Chapter 100: Guess Who

Cecilia

Two hours later, I finally tore myself away from the piano, my fingers slightly sore from the unaccustomed practice and my heart still warm from the fireworks, from Arthur's silent toast across the garden.

The house was quiet as I made my way back through the darkened hallways, most of the staff having retired for the evening. The only light came from the sconces along the walls, casting everything in a soft golden glow that made the familiar corridors feel almost dreamlike.

I was nearly to our bedroom when I heard footsteps behind me and turned to find Thomas, one of the household staff, carrying a silver tray with a crystal decanter and two glasses.

"Miss Locke," he said, nodding politely. "Good evening."

"Thomas." I smiled at him, then gestured to the tray with curiosity. "What's all this?"

"Mr. Winston requested it be brought to his bathroom." Thomas shifted the tray slightly, the amber liquid in the decanter catching the light. "His usual evening scotch."

Didn’t Arthur seem to have this habit before? I wondered curiously.

"I can take it to him," I offered, reaching for the tray before Thomas could protest. "You've been working all day. Go rest."

Thomas hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and the genuine kindness of the offer. "Are you certain, Miss Locke? It's no trouble—"

"I'm certain." I took the tray from his hands, careful not to spill anything. "Besides, I was heading that way anyway."

"Thank you, Miss." He smiled with obvious relief.

The bedroom was empty when I pushed through the door, but I could hear water running from the bathroom, could see steam drifting through the partially open doorway.

I moved quietly, setting the tray down on the dresser long enough to kick off my shoes, then picked it up again and padded barefoot across the plush carpet toward the bathroom.

The door was open just enough for me to slip through without making a sound.

The bathroom was enormous—a massive soaking tub set into a raised platform near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the ocean. Arthur was already in the tub, his head tilted back against the rim, his eyes closed, the water lapping at his chest.

He looked completely relaxed in a way I rarely saw him—all that careful control temporarily set aside, his face smooth and peaceful in the candlelight that flickered from several pillar candles arranged around the tub's edge.

I approached silently, barely breathing, the tray balanced carefully in my hands.

"Just set it on the table and you can go," Arthur said without opening his eyes, his voice slightly rough with exhaustion. "Thank you, Thomas."

I didn't respond, just stood there watching him, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck where it was damp from the steam, the defined muscles of his shoulders and chest visible above the waterline.

After a moment, when I still hadn't moved or spoken, Arthur's brow furrowed slightly. His eyes started to open, irritation beginning to creep into his expression at what he clearly thought was Thomas being unusually hesitant.

"I said you can—"

I set the tray down on the marble surround and reached out, pressing my hands gently over his eyes before he could finish the sentence or see who I was.

"Guess who," I whispered, pitching my voice low and teasing.

Arthur went very still beneath my hands. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—that rare, genuine smile that transformed his entire face.

"Hmm," he said, playing along. "Let me think. The hands are too soft to be Thomas. Too small to be any of the male staff." His own hands came up to wrap around my wrists, holding me in place. "Could it be... that little troublemaker who's been tormenting me since she was nine years old?"

"Wrong," I said, trying not to laugh. "Try again."

"No?" His thumbs stroked over the inside of my wrists, finding my pulse point. "Then perhaps it's that beautiful woman who agreed to marry me. The one who's been playing piano all evening while I've been stuck doing paperwork and wishing I could be with her instead."

Heat flooded through me at the rough honesty in his voice. "Getting warmer."

"Or maybe," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, "it's a certain little troublemaker who likes to sneak up on me when I'm trying to relax and drive me absolutely insane."

Before I could respond, his hands tightened on my wrists and he pulled, hard and sudden, and I let out a startled yelp as I tumbled forward into the tub.

Water sloshed over the sides, soaking into the bath mat, and I came up sputtering and laughing, my clothes plastered to my body, my hair dripping into my eyes.

"Arthur!" I tried to sound outraged but couldn't quite manage it through my laughter. "I'm fully dressed!"

"Not for long," he promised, and then his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding.

I melted into the kiss, my hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against my palms.

"You're trouble," he said, but there was no heat in it, just affection and desire and something deeper that made my chest ache.

"It’s you!" I countered, and he laughed, the sound low and genuine.

"When did you pick up the habit of drinking while taking a bath?" I pointed out, then paused, really looking at him for the first time since I'd tumbled into the tub.

Something flickered across his face, a shadow of old pain quickly smoothed away. His hands stilled on my waist, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, more vulnerable than I'd heard it in a long time.

"Ever since I sent you away," he said simply. "Those four years... the nights were the worst. When it was quiet and dark and there was nothing to distract me from thinking about you, about where you were, if you were okay, if you—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "If you still thought about me the way I thought about you."

My heart cracked open at the raw honesty in his voice.