Page 33 of The Finest Print

32

Marriages

At St. Bride’s Parish, on the 26th day of June by the Rev. C. Braxton, Mr. Ethan Thomas Fletcher to Belinda Rose Sinclair of London.

—Excerpt from the Evening Standard

The wedding-cake spire of St. Bride’s church seemed to wave in greeting as Ethan wrapped Belle’s hand around his forearm and led her through the churchyard. Her family and their friends from the shop waited in a small, cheerful cluster.

Ethan withheld a groan. To be sure, he was happy to see them, but he wasn’t in the mood to loiter.

“Be nice,” she admonished, looking up at him with a smile. “You knew to expect this. We went over the schedule yesterday. Twice.”

“The only part of the schedule I’m interested in,” he murmured, “is what happens in the half hour between the church and the wedding breakfast.”

“Ethan!” Belle blushed. “Goodness. You might consider not being a brute on our wedding day.”

“Apologies.” He leveled her a look, watching the freckles across her nose fade in the prettiest wash of pink. “I must have misheard your sentiments the other day. I could have sworn you enjoyed me playing a brute, though my hearing was a bit restricted by?—”

“Mama!” Belle pivoted abruptly to embrace her mother but not before stepping on his boot with surprising force for such a small, satin-slippered foot.

Emilia Sinclair wrapped Belle in her arms, which immediately had both women crying. Ethan decided he wouldn’t be offended by this. He was confident he’d secured Mrs. Sinclair’s good graces. Last week, he invited Belle’s mother to the shop, and she seemed to take great delight in watching them work. It was hard to say what she appreciated more—Newburn’s explanation of typesetting, or Marks’s proclamation that he’d found a new muse.

Helena hugged her next—more tears—and because Ethan did, in fact, know today’s schedule, he knew he was meant to stand back and be patient as the small crowd of finely dressed women—her mother, her sister, two cousins, her aunt, Mrs. Porter—greeted his bride.

Belle was resplendent, her untamed curls pinned beneath a wreath of flowers, her gown the same soft yellow she’d worn to the courthouse the day he first put her hand on his arm and imagined what a fine pair they might make. After the wedding. He’d had the right idea that day, because he did, in fact, intend to sneak her away. Lady Fordham was hosting what she’d assured them was a small and simple wedding breakfast—so simple, in fact, it apparently involved ten courses and required him to wear a cravat.

It was no matter. Despite playing grouchy for Belle’s delight, Ethan was in the finest spirits of his life.

He just needed a moment with his wife.

Justice Sinclair approached. “Felicitations, Fletcher.”

“Sir.” He shook hands with his new father-in-law.

“Your men came by for Belle’s last things.”

Ethan laughed. His men were Sam and Paulie the newsboy. “I noticed. I can’t currently see the floor of my residence.”

“We can store what you need.” The judge smiled. “As long as you need. It’s all right if it takes time.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ethan regarded him. “I mean that sincerely. I know things aren’t as stable as either of us would like?—”

“They’re exactly as stable as I’d like,” Justice Sinclair said mildly. “My daughter married a creative and enterprising man?—”

“Hardly.”

“Who makes her very happy,” Sinclair finished. “So perhaps I should be thanking you.”

“Suppose we call it even.” Ethan grinned. “I’ve about had my fill of debts—even ones of gratitude.”

Belle appeared at his side. “Come, darling. Everyone wants to congratulate you.”

He looked over her shoulder, to the little group of women watching him expectantly.

“The beard does suit,” a willowy brunette remarked as Belle hauled him over.

“Cecily!” Helena Sinclair admonished.

Belle beamed. “It’s all right. You can be honest with him.”

“Ethan, we really don’t have very much time.” Belle laughed as her new husband tugged her inside the shop. “We’re supposed to be?—”

His mouth descended, hot and eager. He leaned her against the door, reaching behind her to turn the lock with a decisive click. The small sound was somehow as erotic as Ethan’s soft groan.

“It’s been three weeks, Belle.”

“Well…” She gasped, letting him angle her neck. She was wearing her sapphires and seed pearls, and his tongue slid over the jewels. “The banns, you know. I wanted to do things properly.”

“As do I.” His green gaze was dark. “Upstairs, sweetheart. I have a wedding present for you.”

“A promising start,” she teased, tugging at his collar.

Ethan evidently wasn’t in the mood for banter, for he was already pulling her up the staircase, his fingers twined with hers as they tumbled into the small parlor.

“Right.” He dropped a lingering kiss on the back of her neck. “Sit on the desk.”

“Ah.” She eyed the wobbly desk. “Perhaps our bed, darling?—”

“I feel insane when you say that,” he muttered.

“I know.” She kissed his jaw, unwinding his cravat. “I feel insane when you say anything.”

He lifted her, crossed the room in six long strides, and unceremoniously dropped her in a pile of pale skirts on the narrow surface of the writing desk. Before she could so much as gasp, he was kissing her with furious intent, his tongue moving roughly against hers as he worked open the tiny buttons on her bodice.

“What about my present?” she managed when he finally released her lips in favor of the swell of her breasts. She moaned softly, instantly needy at the sensation of his mouth against the edge of her delicately embroidered chemise. “Never mind…”

“This is the present.” He braced his arms on either side of her hips, his palms flat on the desktop.

“Yes,” she agreed foggily, running her hands down the broad plane of his chest. “Indeed.”

“No.” He kissed her again, slower this time. “The desk is your present.”

He shook the desktop, and she preemptively wound her arms around him, bracing for the lurch.

The desk remained sturdy beneath her bottom.

“I made it steady for you.” He grinned proudly.

“Oh!” She leaned back, rocking a little, acutely aware of the way his hooded stare tracked the sway of her breasts. “Look at that. Darling, it’s wonderful.”

“Such a menace,” he breathed, inching her skirts up her legs.

“I adore it, Ethan.” She kissed him soundly, gratitude warming her all the way through. “It’s exactly right. It’s just what I imagined.”

He spread her knees, moving to stand between them.

“You imagined this?” He slid his hands down the small of her back, fitting their hips together. “Being ravished on a sturdy writing desk?”

“No.” She laughed, unfastening his trousers. “I mean, I imagined our life here, above the shop.”

His face grew tender as he drew her flush against him.

“Tell me,” he rumbled in her ear, “about an ordinary day.”

“Waking later than you,” she whispered. “Fixing your tie. Watching you yank it sideways…”

She arched her back, sighing as he lifted her bottom and seated himself in one slow stroke.

“What else?”

She pitched under the strength of her hopes and desires, even as he sated both. The life she yearned for, here , in her arms, filling all the space inside her.

“Your feet on the stairs. Writing at this desk. Making something together.” She touched his mouth, breathless. “Not having the faintest idea what it will be.”

She was hardly making sense, but he groaned, moving languidly within her. He captured her mouth, lazy and unmeasured, helping her take what she needed until what she needed was him.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s do that.”

There were many things about their circumstances they wished to improve, but not this. This was the one thing, perhaps, they’d managed to get right.

By some turn of providence, he had stumbled upon the right bench; by some miracle, she had allowed him space there.

And somehow, together, they had turned a stack of damaged paper into an entire story.

One day, they would look back from some great vantage and see the page.

For now, they only needed to join hands?—

And turn it.