more comfortable with one another.”
“You’re right.”
He started, as if she’d slapped him. She doubted she could have shocked him more if she had pummeled him with open-handed slaps and shrieked.
She grinned. “I do believe I shocked you into silence, Mr. Cannon.”
“I thought—”
She chuckled. “You thought I fear you. I don’t.”
“Thank you… I think.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “I… I actually think it’s a very good idea we share a bed, from tonight forward.” The words flowed out in a rush, the hours she’d wiled away in the tub not making the decision any easier to vocalize.
Both of his eyebrows inched upward. “You do?”
“Uh… yes. I’m your wife. And… it seems… like it would be acceptable? I’m your wife, and not just an employee, right?”
Oh, he didn’t like that. His expression soured as quickly as could be. “I never said—”
“I’ve soaked in your glorious bathtub for the past two hours—”
“Two and one-quarter hours, to be precise.”
“That long?”
He nodded.
Leave it to him to track her movements by his timepiece.
“I’ve soaked in your glorious bathtub for the past two and one-quarter hours, allowing the water to cool, and replayed our conversation.”
Confusion flitted over his features.
“The conversation right here, in the parlor.”
Wariness replaced the confusion. “And?”
“There is something I really need to know before we can… uh… go further with this.”
Even back-lit as he was, she saw the way his brows drew together in a scowl. He didn’t see where this was going, and now she found herself trembling, not sure she ought to keep sliding down this slope. She ought to button her lip and refuse to speak. But as she combed over the conversation time and again, she’d come to the stark realization she was nothing more than a fancy employee, one granted a gold band on her finger and the Cannon name.
But he’d built this beautiful home. He’d referred to the residence as ‘ours’.
He’d said vows in the church and meant them.
Richard Cannon wore sincerity well.
To share his bed, to become fully his wife… scared her more than a little bit.
With no experience and desperately missing the factory girls, all those in the dormitory who would have listened to her fears and helped her find her way through this— how she missed them!— all she could do was follow her instincts. And right now, her instincts screamed to forget herself and place her trust her husband.
Hard to do, with her feet bare, her ankles naked, the towel indecently short and showing most of her calves, even with him ever so much taller and standing this near she doubted he could see more than her toes and ankles… she wasn’t wearing her corset.
Frankly, she wasn’t wearing much at all.
And legally wed or not, this was a most intimate circumstance for conversation.
“Sweetheart,” he said with great care, “yes, it’s perfectly acceptable for you to share my bed. Now tell me, what is it you need to know?”
“Mr. Cannon.” She raised her chin and fought the shakes. “Which am I? Wife or business?”
“Excuse me?” He lowered the hand braced against the wall, followed by the forearm. But he didn’t step back. He propped both hands on his lean hips, made even more apparent as he’d removed his jacket and vest. She wouldn’t be surprised to see he’d removed his shoes, but that would require looking down, and she wasn’t willing to take a peek.
Not yet.
“Wife or business?” She waited, the shakes getting worse. “Which am I? I want to know.”
He took a deliberate step closer and she shivered with anticipation. It never occurred to her to allow fear in. This was Richard, the man who’d built her a grand house and purchased a toy chest and a baby’s crib. She didn’t understand him fully, but she wasn’t afraid.
He stood within the door frame now, so near he barely extended his arm to trace fingertips along her collar bone.
Goose flesh prickled along the trail he branded. He reached her shoulder, grasped and squeezed in a manner that didn’t feel the least bit like friendship and nothing akin to a business agreement. Then retracing the trail he’d blazed, those heated fingertips barely skimmed her still-damp skin. She heard herself gasp.
He cupped her chin, though she hadn’t been able to pull her gaze from his face. He lowered his head, telegraphing his intention to kiss her.
Again.
How many kisses had there been today?
Was this his answer? Her tummy tingled, bounced, made a nuisance of itself.
This was no business handshake.
His lips touched hers, at first much like they had at the church once the pastor had pronounced them man and wife.
But the kiss before God, the minister, her sister and Adam Taylor had been perfunctory. A business dealing.
This kiss— this kiss awakened every nerve ending from her scalp, along her spine, and to her toes in delicious tingling… hadn’t it?
Richard brought his other hand to cup her neck, urge her just a little closer. His kiss deepened, heated.
Then his arms were around her, pulling her flush against him. And still he kissed her. Somehow, though she hadn’t a lick of experience, she kissed him back. Every bit as involved as if this were a discussion and they each spoke, took turns listening, struggled to explain themselves and to be understood.
She hadn’t any idea how long their kiss went on, but it seemed to explore every corner of her soul, lay bare everything she’d planned to withhold from him.
Never, despite all she’d thought she’d known, had she imagined a kiss could steal into her very being, muddle the firmest of resolves, and change everything.
When he finally ended the kiss, she expected to glimpse triumph or perhaps satisfaction on his features, but she would have sworn he was as shaken as she.
“Does that answer your question, Mrs. Cannon?” His voice sounded rough and yet tender at the same time.
Did his wordless response answer her question?
He’d kissed her as if she were his much-desired bride. As if they’d courted for months or even years and he’d proposed marriage out of love or at minimum, affection.
He’d responded like a groom was supposed to kiss his bride on their wedding night, a kiss that whispered promises and echoed the vows spoken as if they were true.
Somehow, she knew kisses couldn’t lie. At least not Richard’s. And his tone of voice when asking if he’d adequately answered her question said it all.
But she must’ve taken too long to respond because he kissed her again. Twice in rapid succession, then lingered.
Oh, lingering… so sweet.
Tears stung her eyes as if she couldn’t quite grasp it all. She’d never expected this from a marriage of convenience. And certainly n
ever from day one.
“You want a wife.”
A low growl sounded in his throat as he secured her in his arms, somehow backing her up until she bumped the vanity containing the modern washbasin with hot and cold water on tap. And a drain that miraculously found its way outside.
He took advantage of the furniture at her back, pressing himself indecently close… except this man was her husband, and therefore all of the rules changed.
He shook his head, denying her statement: you want a wife. “I want you, wife.”
Somewhere between that stunning first brush of lips and now, Richard’s blood had ignited.
This petite, too-slender woman, his wife, willing in his arms— gave him a rush of adrenaline that made it hard to remember he needed to slow down.
She was so young, likely innocent. At least he hoped she was untouched. The primal part of him wanted to growl, howl, mark her with his scent, his name, his ring… she was his.
“Richard.” She stilled, pushed her little hand against his chest.
The fog lifted just enough for him to realize she’d called a halt.
He didn’t want to hear her. It would be so easy to finesse her into another kiss, allow the passion to lure her into his arms, into their bed.
What had he done? Had he pushed too fast, too far? True, he’d found himself caught up in the moment… but he hadn’t offended her tender, innocent sensibilities…had he?
“Sweetheart.” He whispered a kiss over jaw. So smooth, compared to his own. He really ought to shave before this went any further. He didn’t need to scrape her tender flesh with his stubble. But now he couldn’t bear to leave her long enough to shave. Why hadn’t he thought about it earlier, during her three-and-one-quarter hour bath?
His shaving kit was upstairs in the lavatory.
“Let me take the towel you have around your hair,” he asked. “Let it down. I want to touch it, run my fingers through it. I’ll comb it through for you. I’ve always wanted to comb a woman’s hair— my wife’s hair.”
She shivered, but surely in the fading heat of such an unseasonably warm afternoon she really wasn’t cold, was she?