The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

I took off my spectacles, burying them in my palm. I couldn’t look at her. “I surrender to your truth. I’m going to shut up and take what you think I deserve.”

  Lady Hartwell put a hand on my shoulder, and I startled.

  “Mrs. Wilky,” she said, “what does this missing girl look like? Please tell me. I’ll look for her.”

  “I knew what she looked like four years ago—light-colored skin, about my height, thin, thin like Adam, but she may have changed. It’s hard to shake, tapeworm thin, but don’t do me any favors.”

  I tried to move away, but Lady Hartwell held my shoulder. “What’s her name, Mrs. Wilky, so if I see her, I can let you know.”

  “Cicely Wilkinson,” I said the name low, like a secret.

  “I’ll search for her,” Lady Hartwell said. “The streets are dangerous for a lost girl.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You almost sound as if you believe me.”

  I found the blur that had to be the house and ran. Impulsive, not cultured, I fled. Slap, slap went my slippers through the grass. When I slammed on my glasses, the house was ten or twelve paces.

  Ester caught up to me. “Ruth. Ruth, please stop.”

  Clasping the doorframe, I took a deep breath. “Go back to your friends. You respect them.”

  Plunging deeper into the house, I went to Papa’s study. Collapsing into his chair, I flopped my head on the desk blotter.

  I stayed there, like that, until a handkerchief mopped at my face.

  It smelled of wild bay leaves. That was Bay Rum cologne.

  Sitting upright, I took the cloth and dabbed at my tears.

  “A farthing for your thoughts.”

  The gruff voice sent tingles to my skin. I should be afraid to be secluded in my father’s tiny office with a stranger, but somehow the baron didn’t seem that strange. Not today.

  I took a good look at him. Lord Wycliff was tall, tall like Adam. Well-built with low, dark-brown, almost black hair. And a beard. No, he wasn’t like Adam at all.

  Under his right eye, the space of exposed skin not covered in manicured fur were bruises, big black marks that made his eyes seem blacker.

  They weren’t alike. Adam wasn’t stupid enough to be hit.

  I sighed and wiped my face. “My thoughts cost more than that. Struggling for funds?”

  He sat on the desk beside me. His low chuckle vibrated upon my neck. “Why are you in the house and not enjoying your party? My absence driving you to tears?”

  He was very close, too close, but comfort exuded in the shadow he cast. I remembered that I didn’t have to convince him of anything. He’d believed in Adam and me, even before I’d showed my half of the registry. “Tears of joy, perhaps?”

  The baron put a hand on my shoulder. “You, Ruth Wilky, are certainly worth more than a farthing. I always start negotiations on the cheap, then escalate. My father taught me finances.”

  Hadn’t Adam said things like that? I stiffened and moved out of the chair. “You’re late.”

  His hands dropped to the desk. “But I haven’t been crying. Who wants to explain first?”

  I sniffled. “Why do you care?”

  “Do you expect me not to? Am I not to wonder why a beautiful woman has no joy at her party?”

  “It’s my party. Can’t I cry if I want? Don’t I get to choose?”

  “Mrs. Wilky, you’re on the brink of a nasty sob. Do you miss me that much?”

  “Stop making fun because I have emotions.”

  “Never. Your feelings, your tears, all are an expression of your passion.” His voice was softer, if a guttural baritone could be soft.

  “Then I am the most passionate woman you’ve ever met.”

  “I hope so. Adam would say, except for his mother, you’re the strongest woman he knew. She expressed her feelings in poems.”

  My chest rattled. Tears threatened again, because I knew how Adam loved his mother and her lovely poems, her death poems. “You don’t even know me, and you believe everything Adam said about me.”

  Lord Wycliff came near. “Adam and I were of one mind. He had great taste in women.”

  I was cornered, with bookcases at my back and a baron with bear fur coming closer. My spirit was not to be caged, not by him or any. I was inside the house. I was strong. I pointed my finger at him. “You are too forward. You flirt too much. Stop. I said no. Back away.”

  With a half step back, he bowed in place. “Mrs. Wilky. You’re a queen, a queen that should be honored and admired. What is it that you want?”

  I looked into his eyes, eyes that could almost be Adam’s. “A friend, not a suitor, no lusty anything. I need a friend.”

  His gaze was intense. His mouth pressed to a line, then a grin, then a brilliant smile. Who knew bears could smile like that?

  “Then you shall have a friend, Mrs. Wilky.”

  The baron retreated and sat on my father’s desk.

  I didn’t believe him. I said no and a man listened? I crossed my arms. “It’s that simple? I ask one thing and you behave?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wilky. It’s that simple.”

  I adjusted my spectacles and studied this unpredictable man, bear fur and all. “I should go get your cape. I have it upstairs.”

  “Keep it for now. Show me this house, instead. It’s an unexpected jewel.”

  “Yes, people in Mayfair don’t think people like us can have such nice residences.”

  “Well, this isn’t Mayfair. It’s not even Cheapside, but it’s quite nice.”

  I felt my brow creasing, not sure if this was condescension of a peer or the poor expectation that some Blackamoors lived this well. “My parents worked very hard.”

  Wycliff moved to Papa’s other bookcase, poking about. “A few books by Shakespeare. You should have a few more classics. The old poets. Homer is a treasure.”

  He turned around. High collar, crisply pressed cravat, indigo waistcoat with gold threading on the buttonholes with an ebony tailcoat to finish his polished look. Very nice, very formal.

  I looked at him inspecting the bookcase, and I decided he was handsome, despite the bruises, despite the fur. A closer glance and I saw what I didn’t want to. Wycliff could be Adam’s twin. “Adam should have told me he had a cousin that looked so much like him.”

  “Do we favor? Lucky me. Do you mind my looking so much like your husband, handsome and strong?”

  My mouth might’ve dropped open. If I didn’t need the baron to convince everyone of Adam’s existence, I’d have sent him away. It wasn’t good having a reminder of the joy I’d once possessed.

  “Mrs. Wilky, from what I’ve seen, this is quite grand. The pond with the birdbath has my interest.”

  To know of Mama’s pond, he must’ve been here for a while. “How long have you been at Nineteen Fournier?”

  “Longer than a few minutes. Long enough to watch your barrister leave and hear women make snide remarks. Maybe too long.”

  A little stunned at his honesty, I rubbed my temples. “Sounds long enough to me.”

  “I’ve waited patiently for a moment of your time, but if my enthusiasm and admiration make you upset, I’ll leave right now. You have power over me, Mrs. Wilky. What will you do with me?”

  I should have told him to leave, to allow me a moment to regain my composure, but something inside was too afraid I’d never see him again, the one person in the world who believed me. “Don’t go.”

  He came to me. I watched his swagger with his silent steps. He held out his arm. “Show me this world of yours, Mrs. Wilky. Your friend wants to meet your parents and see where you live.”

  His thick arm, well-muscled, pinned my arm to his side. We fell in step, a perfect rhythm, with him guiding me until we reached the doorway to the garden.

  I couldn’t go out there again. I’d had enough the last time.

  “Take off your glasses, Mrs. Wilky. Maybe people won’t upset you if you don’t see them.”

  “That would mean trusting you completely. I don’t know about t
hat.”

  “Trust me, Mrs. Wilky. I’m a good fellow. I’m your friend. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Slipping my spectacles from my ears, I handed them to him.

  I heard the rustle of his jacket as he slid them into his pocket, then felt the gentle tug as he led me into the warm sun. We walked into the garden. I wondered how people would react to Adam’s cousin, but a part of me didn’t care.

  I had a friend, someone who believed me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Observant Cousin

  Wycliff walked with Ruth into the Croomes’ garden.

  He thought better of heading straight to the crowded center of the party, but staying close to the house on the stone patio or sitting at the small tables didn’t offer the privacy he wanted. Instead, he steered Ruth to the cobblestone path that edged the garden.

  With each step, her nails sank deeper into his jacket. If she became more agitated, she’d push her fingers through his sleeve. That would be a waste of good tailoring.

  He stopped as a guest crossed in front of them. Ruth was poised as she introduced him to one person after the other. She could tell who they were without her glasses.

  Then why doesn’t she recognize me?

  Perhaps he wasn’t giving the observant woman enough clues to his identity. He’d have to do better. Ruth needed to figure out who he was. Wycliff couldn’t risk triggering one of the fits her physicians had described. Lawden’s report on Ruth was heartbreaking and as shocking as the information on the rest of the Croome family and friends.

  He tapped his boot and swayed to the enticing rhythm of the fiddler playing near the refreshment table. Wycliff made note of what Lawden had described in his briefing. The Croomes had a controlled lawn that could be observed only by the townhome to the right. The only entrance to the garden was through the Croome house. This place was safe.

  Nodding to another guest, he and Ruth started moving. The cobblestone path that circled the grass like a border to an imported silk rug seemed smooth enough for her slippers.

  He’d heard of the hidden gardens of Spitalfields but had never seen one. This unexpected oasis of manicured hedges, a sweet stone bench overlooking a glass mosaic birdbath, and a fishpond delighted him.

  But did this delight Ruth?

  Were these her tastes or her parents’? If it was hers, he’d match it at Blaren House.

  He patted her arm and stopped thinking of the future he wanted—her with him in Mayfair, them loving each other again. He’d enjoy this garden today and pay attention to his friend, and protect her from everything fretting that brow.

  “This is lovely, Mrs. Wilky.”

  Her eyes were shut tight. Her deep-honey complexion had drops of dew along her forehead. It wasn’t raining, but was his love caught in a storm?

  He sensed her fear, could hear the rapid changes in her breathing. The echo of throaty hitches stuttered through him.

  The panicked fits—was this one?

  “You’re suffering in silence, Mrs. Wilky. Not good.”

  “Habit.” She brushed at the curls falling to her face. “Ignore me and keep walking.”

  “Can’t ignore you. Impossible.”

  Ruth wasn’t the same, not the woman he’d married four years ago. He should blacken his other eye for thinking she would be.

  Physically, she was the same beauty. Her eyesight was terrible. He’d been close to her face, close enough to kiss that fetching nose—a little wide, a little pointed at the peak, perfect nose.

  She no longer had a sense of peace. Wycliff saw glimpses of her spirit and quick wit, but he suspected those moments were few.

  Tease her.

  He’d tease her to set her at ease. “I’m not a fan of ignoring a beautiful woman. Instead, convince me to be at your beck and call.”

  “Make nice with my parents, and then you need not see me again.”

  “That was harsh, Mrs. Wilky. Can’t you show your cousin some care?”

  “I’m not used to my cousin showing up and having a bruised eye like a ruffian.”

  “We make sacrifices.”

  Good, feisty girl. His Ruth was in there, trapped behind those long lashes and far too many clothes. “I apologize for being late.”

  “Business or personal? Something about Cicely?”

  Her voice sounded rushed. Let it be concern for me. See me, Ruth.

  But her blank countenance disclosed nothing.

  “Both,” he said, “but nothing of Cicely, not yet.”

  She nodded and stepped closer. It was intimate, her being next to him. And she smelled like fresh roses.

  Being a good cousin was going to be hard. Remembering that she didn’t love him or even care for him as he did her would probably kill him, again. “I was late, and I try never to be such, but I made a stop to John McAllister & Son. I have new spectacles being made for you.”

  “Nosy.” Her steps slowed to nothing. “What did he tell you?”

  Those nails of hers dug deeper into his arm.

  People buzzed all about. This didn’t feel like the place to say anything that could be overheard. “Walk a little more. Let’s go to the end of your wilderness. Then abuse me.”

  “No. No. I don’t want to be near the trees.”

  “Then we’ll make another circle. I like walking with you.”

  “Just like Adam. Fine. Then tell me what you discovered.”

  He remained silent until they moved farther from the sea of prying ears—fashionable men and women in sleek top hats and waves of bonnets hosting every color of ribbon.

  “The chatter has lessened, Wycliff. Tell me your nosy news.”

  She didn’t ask how he’d found the doctor—Lawden. Or how he’d found time to visit the busy establishment—Lawden. Merely what Wycliff knew of her condition—interesting.

  “McAllister’s assistant said your sight—”

  “Field of vision.” Ruth glanced up, wide blank eyes, tension set in her jaw. “That is the new fancy term they use.”

  Feisty.

  That was a smidgeon of old Ruth, and she’d always hated him being nosy. He cleared his throat. “Yes, your field of vision has steadily diminished these past three years.”

  “Did he use words like blindness or fits? If you are going to mind my business, get all the details.”

  “Yes. He talked of panics and being disoriented.”

  Her head moved from side to side, as if she were looking at their peaceful surroundings, but he knew she saw nothing but sunlight and blurs. “Never disoriented. I know where I am when I pay attention. Take me back to the house, Lord Wycliff.”

  “As you wish, but I’d rather stare at you in the sunlight.”

  “You can do that in the house. I’ll be more comfortable.”

  He glanced at her. Pretty, upturned button nose, heart-shaped face. So lovely. “But I like the way you look in the sun.”

  A hint of a blush warmed her cheeks. “You are a flirt, my lord, but I’m not. I’m a mother. My head is not easily changed.”

  “I don’t want you to change.”

  He couldn’t help himself and pushed back that errant tendril that fell upon her scar. The long dark mark made by that foul trunk was vicious, so deep. “I like you as you are.”

  Her lip trembled. “Let’s walk some more.”

  He led her past the refreshment table. On the other side was a big, tall, solid-looking man. His skin was polished jet. He balanced a young boy on his lap and a babe in his arms.

  That was Mr. Croome and both children, his grandchildren—either could be Christopher. But only the older boy could possibly be Wycliff’s son. A newborn couldn’t be the seed of a man dead four years.

  He wanted to stare at the older lad, to look for hints of his mother or father in the young scamp’s gold complexion, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to meet Mr. Croome or Christopher, not until he made Ruth comfortable.

  She clutched at his arm. Again, her nails pinched through his jack
et. “Are you done staring at the food? Do you need a plate? Mama’s party fare is quite nice.”

  Ruth knew where they walked. Good she was aware of her location. He pried at her thumb. “The biscuits and cakes look quite good, but your grip has me thinking I’ll forego eating for now.”

  “Tell me what else the McAllister’s tattlers said? What have they hidden from me?”

  “Hidden? Mrs. Wilky, your fingernails are sharp. That’s not a sculpture beneath the wool. It’s a true arm, flesh and blood.”

  She let go. “What did they say? How long did they give me before I’m blind? They may have given you a direct answer. They don’t say everything sometimes to Blackamoors.”

  It was humorous and tragic how she didn’t know him and how she assumed his race. Ruth, we are the same.

  He pressed her palm flat on his arm, pumping his forearm to prepare for more abuse. “The physician was unclear. He said it could degenerate in a year or remain as it is forever.”

  “Oh. That’s the same as what they told me.”

  There was an air of disappointment in her voice. It reminded him of waiting for word from his father on the HMS Liverpool, waiting every day for Captain Collier to come to him and say Wycliff was freed.

  “Take me back to the house, my lord. I’m done out here.”

  “We have quite an audience watching us. Going back now will seem as if we’ve had words. That’s not a good cousin or the makings of a character witness. I’m your proof, remember.”

  She bit her lip.

  Her mouth was still the same, a magnificent wonder of taupey-pink flesh in desperate need of exploration.

  Soon. Very soon. Then he’d know if he had a chance of winning her from the barrister.

  He steadied Ruth, weaving his fingers with hers. “Just a little longer, Mrs. Wilky. I haven’t visited with your parents. Trust me.”

  “Then take me closer to the house. I want to feel its shadow. Then we’ll get you to my parents.”

  “As you wish, Mrs. Wilky.”

  “See, my lord. You are good at being at my beck and call.”

  He couldn’t stop his laughter, nor could he miss the number of people watching them.

  He bent his head close to her ear but became distracted by the scent of roses clinging to her long neck. “There is a group of women looking this way.”