The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  He moved to her, stroking her jaw. She wasn’t fragile. She was strong like bone china and had been tested enough. “We’re good together. I need to see you tomorrow.”

  “You want to pretend that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t here. That one of your business associates isn’t dead.”

  “Nothing changes by acknowledging this treachery. Captain Steward was a good man who became embroiled with men who don’t play fair. These fiends thrive on weakness. I’m not weak, Ruth. I’m not going to stop living because of their threats. I’ll enjoy every moment. I know everything can change in an hour.”

  “I’m to accept that there is one side of you I’ll never see. Have I no choice in this matter?”

  He bit at his lip. “I accept you, Ruth. Everything. Even your desire for a friend, a platonic friendship.”

  Firm in his decision, he moved to the door. “It was a good day. Send me a note if you want to go for a walk tomorrow.”

  Wycliff marched out the door, grabbed up his hat and dashed out the entry.

  “Wait.”

  Ruth had chased after him. She was at the top step and then bounced down another two to join him. “Don’t go.”

  Outside. She’d come outside for him. The lady wrapped her arms about his sore neck. “I accept you, too. Just as you are.”

  Then she grabbed him by the collar and pressed her mouth to his.

  Her hands were tight, pulling at his shirt, her fingers a mere inch above the scars burned into his throat.

  Wild—with her hands tugging on his collar, his coat—her kisses deepened.

  How is this a platonic friendship?

  He should push away. He should think of what she wanted, what she’d said she needed. “Ruth, wait—”

  She purred. Her nails sank into his shoulders.

  Control. None. The puffer was stuck in the puddin’. Ruth, as the old saying went, made the love thick. It was rather easy for him to get stuck in it. Four years, and he burned the same.

  And he needed her, more than ever.

  Wycliff dropped his hat and took her into his arms. So warm, so passionate, so Ruth, his Ruth. She was the only person to have him on edge, make him think he’d lost all, then spin him like a drunken top. “Oh, woman.”

  This seaman drowned, drowned in her fire, tasting and teasing, until he could stand no more.

  “Break with the barrister. I beg of you, Ruth. Don’t torture my soul wondering if I have a chance.”

  “I can’t go on with Mr. Marks and feel like this. But I’m not ready to be won. There’s so much to discuss.”

  If her affection remained white hot, there wouldn’t be much discussion. “So, you’ll break with Marks?”

  “Yes. You do have nice lips, better than his.”

  Wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear, but he’d take anything that meant she wouldn’t consider another man. “Well, there is that.”

  Caressing her back, he held her, hoping his heart would slow, but when did fire make anything slow? “Tomorrow, Ruth. A walk. Be ready for me.”

  “Yes.”

  He waited until she’d slipped back into the house.

  But he stood there, hoping she’d come back or even look for him out the parlor window.

  A quick gaze to the upper level and he saw Ruth waving at him.

  Four years, so many days and hours apart, and he was still as much in love with her as ever.

  Small steps, Wycliff. Ruth wasn’t where he was…yet.

  After picking up his things, he fanned his face and climbed into his carriage.

  Time to finish his enemies and make Ruth love him so much that silly things like a name wouldn’t matter and a big thing like trusting him completely wouldn’t be so hard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dinner with a Baron

  My new spectacles made things very clear. Sitting in Wycliff’s carriage with our fingers entwined, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was.

  I’d never thought I’d like a beard. It tickled my cheek when he pulled me close. I was glad of it. It made me laugh. I needed to laugh, because Wycliff looked too much like Adam, an older, wiser one.

  “Thank you for my spectacles.”

  His eyes were shadowed by the darkness filling the carriage. The sun had begun to set. I wanted to know his thoughts. I wanted to believe he was happy with me now, as things were. Spending time together. A few stolen kisses. Though, nothing was stolen. I readily turned my face to the beautiful bear.

  “You broke your lenses during the eviction, my dear. It’s the least I could do.”

  “I need nothing more. You’ve been so sweet to Chris and me this week. Walks, teas. He’s still talking about Hyde Park.”

  He lifted my hand to his mouth. I felt his furry jaw. I giggled a little.

  “My pleasure, sweet Ruth. Thank you for allowing us to go. It would have been perfect if you’d come, too.”

  “Knitting Tuesday.” I said the explanation fast, so he’d know I was well and not begging off from a fit. I needed him to know that I was good, better than ever. I felt like me again, the me before Adam’s death. Was it bad, to think that way?

  “You love your knitting and your knitting parlor. Will I ever see any of this work?”

  “I took apart a scarf I was making. I don’t believe in giving something that was promised to another.”

  I meant the barrister’s scarf, but my mind twisted my words. Part of me feared I was still Adam’s.

  Wycliff lifted my chin. “Did Mrs. Carter show? Is she still miffed?”

  My mind couldn’t quite grasp the contrast of how rough his hands were to how gentle his touch was.

  His business had violent enemies, and yet he was sweet and relaxed with me.

  “Well, Ruth?”

  I held on to his hands. My grip was tight. I wanted to enjoy Wycliff. “Mrs. Carter is still miffed at you and now at me.”

  “What did you do, Ruthy?”

  I let his raspy Ruthy wash over me and absorbed the intimacy, the closeness. “I asked for proof that she was from Jamaica to show you.”

  “Wicked.”

  He brushed those wonderful lips against my nose. Almost like instinct, my head tilted, and he accepted the invitation.

  So gentle the pressure of his mouth on mine.

  I opened for him, wide, almost wanton.

  He caressed my neck, and I let him.

  No squirming or wishing for his affection to pass.

  I was present and enjoyed this man’s touch. I’d never thought it possible, but no one had kissed me this sweetly, not since Adam.

  Adam.

  The minute that name crossed my mind, I froze. I was heavy with guilt.

  Wycliff stopped and swept me deeper into his arms.

  And I felt warm and loved and guilty.

  I didn’t want to make him Adam, but I didn’t mind Wycliff being so like him, the good parts. Was it possible for Adam to have a twin? A furry sweet twin? Why were they so similar? It often felt as if Adam were kissing me when it was Wycliff.

  “I’m glad you are letting me take you to Blaren House. A proper tour.”

  “A tour, my lord?”

  “Yes, and dinner. I need your opinion on a few things. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  I didn’t mind being on his arm, but I was tense.

  He had me out of the carriage in a blink.

  “You don’t need to fidget, Ruth.” Wycliff’s steps were unhurried, almost lazy, like he had no care.

  I was torn between wanting to be through Blaren House’s entry and loving the feel of his hand heating my satin glove.

  “Your ideas of color for my house are what I crave. Your thoughts and whims are for me. I’m yours to command.”

  This joke, sort of serious, sort of sweet, sent a shiver down my skin. His graveled voice wasn’t a church hymn, but it meant seasoned and secure, even desire to my ears.

  Security wasn’t the thing I knew I needed. Coming from the closely knit Croome family, it was the thi
ng I didn’t know I’d missed.

  Wycliff had his palms about my waist, tight and low, as he helped me up the steps. “My staff has prepared a feast for you.”

  “I don’t need such trouble, and it’s getting late.”

  “You need someone to make a fuss over you.”

  The doors opened before he touched the knocker.

  The vile scent of fresh paint hit my nostrils. I brought a hand to my nose. “Paint fumes don’t smell like a roast. It’s quite the opposite.”

  “No. They don’t. This is terrible. We won’t dine down here. But…” He drummed his boot. “The smell is indicative of the choice you must make.”

  I fanned my face. “The choice to be sickened by fumes or to leave?”

  “No, the choice of color you want in this grand hall.”

  “Color is a personal thing, Lord Wycliff.”

  “Blaren House is personal. I want the hues of the walls to be something that inspires you. I want to induce you to consider a more permanent friendship. I’m getting a bit old to be a bachelor.”

  “You’re not old. What are you? Thirty, thirty-two?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  The same age as Adam. I crossed my arms to block the memories. The hopes of what could’ve been paled to what Wycliff promised.

  “At such an age, I should be married. What do you think, friend?”

  “I don’t want to talk of this tonight.”

  He bent and picked up a brush from a bucket. “What of this?” He slathered creamy beige paint onto the wall.

  I held my nose. The stench was strong. “Rather dull.”

  He stopped again, creasing his elegant buff breaches, and stirred a second bucket.

  “Dull. I hate being a bore, but when do we discuss things?”

  I stepped back and realized he’d painted an R onto the wall. “I exchanged letters with Mr. Marks for months before we met in person. I wish to take things slowly.”

  Tugging at his jade-green waistcoat, he bent to the second of the three buckets. This one was dead-salmon pink. He slapped a heart underneath the R. “Six months is about the time you were secretly engaged to Adam. That’s a long time to wait. This is our third week.”

  “You can’t count any but this week. I was also being courted by Mr. Marks.”

  Stirring the third, he whipped up an olive green. “True.”

  “No to that color. Do not waste your time with it.”

  He smiled and eased the dripping brush back into the paint. “I believe you are right.”

  I whirled away from the mirth in his eyes. I tweaked my lenses and enjoyed how white and fresh the hall looked.

  “So clean, Lord Wycliff. No overturned gaming tables, no broken furniture. Does this place need anything? It is so tidy and bright. No place for shadows to hide. Leave it fresh and white.”

  “Tidy is important. It’s not the feeling I want to evoke. But Blaren House needs color. It needs you.”

  I wasn’t ready.

  Not for his hands to slip about my waist.

  Not for the rasp of his beard along my throat.

  Not for him to move away and stand so far from me.

  My hand rose, and I almost clutched his arm. Instead, I wrapped my arms about me. “You had the sconces cleaned. I don’t remember them being so clean.”

  “Doesn’t look the same? I’m surprised you noticed. The last time you were here, you missed quite a lot being tossed over my shoulder. Maybe a reminder is needed.”

  “Being tossed over your shoulder? Never.”

  “No, a new tour with you on my arm, inspecting things as Lady Wycliff should. It would be a very proper thing.”

  “Why do you tease me? I’m not Lady Wycliff.”

  “Ruth, this is no tease. I want you to love Blaren House. It’s quite large. The upstairs is fine, with many bedrooms for you to choose from, a nursery and schoolroom for Christopher, and a lonely chamber where I lay my head.”

  He took my hand and led me to the stairs. “Everything is up this way.”

  It was a grand thing, the curved staircase before me. Painted white and glistening with wax polish, every tread had been lit with beeswax candles set in bronze holders.

  “The upper rooms, a stairwell to heaven, Ruthy. I’m a bridegroom preparing Blaren House for its bride. That bride would be you.”

  “I’m not your bride.”

  “A fixable mistake.”

  When I frowned at him, he lifted his hands in the air. “I only mean a special license and a quickly summoned vicar solves all ills.”

  My stomach had butterflies, not the kind that floated in love but the ones that fled in terror of little children with nets.

  “The paint fumes have gone to my head. I think we should leave. I’m not dining upstairs.”

  His loud sigh was humorous. He kissed my hand right above my knuckles. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t.”

  He twirled me a full rotation and then guided dizzy me down the hall.

  “The front parlor is being painted, too. It was ghastly yellow and red. Dinner is next door in my study.”

  A table draped in a white cloth stood in the center of the room. A silver candelabra burned brightly with two branches and two candles on each. Daisies were strewn about the base and atop the napkins.

  Right now, the spot where my heart had gone missing didn’t feel so empty. Gads, I couldn’t stop the smile bursting upon my lips. “Your patience is a wonder.”

  “I can be patient if I think I might win.”

  I couldn’t be mad at the smidgeon of condescension in his tone. Wycliff was winning. He continued to prove he’d be gentle in everything.

  The truth. I should tell him of what had happened after Adam had died, about Madame Talease. I’d written to her for proof about what Mrs. Johnson had said, proof of what I did remember. Madame’s words on paper were what I needed to tell Wycliff everything.

  He helped me into a seat then clapped his hands. Servers in icy-gray mantles, bearing shiny silver trays, came into the room.

  As if they were timed to a minuet, one unveiled a plate of roasted oysters in their shells. Another, a fish grilled in herbs. A final dish, a platter of beefsteaks with onions caramelized on top, scented the air.

  Crispy rolls that smelled of creamy butter and rich yeast were set in front of me.

  “Ruth, I heard you were an excellent cook with choice ingredients.”

  I smiled, but I stared at the bread. The crusty golden goodness called me.

  A last silver dome lifted, uncovering sliced tomatoes and potatoes.

  All hearty dishes with such flavor.

  The anticipation made my mouth water, especially the rolls.

  “Is this good, Ruth?”

  His voice broke the trance of the heavenly fragrance of the fresh-baked bread. I lifted my gaze to him. “Yes, it is.”

  I allowed my eyes to fully notice Wycliff, to admire the sheer masculine beauty of the man.

  Trimmed beard.

  Well-muscled in his dark tailcoat, his crisp white shirt and cravat. His collar reached high on his neck, high like the dandies wore, but he wasn’t enslaved to fashion. Everything seemed normal and in place.

  I was glad that I’d worn long sleeves, an evening gown of indigo with ebony embroidery about my waist and hem. I looked a match to his style.

  My hope was that I pleased him, for he pleased me.

  “Your study looks no different.”

  “Is that a problem? It’s very much how the last Baron of Wycliff kept it. The fool, Cousin Nickie, didn’t tamper with it.”

  That name burned my insides, but I wouldn’t let him steal this moment. “I like this room, the desk, the settee, the odd marble statue on the desk. Is that woman trying to get away from that marble soldier?”

  “Yes. Not the most romantic image, but her shape is quite fine. Your shape is quite fine, too.”

  “You know your planned seduction is not winning. You’re not upset?”

  He sat across
from me and twiddled his thumbs against his napkin. “Is it called seduction if you are legally my wife? I’m curious.”

  “I’m not your wife.”

  “But you are considering it?”

  I dipped my chin and studied my empty plate. “Of course I am.”

  “I’m not the diligent barrister. I might fight injustice during the day, but I’ll be home fighting for my family, you and Christopher.”

  “That still does not explain all of your teasing and romantic gestures.”

  “Can’t a man be romantic?”

  “I suppose. Adam used to sing to me.”

  “That’s not a gift I possess. You’ll have to make do with my ragged voice.”

  He took my hand and called for blessings on the food, upon me and Christopher. He wished me peace from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet.

  The gravel and gravitas of his desires for us pimpled my arms with fright, delight, and even a sense of discovery. Then those blessings hit me in the pit of my stomach. They were Adam’s words, the way he’d ended each day, that one week of our marriage. I looked down at the perfect snow-white tablecloth, then right in those dark eyes. “Adam.”

  He didn’t say a word for at least a minute, long enough for me to hope and then dread my wish, that Adam and Wycliff were one and the same.

  “Yes, Ruth. What did you want?”

  I rose to my feet to look for an exit, but there was none, not without Wycliff’s help. “You’d answer to a dead man’s name? Are you trying to confuse me on purpose? Why do you want me to think about him and not you?”

  He stood behind me and put his arms on mine. My thin sleeves ensured I’d feel the roughness of his palms on my skin.

  “Isn’t it Shakespeare that goes on about a name, about the irrelevancy of it?”

  “Sounds like it, but that’s something for my sister to answer.”

  “I have a long formal name that I hate, so if you use another name and look at me the way you just called for Adam, I’ll answer. I know it’s me you want.”

  “Wycliff, don’t you know how awful I feel, knowing that you are everything he was and wasn’t.”

  “I don’t have the voice you loved.”

  Guilt spun a heavy web about me. I drifted against him. “That doesn’t matter.”