Spellmaker

“I think this wall could do with a portrait,” she said.

He nodded. “I leave all of that to you. Decorate however you see fit.”

Elsie scanned the wall, unsure what to say. She certainly wasn’t going to ask about the budget. Not now. All the better when she’d be able to contribute to it properly.

They walked upstairs, where Bacchus continued the tour. He pointed to an empty room. “I thought this could be a study, unless you’d like it for the library. There’s a larger space this way if you want a sitting room like the one at the stonemasonry shop. It has west-facing windows.”

He showed her the spaces, and together they walked the perimeter of them. There were a few trunks, but these rooms were bare of furniture—an empty canvas for them to paint together. The walls bore outdated wallpaper. Elsie tried to imagine something more floral, with a fine settee and perhaps even a gaming table, but the cylinder of her imagination wasn’t firing. It was far too distracted by the man on her arm, and the rooms that lay upstairs.

They reached the third floor. There was a small chamber near the stairs.

“A guest room, or a servants’ quarters,” Bacchus suggested. “I do think it would be prudent to have a maid. Perhaps Emmeline would hire on?”

Elsie shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly steal her away from Ogden.” And leave him alone in that house. “And I would think your study could be here, and any help we bring in could sleep downstairs. For . . . privacy.”

Bacchus nodded and showed her a second chamber, then a third at the far end of the house, which was larger than the others. This room was furnished, a bed with a sea-green coverlet already made up, side tables beside it, a glass-top breakfast table nearby. It boasted a large wardrobe and additional dresser, as well as a white bookshelf. Elsie’s trunks sat at the foot of the bed, which was most definitely large enough for two. She set the opus gingerly on top of one.

Bacchus rubbed the back of his neck. “John got drapes that matched the coverlet. I hardly mind if you change them.”

Elsie crossed the room and ran her hand down the drapes, which were closed over the window. “Fortunately I know a spellmaker who can easily change the color for me. It’s one of his favorite pastimes.”

Bacchus chuckled. “He sounds like a dandy.”

When he said nothing more, Elsie turned around. His expression had grown serious, and he absentmindedly traced his beard.

Before she could say anything, he dropped his hand and said, “Elsie, I’m more than aware that our union has not been . . . ordinary, or at all conventional. Of course there are expectations between a man and wife . . . What I mean to say is that I will not require anything of you, if you want time to acclimate.”

Elsie’s nerves danced under her skin like fairies. She felt her pulse in her stomach. “How utterly respectful of you, Bacchus.” Her chest felt too light as she garnered courage. “But you cannot kiss a woman the way you have and then not expect her to be fully prepared for her wedding night, even eager for it.” She feigned interest in the windows, ignoring the burning of her cheeks. “Even if it is still daylight.”

“I see.” His voice was lower, seductively rich. She dared a glance at him and saw his eyes looked darker than usual.

Elsie ran her hands down her bodice. The secret page was not beneath her corset today, but stowed in the lining of her smaller trunk. She turned her back to him. “I would greatly appreciate your help with this dress.”

Her heart flipped when Bacchus crossed the room, his fingers grazing the base of her neck, pushing aside a few curls there. She could feel his breath in her hair as his fingers deftly unhooked the first button, then the second, then the third. For better or worse, the dressmaker had sewn a great many buttons onto this dress.

Elsie pressed her hands to her chest, both holding up her dress as it loosened and attempting to calm her racing heart, which seemed to quicken with each brush of his fingers against her chemise. Surely Bacchus could feel it. This time it wasn’t anxiety that made it race, but excitement. Not once since arriving in London had she worried about Merton or Master Raven or any of it.

She clung to her courage as Bacchus reached the small of her back. Squeezing her eyes shut, she murmured, “I love you.”

His fingers stilled. Silence settled.

Panic rose.

Elsie held her breath, keeping the anxiety at bay. Waiting, listening, hoping. It was hardly wrong, making such a confession now, of all times! Yet the seconds felt like minutes, felt like hours, and her stomach tightened in fear and anticipation, so much so that they quickly became unbearable.

“Bacchus?” she whispered.

His strong arms encircled her, pulling her against him. His mouth found the groove of her neck, its presence shooting shivers up her skull. His hair tickled her cheek.

“Of course I love you, you precious, wonderful woman.”

Tears sprang to Elsie’s eyes.