The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  My stomach quaked and turned. The panic I thought I’d beaten started to return, creeping at my feet, making my toes ice-cold. I moved my hands to keep them from freezing.

  “Ruth? Ruth?”

  “Yes.” I sat up and told myself I was strong. “Yes, Ester.”

  “Where are we going? Where does the Wilkinson family live?”

  “Mayfair. The address Jonesy says is in Mayfair.”

  “You told Papa’s groom, but not me?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to be a bother.” I didn’t want to hurt my sister, but she’d never support me, not on this.

  Ester took off her glove and rubbed the back of her hand as if it were Aladdin’s lamp. The motion, no doubt, was to highlight the brown pigment of her skin. “Mayfair means peers, the richest in London. There’s no reason a rich family will give us anything. Acknowledging that one of their sons married a Blackamoor will not be done, not with him dead.”

  “I have to try. Adam was mulatto like Mama. Even if the Wilkinsons toss me out, I have to try. For Chris, I have to.”

  “Marry and get your son a father. What if the Wilkinsons want some sort of custody of your boy? They could set up a guardianship who could make sure you lose your son. My friend, Theodosia Fitzwilliam-Cecil, she suffered greatly from a horrid guardian.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. The lack of truth had harmed Chris, but would gaining the Wilkinson’s acquaintance also bring harm?

  I put the document into my purple reticule and set it on my knees. “I won’t lose Chris seeking the truth. That can’t happen. What will he think when biddies like Mrs. Carter tell my son he’s a bastard? He’s not. I was married when I conceived. That I know.”

  The sparkle in Ester’s eyes died, replaced with questions I didn’t want to answer about Chris.

  I tossed my head back against the seat bolster. “We’ll see if the Wilkinson family will acknowledge the existence of Adam and if they kept his last correspondence. We won’t mention my son unless I have to.”

  “If these people don’t acknowledge or know this Adam, will you be fine?”

  I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of that possibility and not fall to pieces. I hadn’t realized how much hurt I’d buried inside until that stupid trunk had arrived.

  I gritted my teeth and cinched my velvet reticule. “I’ve survived the worst. What’s a slammed door?”

  Ester picked up her bonnet and rotated it round and round in her palms. “Let’s hope that is the worst.”

  I said nothing and allowed the click-clop of the horses to eclipse the awkward silence. I grasped my watch, my palm absorbing the trembling of its ticking. Then my knees mimicked the rhythm, followed by both hands.

  I shook all over.

  The panic, the rage in me began to win.

  Ester reached for me, linking her thin fingers with my shorter ones, almost as Adam had used to do.

  Adam. Don’t let me hate you more than I remember loving you.

  Then I thought of my luck, my bad luck, and I shook more. “I should’ve brought my knitting needles. It gives my hands something to do.”

  “You actually like knitting, Ruth?”

  “It’s something I’ve trained my fingers to do. As long as I concentrate, I don’t have to see the yarn to get it right. I don’t need these horrid headachy lenses. I think that’s an important trick. A skill to show off at parties.”

  I chuckled long enough for my sister to join in, but it wasn’t a jest, just the acknowledgment of my final truth. Someday, blindness would stop teasing and would swallow me whole. I wasn’t afraid of losing my sight. I feared never being able to prove I wasn’t a liar.

  No more thinking about things I couldn’t change. I was grateful to have a piece of the registry. Grateful to know I wasn’t crazy or that my injuries hadn’t made Adam up. “I’m grateful you came, Ester.”

  “Me, too.”

  My sister’s slight grin would be the last thing I focused upon until Mayfair.

  Head pounding, I took off my spectacles and sank into the cushions of the seat, sans wanting to slip into a crack.

  I watched the blurs passing the window. The shapes—blobs of gray, swaths of burgundy—had to be the limestone and fired-brick buildings.

  A long, throaty hoot. That was probably a barge floating down the Thames. That would make these next blobs warehouses.

  The world wasn’t so scary in a closed, moving carriage with everything blurry.

  In another twenty minutes, the carriage stopped at Blaren House.

  I was thankful, so much closer to the truth.

  I hadn’t fallen apart being away from the house.

  Ester moved to the door first. “Put your spectacles on, Ruth. I’m not letting you out of the carriage if you don’t.”

  “You are taking your duties as chaperone a little too much like Mama Croome.”

  “I’m serious, Ruth.”

  I flipped on my spectacles and followed Ester out of the carriage.

  Blaren House.

  Big. Wide green lawn. Huge chiseled stones. Stately. Elegant.

  As we moved forward, something ran toward us.

  Chest thumping faster, I stopped and pulled Ester behind me. I wouldn’t let my sister get hurt.

  A woman ran past, clothes barely on her back. “He’s crazy!”

  Other people ran past us as if Blaren House was on fire.

  My sister tugged on my arm. “Ruth. It’s an upset. Let’s go. Let’s get back into the carriage.”

  A snap, a crackle, a pop. These new noises rose over the screams.

  More men, even a woman in black and white, fled down the limestone steps.

  I planted my heels against the pavement. “It’s only an eviction, Ester. You’ve heard of them. Some of Papa’s workers have gambled away their wages. They lose everything.”

  “Yes, my husband has stopped a few of those procedures for widows of Papa’s workers.”

  This manicured lawn erupted like a brawl in a bawdy house. Incredible.

  Another snap.

  That sounded like a whip. It sounded as if it sliced the air into shreds.

  My chest beat as if it had gone crazy.

  If the Wilkinsons were evicted, I’d never find them.

  A woman bumped into me. Scantily clad, perhaps draped in a sheet. “That man is crazed. Run for your lives.”

  Cold sweat slipped down my neck, chilling my spine.

  The openness hit me where I stood.

  I needed to run back to the carriage or to the wide-open entry of Blaren House.

  Something kept pulling me, but I wasn’t moving.

  That open door was all I could see. I hoped that one of the Wilkinsons remained. Someone who knew Adam.

  “This isn’t a good time to visit, Ruth. Can’t you see that?”

  I heard my sister. I heard her fear, but all I could focus on was a door and the truth.

  Volcano me, dragon me, wild child me, ran. I moved faster and faster to Blaren House’s entry.

  I heard my name but kept heading to that doorway.

  On the first step, someone bumped me and sent me spinning.

  But I had to get inside. I pushed up the next step. Getting inside was all I wanted.

  Another man knocked me. My glasses flew as I went down.

  My neck hit first then my head bounced on the limestone.

  The impact knifed through me.

  Sharp sensations shredded every muscle.

  In my eyes, colors and darkness struggled for control.

  The panic had me. It was winning. I prayed not to faint, for the pain to stop, for darkness to leave me alone.

  “Ruth!”

  Ester? I should fight for her, but I couldn’t move.

  A big blur stood over me.

  Did he whisper something?

  Did he say my name?

  A roughened palm scooped beneath my neck. He cradled it then caressed my jaw.

  The blur hoisted me onto his shoulder. “Ah! The bed w
ench I ordered is here!”

  The boast gutted.

  My temples exploded as I flailed down his back. My face slammed into a hardened backside.

  I couldn’t yell. Couldn’t beat on his big legs. Darkness had me.

  “Put my sister down!”

  Headstrong volcano me had brought trouble onto my sister.

  Aching, I succumbed to the inky blackness. It swallowed me whole.

  Chapter Seven

  This Woman

  Good God.

  This woman…

  She made time stand still. His boots weren’t on the steps of Blaren House but planted in front of the forge of Gretna Green’s blacksmith. He’d committed his life to a very young bride, to love and protect her. Then it was all taken away. Chatsworth Adoniram Wilkinson, the Baron of Wycliff, had vowed never to surrender and never to lose again.

  But this woman…

  One gaze at her face and a sense of knowing swept over him, then a fierce wave of protection.

  His stone heart awakened. Joy, then abject fear, seized the useless organ.

  In a blink, he was young, a fool so in love he couldn’t eat or breathe or think. His every action centered on her—having her, knowing her, pleasing her.

  This woman, his woman…

  She was everything: a sun, the moon, the stars, all the firmaments of the universe.

  People ran around him. Everyone screaming.

  But he went back deeper in time to the docks near the Thames. A strong breeze had kicked up sand, making him turn to shield his eyes. That’s when he’d seen her standing near the warehouses. So beautiful with honey-brown skin. By the time he’d made an introduction, he was in love, worshiping her chocolate eyes flecked with indigo and gold. And those lashes, curly and long, he couldn’t wait to touch them, to touch her.

  “Let me through.” A little woman, a pretty negress, hit at Lawden.

  “Wycliff,” his man-of-all-work called out, “we must finish this, sir.”

  “Yes. Finish. Keep all away.”

  Yet, Wycliff didn’t move. He couldn’t crack his sjambok.

  This woman…she’d died.

  He’d seen her take her last breath, witnessed the convulsion that had stolen her life. At that moment, his heart had turned cold and black.

  He’d wanted to die and take everyone who’d hurt her with him.

  Now he had a different plan for vengeance and the means and the power to complete it.

  “Wycliff, are you done?”

  The trance broke. He lifted his head, snapped his sjambok whip. “Be gone and tell everyone. Blaren House has been restored to its true owner.”

  “Don’t hurt Ruth! Let my sister alone.”

  Oh, the sweetness of the name, Ruth.

  His Ruth, His Ruthy. His miracle.

  One man stopped running. He stood half in the bushes leading to the street. This one might run and report directly to Uncle Soulden or Wycliff’s cousin, Nicholas.

  With everything at stake, Wycliff made his antics large, swinging his sjambok over his head. “A mighty bed wench delivered on time. A lovely celebration.”

  Lord. If Ruth heard that slur, she’d never forgive him.

  He sounded as awful as that innkeeper had their last day together, the last day they’d lived as man and wife.

  Her little sister, the screaming thing, slipped around Lawden and ran at him. “Let her go, you beast!”

  Oh, this was a bad time for a family reunion.

  One slovenly soul, one whom Wycliff was sure he’d frightened into thinking his life was going to end, stopped and gawked.

  What type of message would these henchmen take?

  Wycliff snapped his sjambok twice. The leather whip crackled, stealing the casual smiles of those still looking toward Blaren House.

  Ruth’s sister made it up the steps. “Ruth, hit him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Keeping Ruth on his shoulder, he backed up to the threshold. The sister followed as he suspected. “Two bed wenches for the price of one. Madame Talease is most generous and knows my healthy appetite.”

  His laugh sounded lusty to his own ears. Repugnant, but it worked.

  The goons started leaving again.

  The short woman leaped at him and beat at his chest. “Put my sister down.”

  He laughed, even snapped his whip to make things look as bad as possible—not like a man who’d just found the wife he’d thought dead. “Inside, you. I’ll have to complain to Madame. She knows I want my wenches compliant.”

  The sister hit him again. Lucky for Wycliff, Ruth was tall and draped over all things vital.

  The insistent thing punched him again, hitting his arm. “We are not—”

  He spun the sister, clasped a hand over her mouth. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re sisters of the flesh. Well, I am of the brethren that needs great entertainment. We can negotiate a bigger payment inside. That is, if you please me.”

  She struck him hard, bit his finger.

  He whispered forgive me and shoved the fiery sprite inside.

  Wycliff marched into Blaren House and barred the door. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s not bed wench. Put my sister down. Let us go.”

  He moved toward her and the little lady scrambled deeper into the wide hall. She picked up one of his uncle’s gaudy porcelain statues. The cheap imitation of Giambologna’s Abduction of the Sabine Women was hideous. A brutish sculpture of Roman soldiers stealing brides, hauling them away, sort of like Wycliff was doing. He’d have to get rid of the trash later.

  The sister held it up as if she’d toss it. “Ruth, I’m here. I won’t leave you. Ruth, wake up.”

  “You’re a feisty one, ma’am. But you’re more likely to hit your sister than me if you hurl that odious thing.”

  “Listen you, you let us go.”

  He chuckled at the passion in the sister’s voice, as if he’d ever let Ruth, his Ruthy go. “I need to make sure she’s unharmed. She took a hard fall. Come with me Miss…”

  “Mrs. Bexeley.”

  “Come, Mrs. Bexeley. Bring your ugly statue. Consider it a gift for my rude reception. Your sister may have a concuss of the skull.”

  The little woman lowered her weapon. For the moment, she might trust Wycliff. Well, she had no choice, since her sister was upon his shoulder.

  He curled Ruth into the fullness of his arms, carrying her as he had when he’d been a scrawny young bridegroom taking her across their wedded threshold.

  A week of living and loving. The best time in his miserable thirty-year life. Ruth had been his everything, his best dream. Her death had been the nightmare he could never outrun. How could she be alive?

  Her head bobbled, and he tucked it under his chin. Still beautiful, from a crown of curly tresses to the scar above her right eye.

  Beautiful and alive.

  How was this true?

  Had he finally given in to madness?

  Did madness smell like citrus and roses?

  Did madness have a sister-in-law poking him in the back with the porcelain statue’s breasts?

  Lawden met him at the door to his study. “Lord Wycliff, I came in through the rear. I have the grooms securing the rest of the house.”

  “Good. Give the lady’s driver a guinea and send them away. I’ll see to their transport.”

  Mrs. Bexeley pressed close and touched Ruth’s cheek. “Wait a minute. You can’t—”

  “It’s done. There’s no time to argue. We must see to your sister. Come into my study. We’ll revive her there.”

  He started into the big room, his father’s wonderful study, and paused.

  Freed from impressment, newly back to London, he’d slipped into this room four months ago. Blaren House had become a secret gaming hell. Gambling and debauchery had filled the rooms. No one had noticed Wycliff easing into the study and taking the ledger book he’d hidden on the tall bookshelf behind the big desk four years earlier. The information inside had enabled his curren
t plan to destroy his enemies.

  Mrs. Bexeley shoved him in his back again. “You stopped in the doorway. Put her down or put us in a carriage. You can’t keep us.”

  “You can leave.” His tone was harsh but true. Ruth was all he cared about, all he’d ever cared about. “I’ll take care of her.”

  Stepping fully into the room, he tangled his fingers in Ruth’s hair. A thick healthy curl. His wife was alive.

  Another shove to his back hurt and would probably leave a bruise. “I take it you wish to remain, Mrs. Bexeley?”

  “This is not funny. Put her down.”

  It was funny and tragic and humbling. He debated putting Ruth on the gaudy fur rug, the desk, or the settee by the bookcase. From what he’d witnessed during the eviction, particularly the indelicate situation on the desk, every bit of Blaren House would need to be washed with lye soap.

  “I…I think the settee is best.” Supporting Ruth in one hand, he moved to the striped satin bench and covered it with his cape then laid his love upon it. Tall, gorgeous Ruth’s feet dangled over the settee’s padded arm.

  Wanting to hold her hand, touch the satin of her lips—lips he still dreamed of when he allowed his mind to be undisciplined—he forced himself away. Ruth must awaken and recognize him before there could be any celebration.

  “Go to the sideboard, to the right of the desk, Mrs. Bexeley. There looks to be something like brandy there.”

  She ran to it, picked up the crystal decanter, and shook it. “Will this help Ruth?”

  “No, but I could use a drink. Pour me a glass. Get yourself one, too.”

  She hefted the bottle, one hand had the statue, the other the liquor. “I don’t want jokes. Just let us go.”

  He undid his cravat very carefully and left his collar buttoned. “I told you, you may go. This woman won’t, not until she has awakened and can leave on her own power.”

  His sister-in-law bit her lip. She put the bottle down and then put the statue on the desk with a thud. “If you hadn’t sent my driver away, I’d go get him, but I’d never leave you alone with my sister.”

  “Then I would have dealt with your driver as I have the thieves I evicted from Blaren House. This woman will go nowhere, not until I know she’s well. An injury to the head is very serious. Catch, Mrs. Bexeley.” He tossed her his cravat.

  “Soak it in the brandy. We’ll use it as a restorative.”