Page 87 of A Shore Thing

Muriel started, then spun. She faced the curtained window, pulse at a gallop.

On her wedding night, she’d waited for Esmé under the blankets, in a nightgown that buttoned to the throat. The nightgown hadn’t come off in the course of the night. The act she and Esmé performed together had felt both insignificant and monumental. Beyond the ungainly mechanics, there wasn’t much to it, and yet it signified that her marriage had been validated, that she’d crossed a threshold and put her old life irreversibly behind her.

This too felt like a threshold.

“Pasties, pilchards, heavy cake,” announced Griffith, and she peeked over her shoulder. He was inspecting their repast, laid out on the rickety table, which had been jammed awkwardly between the side of the bed and the wall, to allow space for the tub.

“I could cry.” He made a happy noise in his throat and hopped as he tugged off his stockings. He regained his balance, feet bare, and caught her gaze. “Here’s the sequence.” He sent the stockings flying at the basket. “First, strip. Second, devour food with irresponsible haste. Third, bathe.”

She turned. “Shouldn’t bathing come second?”

“Then the food will be cold.”

“But if bathing is third, the water will be cold.”

“That’s why I emphasized haste.”

“And we’re naked in this scenario?” She’d hoped to sound wry, and a little scathing. Instead, her voice was hoarse.

“I skipped a step. We strip, then we quickly protect our modesty.” His eyes were glinting. “That’s optional, of course. Don’t let me stop you if you prefer to dine in the buff.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t let you stop me.” She paused. “I don’t, though.”

“We’re agreed, then, on the plan of action.”

She sighed. “How officious you are.”

“Officious. Overconfident. Overbearing. Insufferably arrogant.” He shook his head. “I’m surprised you like me so much.”

“No, you’re not,” she muttered. “That’s the most annoying part.”

“You like me, then?” He couldn’t hide his smile. “So much?”

“Stop talking,” she suggested. “Or everything will get cold.”

He was laughing as she sidled between the bed and the tub.

God above. She liked him. So much. Apparently, they were agreed on that.

She set her dressing case near the washbasin. Ducking as much as she could behind the tub, she struggled out of her dress and underthings, her stockings and shoes, and yanked her shift over her head. It was damp and badly wrinkled. She straightened, arms piled with filthy garments, and gave a squeak. On the other side of the tub, Griffith stood with his back to her, sliding his arms into his nightshirt. Her eyes followed the fabric as it slid over the taut curve of his bottom and curtained his hard thighs. As he padded to the table, she stared at the intricate play of muscles in his calves, her stomach tightening. She felt lightheaded. Too much exercise and too little food. Lunch in Penzance was a lifetime ago.

She dumped her clothes in the basket, shoved it out the door, and joined him at the table. At the first bite of pasty, she wanted to cry too.

“God, it’s delicious,” she mumbled.

“I’ve never tasted anything better.” Griffith sighed. “Or more briefly.”

She blinked. He’d finished his pasty with truly irresponsible speed. She intensified her own efforts.

“I maligned Egg in my mind,” he said. “Earlier today, for his table manners. But I think I’m going to lick this clean.” He was looking wolfishly at his empty plate.

“It’s a sport in itself, maligning Egg.” She took a sip of wine. “You saw how the others treat him. He says it was worse at school. And his father calls him useless.”

“Seems you and Egg talked plenty as well.”

“We did. He feels unvalued.”

“Ah, yes, the upper-class English male has his cross to bear.” As he turned his head, his ironical smile shifted. “An elephant could bathe in that tub.”