When Stars Light the Sky (The Women of Midtown #2)

Chapter 33

33

Benedict tried a final time to decline the master bedroom, but the Kleins were adamant that he and Inga have the only decent bedroom in the house. Most of them slept on pallets in the front room. Gita and Gerhard shared the single upstairs room, along with their three children and baby boy.

That left him with Inga in the bedroom with the large four-poster bed and no other seating. The bed was a family heirloom with elaborate hand-carved posts, railings, and hanging fabric panels for warmth. Aunt Frieda teased that the Klein babies had been conceived on this very bed for generations, which caused a good bit of ribbing from the men and a mortified blush from Inga.

The enormous bed left little room for the modest dresser next to it. There was a fireplace, although it had been swept clean. Wartime shortages of everything, including firewood, meant it hadn’t been lit in a long time. As a result, the room was so cold he could see his breath. Nevertheless, Benedict was determined to get some sleep tonight and refrain from pouncing on Inga—an urge he’d been feeling ever since they started playing the dangerous game of testing a genuine marriage.

He left Inga alone in the bedroom to change into her nightgown, explaining his behavior to her family that he needed to use the facilities. The house had no plumbing, so he had to bundle up to visit the freezing outhouse behind the stables. It wasn’t the first time he’d used an outhouse, but it was so dark he had to leave the door cracked open to let in a little moonlight.

By the time he got back, Inga was covered up like a nun, clutching her plain white gown and robe all the way to her chin. But no matter how frumpy her gown, she couldn’t disguise the fact that she was still Inga , with piles of blond hair spilling over her shoulders, and wide eyes that looked at him with admiration. And he was a normal, healthy man who’d been attracted to Inga from the first day he saw her.

“You should take the bed,” Inga offered as soon as they were alone in the room. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Absolutely not. If anyone sleeps on the floor, it will be me.”

“This is my family,” she protested. “I’m in your debt for bringing me here. The least I can do is let you have the bed.”

He hunched down to let his hand hover over the floorboards. The house was built on a raised foundation, and chilly air leaked up between the weathered old boards. Sleeping on it would be a misery. Everything about this ancient, crowded house with scant heat, scantier food, and no plumbing was uncomfortable, but at least they had a decent bed—if he could bring himself to share it without taking advantage of Inga like a man who’d been starved of a woman’s embrace for years.

Outside, a gust of wind howled and came straight up through the floorboards. Inga shivered and blew in her cupped hands.

This was ridiculous. He reached across the bed to flip the blanket and sheets down. “Hop in,” he ordered, and mercifully she conceded and jumped in. He flipped the covers over her the second she landed on the mattress.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. This bed is plenty big enough to share. And I know you won’t ... I mean, I hope that you won’t—”

“I won’t,” he assured her. But maybe it was time to press the arrangement. He braced a hand on the railing above the bed, leaning down to see her better. “Have you thought any more about making our arrangement permanent?”

She blushed and looked away. “I think about it all the time. I still don’t know what to do. The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to lose my virginity with Uncle Albrecht on the other side of that door.”

He smothered his laughter with a cough. “Agreed,” he said simply. One thing he learned about Inga long ago was that when she got nervous, she got chatty, and she had a lot to say as she held the blanket up to her chin.

“I have a feeling you know a lot more about this side of marriage than I do.”

The side of his mouth twitched. “Almost certainly.”

“I’ve had a lot of boyfriends over the years,” she said, “so I know what it is to kiss and cuddle. Of course, we had the world’s strictest chaperone at my apartment building back home, meaning there was never any real ... well, never anything more , if you know what I mean.”

He kept his eyes locked with hers. “No. Tell me what you mean.”

She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, and he caught it with a laugh. She sank back down into the mattress and hid a guilty smile.

“One of my friends had a book called The Young Wife ,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “It explained all about ‘conjugal duties.’ I’d never heard that word and had to look it up in a dictionary.”

“Did that clear it up?”

“Absolutely. In Germany we call it hüpfen im heu . ‘Jumping in the hay.’ Or maybe that’s because I grew up in the countryside, and people have fancier terms for it in the cities.”

Not really, but he didn’t want to stop Inga from talking because she was flushed and pretty, and he wanted nothing so much as to hop in bed with her, but he was still fully dressed.

He tugged the cotton panel across the railing so she couldn’t see as he shucked off his coat, fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, and peeled off his trousers. He grabbed a sleeping shirt from his suitcase and tugged it over his head, shivering from the chilly fabric.

“I’m coming in,” he warned a moment before tugging the panel aside to leap beneath the covers. Straw crackled, ropes creaked, and a dusty scent rose up from the mattress, but it must have been recently stuffed because it provided a decent amount of padding. Jumping in the hay, indeed!

The problem with a rope bed was that unless the ropes were constantly tightened, it tended to sag, leaving the ones lying on the mattress rolling toward the middle. While Inga tried to scoot back to her side, she would inevitably roll toward the middle the instant she relaxed.

“Come here,” he murmured, extending his arm toward her. She hesitated only for a moment, then surrendered and settled against his side. He tucked the blanket around her back and shoulders. Then he wrapped her in his arms and buried his nose in her hair, breathing in the soft, lemony fragrance.

“Thank you again,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck.

“Shhh.” He didn’t want her gratitude; he merely wanted her. Cradling her like this was a uniquely marvelous torture. She kissed the side of his neck, and he stroked her hair. At some point she tilted her face up to his, and they indulged in long, lazy kisses.

After a moment, he had to turn away. This wasn’t the time to make their marriage permanent, though he wanted to. With every fiber of his being he wanted Inga to be his forever.

It wasn’t the first time Inga shared a bedroom with Benedict, though it was the first time they’d wrapped up in each other’s arms all night. The rope bed made sure of that. He hadn’t tried any greater intimacy beyond a little kissing and nuzzling, and nothing had ever felt quite so nice.

Now Benedict was up and dressed while she was still too lazy to leave the warmth of the bed. Her breath left little white puffs in the air, and she savored the coziness of huddling beneath the covers to watch Benedict shave.

It was a disturbingly agreeable sight. He’d lathered a bar of soap to cover the lower part of his face, then carefully dragged a straight razor along his jaw. The mirror on the dresser had been tilted so he could watch as he angled his head this way and that, dunking the blade in the washbowl.

“Do you do this every morning?” she asked.

“Every morning,” he confirmed. The twinkle in his eye indicated he found her question amusing, but he couldn’t smile as he swiped the razor alongside his mouth.

She wiggled deeper into the pillows as she continued enjoying the intimacy of watching the mundane act of shaving. If they stayed married, she could do this every morning. Strange how Benedict’s formality used to intimidate her. Now his straitlaced decorum was rather appealing to her.

“I wonder why it seems so much colder here than in Berlin.”

“It’s the altitude. We’re up in the mountains here.”

“But I thought hot air rises?”

Benedict swiped the last of the soap from his face. “It does, but the air gets thinner the higher you get. It can’t hold on to the heat like it does when you’re near sea level.”

He continued to explain about molecules and atmospheric pressure. She wasn’t paying much attention. It was more interesting to watch him fasten the buttons on his shirt cuffs. Then he went about carefully folding his nightshirt and putting everything away instead of leaving it draped over the bedstead like she would have done.

He finally ended his explanation about atmospheric pressure and looked at her. “Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “If we stay married, I’m afraid you’re going to find me terribly stupid. I’m not smart like Mrs. Torres or Mary Gerard.”

He braced his hand along the top of the bedpost like he’d done last night and frowned down at her. “Why do you keep insisting you’re stupid? I wish you’d quit doing that.”

She shrugged. “Because you read the Encyclopedia Britannica , while I like the gossip columns. That’s never going to change.”

And he needed to know that about her. She couldn’t pretend to be someone she wasn’t, and she probably wouldn’t be a good wife for a diplomat.

Benedict sighed as he sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight causing everything to shift and prompting her to roll onto her side next to him. She angled her elbow to prop up her chin, facing him without shame or embarrassment. She was who God made her to be and wouldn’t pretend to be anyone else.

“You’re not stupid,” he insisted. “You don’t have much of an education, but you’re bright and clever, and you have a heart of pure gold. That’s worth more than all twenty-six volumes of my encyclopedia.”

He pressed a quick kiss on her forehead, then gave an affectionate swat on her rear end. She could barely feel it beneath the mound of blankets, but she rather liked the impulsive familiarity.

“I hear people moving about in the front room,” he said. “I’ll join them and leave you to get dressed.”

She watched him leave, feeling her heart pound and wishing the sight of Benedict Kincaid shaving hadn’t been the sexiest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

Warmth enveloped Benedict as he joined the rest of the family where an ancient cast-iron stove warmed the front room. The entire Klein family was already gathered around the long dining table, where hot coffee scented the air and silverware clattered as children gobbled oatmeal.

“Benedict, come have breakfast,” Aunt Frieda urged, spooning oatmeal into a bowl. A can of condensed milk had been opened and diluted. All the children had a glass of milk before them, and Frieda reached for a stoneware jug, about to pour some into his bowl when he stopped her.

“Just oats please, no milk.”

Frieda looked at him curiously, the pitcher suspended above his bowl. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I like simple plain oats,” he said. Actually, cold oats with cold milk was his favorite, but he wouldn’t deprive this family of a single drop of milk. Albrecht shot a hasty look at his wife, telling her not to argue, and Freida set the bowl of plain oats on the table for him.

The house looked even more humble by morning’s light. The pallets had been stacked in the corner, and Albrecht’s table where he cut leather for shoes was beneath the window where the best light was to be had. Baskets of wooden shoe molds sat beside the worktable, along with pliers, awls, and cutting shears arrayed on the windowsill. This was the sort of humble workshop Inga’s father had fled decades earlier, and Benedict could understand why.

Gita sat across the table with her ten-month-old boy on her lap, who happily sucked on a bottle of milk. “When are you and Inga going to have a little one?” Gita asked.

“Hopefully in good time,” he said, and it was true. He’d always wanted children, and Inga would be a fine mother. All he had to do was convince her to stay married to him.

Inga soon emerged from the bedroom. Like him, she accepted a bowl of oatmeal but declined the milk. Was it his imagination or did the day brighten the moment she joined them? The lilt in her voice and her cheerful demeanor always had that effect on him, but it seemed even Albrecht softened a little as Inga shared about life in New York.

The table had room for a dozen people, and soon both benches were full as neighbors began congregating at the house to meet the long-lost daughter of Rosendorff. Inga didn’t know or remember most of the visitors, yet she still eagerly greeted them all.

Benedict silently watched. He didn’t have Inga’s natural buoyancy, and nobody was here to see him anyway. It was more than enough to enjoy watching Inga’s delight as she mingled with family and new friends.

Mostly. One visitor, an apprentice shoemaker named Siegfried, seemed especially impressed with Inga, hanging on every word she spoke. Was Siegfried really that eager to hear about the shoemaking business in New York, or did he merely like leaning in close to her?

Inga hiked up her skirt a bit to model the factory-made boots she’d bought in America. Siegfried dropped to his knees to admire them while Inga gushed about the stores in New York with their ready-made shoes in dozens of sizes and colors. She didn’t mind at all when Siegfried poked and prodded at the fit of the boots, even laying a hand on the side of her heel and testing the leather.

It would be nice if Benedict could stop pondering what Inga said last night about all the boyfriends she’d had over the years. She attracted men effortlessly, even though last night she hadn’t seemed to care a fig about them. She’d seemed entranced with him , and he returned the sentiment with full force.

How long could Inga return his affection? She liked him now, but would it last? Somebody as bright and flirtatious as Inga might grow bored with him quickly. Claudia certainly had.

He rose from the table to help carry dishes to the rinse tub. Inga wasn’t anything like Claudia, and he should be ashamed to think of them in the same sentence.

Gerhard joined him. “I am leaving for the camp at Puchheim soon,” he said. “I cook lunch and dinner each day, so I will not return until late tonight, but you are welcome to join me.”

“I’d like that,” Benedict said. It was easier to sink into diplomatic work rather than make conversation with people with whom he had so little in common.

He asked Inga if she would mind him leaving, and she sent him a blinding smile of agreement before turning back to Siegfried and a few other men from the town who were curious about New York.

She seemed so happy that it was a joy to simply watch her. Benedict could take credit for bringing her here, but could he make her happy in the long run? Or would she tire of him as Claudia had done?

He strolled over to press a goodbye kiss to Inga’s forehead. Inga was nothing like Claudia, and he would fight to keep this marriage.