Clary bounced on her toes as the craftsman worked. He tolerated her exuberance well, casting only a few irritated glances over his shoulder as he carefully painted the letters. Gilded this time, not simple black.
“He’s back!” Daughtry shouted across the workroom.
“Hurry,” Clary urged the man with the paintbrush.
He heaved a weary sigh and applied the last swipe of paint on the frosted glass. With a wagging finger, he turned to instruct her, “No touching for an hour.”
Clary stifled laughter. Apparently, he knew nothing of her or her husband. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other for a quarter of an hour, let alone sixty minutes. But she nodded at the serious man. He meant the paint, of course, not what Mr. and Mrs. King got up to in the office after everyone went home for the day.
As one of the clerks presented the painter with a check and led him out the rear exit of Ruthven’s, Gabriel entered the front door, a box with baked goods balanced in one hand and a bouquet of fat summer roses in the other.
His grin pierced her with the sweetest burst of pleasure in her chest. Six months on from their wedding day, he still wore a look of wonder when he spotted her across a room, as if he was seeing her for the first time and quite liked what he beheld. Clary was still getting used to anyone looking at her with such naked appreciation. Most of all, she loved that Gabriel didn’t hide his feelings for her anymore.
In fact, she had become the moderate, cautious one at times, stopping him when he was ready to wrap her legs around his waist. He’d take her against the front door of Ruthven’s if she’d allow him to.
Several times, she’d been quite tempted to let him.
“Is there still hot tea?” he asked as he strode forward and pecked a kiss on her cheek.
Tea had now become less a luxury and more of a necessity. The sink in the rear of the building, which previously had been used for washing printing plates or for the clerks to clean up after a spill, was now employed to draw water for tea. They’d installed a gas-fueled hob, which allowed them to keep hot water for beverages on hand throughout the day.
“Simkins has just made a fresh pot,” Clary informed him. None of the clerks minded who made the brews, as long as the supply was kept up.
Gabe scanned the workroom for the young man and nudged his chin up in approval. “Good man, Simkins.”
The clerk grinned as if he’d just been acknowledged by the queen.
“Notice anything different?” Clary said suggestively as she stepped back to lean against the doorframe of their office.
Gabe spun in a circle, casting his gaze around the office, and then faced her. “No. Should I?”
Clearing her throat, Clary edged up onto her toes and perched a hand on her hip nearest the door. “Nothing at all?”
He twisted his mouth as he stared at her, then drew his gaze down her body, slowly, that hungry look she adored turning his eyes a darker blue.
“Up higher,” she urged.
Tipping a wicked grin, he fixed his gaze on her breasts before licking his lips.
Clary shivered. She knew what those lips could do. “Higher,” she growled, only barely resisting shoving her hand in the air and drawing a line underneath where the craftsmen had written their names on the frosted glass of their shared office door.
“Ah,” Gabe finally said, “you’ve changed your hair.” He clucked approvingly before leaning close. “Though to be honest, I prefer it hanging loose down your naked back or gathered in my hands while I—”
“The door,” Clary said on a frantic whisper to keep him from setting her body aflame in front of their entire staff. And Daughtry.
Taking a step back, he lifted his hand to his mouth. “Hmm,” was all he uttered—then a maddening “I see,” before he finally looked down at her and let go a smile that lit up the room. “It’s perfect.”
“Do you think so? Truly?”
Their names were printed, one on top of the other.
GABRIEL KING
&
CLARISSA RUTHVEN KING
Gabe had settled on using his true surname, determined to keep clear of the shadows and live without fear of Rigg, who’d been sent to Newgate, or his cronies, many of whom had shared his fate. After Gabe’s sworn testimony, others came forward, confessing their parts and implicating Rigg in crimes far and wide, even beyond the East End.
Clary wished to keep her maiden name as well as adding Gabe’s. She refused to view their marriage as a loss of any part of herself. Gabe had only enriched her life, broadened it, brought her more happiness than she ever imagined she could find by binding herself to another.
Gabe led her into their office, which had been expanded to twice its size and included a movable partition for times when they met with authors or vendors separately. Today the partition was hidden away, and the curtains had been pulled back to allow the bright summer sun to flood the room with its light.
“Many appointments today?” he asked her.
Clary lifted the watch pinned to her fuchsia shirtwaist. “The girls are due to arrive to work on the first issue of The Ladies’ Clarion. I can’t believe we go to print in a week. After that, I have only one appointment, but it’s not for another hour. It’s the sentimental-story lady. I wished to meet her, and she’s promised to bring more stories. You?”
“Daughtry and I are meeting with a new printing-press vendor. The man promises his machine is faster and cheaper to operate.” Gabe glanced back at her. “He’s not due until after lunch.” Standing before their closed door, he examined the freshly painted letters of their names. “I like the way the ampersand touches both names, connecting them,” he said.
“I asked him to do that and to add those extra flourishes to the letters.”
He took in the gilded swirls and smiled back at her. “Of course you did.” Turning, he took two long steps to close the space between them. “I’ve never a met a woman less able to avoid a flourish.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It couldn’t be. I have none where you’re concerned.” Gabe leaned closer, and Clary pushed a palm against his waistcoat.
She’d warned him about being too intimate in the office, especially when the clerks and Daughtry were on-site. But she never chastised him with much vehemence when he crossed the invisible line of propriety.
“Do you know what else I like about our names on the door?” he asked as he nuzzled her cheek.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
He placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and another close to the edge of her mouth. “They are stacked rather suggestively, don’t you think?” Slipping a hand around her waist, he bent her back until she had to reach for his shoulders to keep from tipping.
“You mean, you on top and me underneath you?”
He nodded, drawing his stubbled cheek against hers. “Mmm, precisely.” Straightening to his full height, he cast her a devilish grin. “Though I must admit”—he tightened his hand at her back, pulling her hips snug with his—“I do quite like when you’re on top.”
“Do you?” Clary snaked a finger between the buttons of his shirt to feel his warm skin against hers.
“Tonight,” he said, catching her hand in his and pressing her palm over the spot where his heart beat steady and strong. “I promise to show you just how much.”