Bed awaits me at the end
The room was large with a southern exposure. Esther could see immediately that they'd have the late afternoon light filling it but the dawn would be gentle. Everything was of the highest quality, the rosewood furniture and the linens, China silk and pillow-cases with lace made by French nuns. Why French nuns and not Italian or Spanish, Esther had never divined, but William must have asked for the best, no expense spared for the new Lady Babington, so Soeur Marie-Leónie's handwork was displayed to advantage. There was a richly hued Persian rug under foot and a vanity table holding a toilette set in silver and ivory. Esther was certain the looking-glass had been made to reflect only her most flattering image. There were bouquets of her favorite flowers scattered around artfully, almost as elegant as she could have made it herself. There were doors on either side, leading to dressing rooms. It was everything she could have dreamed of, living in near-squalor with Edward, getting by when she longed to splash out, everything and yet—
"There's only one bed," she said to her husband, gazing at it and not at him. She wasn't quite sure why, whether she meant to unsettle him or soothe herself. The bed in question was wide and luxuriously appointed and she could imagine waiting for him in it, the curtains drawn closed around them. But it wasn't how the beau monde lived, sharing a room, a bed, every night. She'd expected to be presented her own chambers and guided to the connection to his; hers all dainty pastel, his the harvest of a mahogany forest, full of stags and fur.
"There's another suite of rooms, I can move my things there," he said carefully. That was William, so thoughtful, so cautious, willing to make do with her leavings. In the night, sometimes he would become greedy; sometimes he called out her name or held her with hands that were almost too tight. But not when the sun shone, not when she might hold his gaze in hers.
"You wanted this? For us to be together—every night?" she asked.
"It's what you want that matters, Esther. I'm content with your happiness," he said. But he hadn't managed to keep his tone even. She heard what he desired and would not ask for. What he'd never demand, never admit.
"I prefer this. I prefer to wake together," she said. "To know you'll be there all night long."
"If you change your mind," he replied, leaving room for her as always. Leaving room but putting his arm around her waist, his eyes so very bright.
"I shan't. I've dreadfully cold feet and no bed-warmer's ever been equal to them. You may wish to escape," she said.
"I won't. I'm glad to keep you warm. Head to toe, and everything, everything in-between," he said, squeezing her. If she were a minx, she'd exclaim Lord Babington! and if she were Esther Denham, she would have mocked him mercilessly. But she was his wife and he was her dearest; she smiled and kissed the smile off his mouth, only breaking away when he gasped, grasped her tighter, and stumbled over to the bed with her in his arms.
An Italian nun may have blushed at what followed, a Spanish nun blanched. Somewhere, a French nun must have smiled to herself a little. Esther, Lady Babington, did as well.