The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  Now, Ester’s face held a frown. She started twiddling her thumbs. “Well, if he allows you to continue to shop Croome’s fabrics, I know my parents will be thrilled.”

  Frederica came over to Theodosia and Ester, linking hands—light, olive, bronze. “I remember the shy girls I met at a party thrown by my father. They held their heads high amongst all the whispers, like the day l went from obscurity to the acknowledged by-blow of one of the prince’s favorite dukes. People will always talk or try to isolate us, but we are more than that. In fact, I now feed the gossips things to say, like what parties I will attend and which of the Croome’s fabrics I will turn into the latest design.”

  “’Tis true.” Ester’s voice boomed with pride for her family’s business. “We have the best silks of all the tradesmen. The best woolens in all of Cheapside. We probably supply some of the mantua makers in that fancy Burlington Arcade you went to today—but enough of this silliness. We have a proposal and a provocative response. I say we answer the new mystery man and delay the squire. Two offers definitely means more choices.”

  Considering all, Theodosia turned toward the doors that led to the patio. It made sense to have another option. One path was something to avoid. Again, she noticed movement outside. Something stirred in the dim light near her favorite rosebush. She was sure of it. Could it be the wind?

  She rubbed her temples. “Anyone can write flowery words. Or lie with beautiful ones to your face. But you two think we should waste another week and delay a solid offer? Time is so short. Delay doesn’t sound like a shrewd decision. It could be costly.”

  Frederica yawned as she rubbed her arms. “Business-minded as always. If the second letter is from a gentleman with a courtesy title, he can defeat Lester at the Chancery. The squire is riskier. And marriage, this second one, should be forever. You are young. Your math mind needs poetry. Listen to this line again. ‘Love of children is unending, but how can that be proven to be permanent, unbending?’ It’s poetry. I know you are tired, but a couple weeks delay will harm nothing and could mean everything. You deserve a chance at someone who could love you and your son, forever.”

  Her dear friend possessed a generous heart, so Theodosia wouldn’t correct her about love or marriage lasting forever. None of those sentimental things lasted. “Very well. I’ll write something at my desk tonight. You’ll be able to edit it in the morning before you head back to Town. Now go on to bed.”

  Ester wrapped an arm about her. The shorter girl reached up to Theodosia’s shoulder, though her wisdom was taller than most. “You do deserve poetry and joy. Don’t stay up too long. Get rest. The lines under your eyes are from staying up with little Philip. He’ll not get better if you are not well.”

  Pulling away, Theodosia moved to the curtains and fingered the burnished gold cloth. As she was about to close them, she stopped. Someone hid by her rosebush. Dread mixed with anger in her stomach. She knew she wouldn’t be able to rest tonight, not until she dealt with her ghost. “You ladies go on. I’ll stay here and take care of business. I’ll have the response ready for review in the morn.”

  Ester reached up and kissed her cheek. “Promise you will go to bed soon.”

  She nodded. “Go on.”

  Frederica dropped the baron’s letter onto the chaise, picked up her goblet of madeira, along with a final bonbon, and headed for the door. “Do sleep, Theodosia. With the festival and your newspaper groom options, you need a clear head.”

  “Good night, dears,” Theodosia said, hoping they’d hurry.

  Frederica and Ester passed a shrug between them as they left. For this, Theodosia was grateful. She needed to face her latest problem alone. Once their footfalls disappeared, she locked the parlor door. She took a deep breath, and with a hand steadied on the brass knob of the patio door, she opened it. In a low voice, she said. “Come in, Ghost. Commence your haunting.”

  …

  Ewan stepped from the shadows of the big rosebush. What had started as a simple quest to walk past, maybe drop her package off with a footman, had become an overwhelming desire to see the usurper in all her ill-gotten wealth. This was his uncle’s house. Theo had married into his mother’s family, his family. Outrageous.

  His boot heels drummed on the cobblestones until he stood six inches from Theo—grabbing-her-and-shaking-her-for-answers or kissing distance. “I’m no ghost. I thought we established that earlier.”

  Her eyes widened. The dim light caused the pupils within to dilate even bigger. “Still a ghost to me. Nothing’ll change that.”

  “I am quite alive, breathing the same fragrant air as you, Theo the Flower Seller.” He pushed past her and scooped up the note lying on the chaise. “So this is why you were at Burlington Arcade. Collecting your next swindle?”

  Theo’s henna cheeks darkened. He wondered if she’d fall over and faint, but as he moved closer to steady her, he didn’t see weakness, but strength in her straightening posture, the leveling of her shoulders.

  She reached for the paper and missed, almost slapping his chest in the process. “How dare you listen to a private conversation?”

  “My apologies. But what makes the wealthy Widow Cecil seek a husband by newspaper?”

  “It’s none of your concern how I gain a husband. We both know that waiting for a man to profess his love for me but who then begs off of an elopement because of his father doesn’t work. Does he know where you are? You should hurry back. Lord Crisdon might be snapping his fingers for you, or his dogs.”

  Now this was the woman he remembered—sharp-witted, expressing the precise sentiment to twist someone up. Shoving a balled fist behind his back, he shook his head. “That’s not how it was. You know we had to wait until I served a year. That was all. But seems to me you don’t know what it means to wait, Theo.”

  She bunched up her collar in the most prudish manner conceivable. “My friends call me Theodosia. Liars from the past, they call me Theo.”

  He gave her the letter, taking full advantage of clasping her hand, feeling her rising pulse. “Liar? I’m a liar because you thought me dead? I think you are mistaken. Perhaps liar doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

  She slid her hand away from him, pulling back as if it hurt to touch him. “I’ve learned quite a few words since then. Like trespasser and bounder. Since you have no purpose here, other than to steal my peace, I suggest you leave.”

  “I have a purpose. Your soaps. Too feminine of a fragrance for me.” He returned to the large rosebush where he’d dropped the parcel the minute he’d heard them read the lines he’d written for Jasper. Now, he saw his brother’s brilliance in using the obscure courtesy title. Yet, the fool assignment of helping Jasper woo a newspaper bride had led to Theo. This was Ewan’s luck, bad luck. “Here.”

  When she bit her lip, he knew the rawness of being face-to-face knifed her insides, too. A small part of him wanted her to suffer as he had, knowing she’d abandoned their promise. The other part of him was too busy concentrating on her delectable mouth.

  “The soap was expensive, Ewan. But I can’t risk you being here, can’t be seen with you. Take it and leave.”

  “I told you. It’s not my scent.” He held the package close to her silky cheek that even now glowed in the soft light coming from the house. That creamy complexion had grown more beautiful. Kept women surely had an easier time of staying lovely. “It’s yours, Theo. Or maybe I should say, Cousin Theo, since you’ve slept your way into my mother’s family. Take it, Cousin.”

  Finally, her palm lifted. She touched his hand again before pulling the package to her bosom. “Please go.”

  She turned. The fine dark dress swathed her hips in a fashion that only Michelangelo could sculpt.

  Ewan couldn’t help but follow her inside.

  Putting the package and the letter on a low table by the chaise, she faced him and winced. “Why are you still here?”

  Her eyes were glossy and wet, not like before. Is she crying? Ewan wanted to kick himself for ca
ring, kick himself for allowing her to still have a hold on him. “You don’t think I’m owed an explanation? My father says you’ve been in mourning for Cecil for a long time. You’re in gray—half mourning—that’s months of paying respect for the dearly departed. You barely waited a few weeks to grieve little old me. And now you are hunting for a new husband. Why?”

  “I owe you nothing, save a footman’s coin for fetching my package. And is it so hard for you to think that maybe there is another man like Mathew Cecil who thinks I’m the marrying kind? Perhaps I’m longing for someone else who will treat me with respect.”

  His brow rose of its own volition. He leaned near her sweet ear. “Was respect required before or after you became a mistress?”

  She stepped back, eyes widening, breath sputtering. “I’ve spent too much on you today. Leave.”

  Even as he said the slight, he knew it was wrong, but it turned her sullen eyes the color of flames, rich and dark, full of heat. Her fire was still there, merely trapped under neatly attired wrappings. And that heat made him press closer. “For six years, I wrote scene after scene in my head, why there was us. I didn’t have money or titles or land. Was I practice? Was my teaching you to read enough to pretend to like me? Enough payment for an affair?”

  “I was young and stupid, Ewan. So were you. Too much time has passed to do this now. They said you died. No one said you lived. Until today, you never came back.”

  “I was shot on the battlefield not even thirty days upon landing in Spain. It was bad. Names were mixed up and the regiment sent word I’d been killed. It took nine months before my full strength returned. Father wrote you’d run off with another man. I saw no need to return.”

  She blinked her long silky lashes. “I’m glad you’re not dead. Maybe you can go live the life your father approves of and leave me be.”

  “Well, I am. You’re in my latest play. I hope I’ve captured your appeal, your exotic heady beauty, your underhanded dealings—”

  “Why must I be exotic? Because I’m not pale or white as a sheet? Mathew Cecil thought me pretty.”

  “Well, you do clean up nicely in such fashionable trimmings. But what rich man’s fetish wouldn’t? I suppose you saw an opportunity and seized it. Business-minded to a fault.”

  “Do you want to hear that I grieved you? I did. Your father said you were dead, before he ran me off. They… He said you were killed in honor, something a wench like me could never understand. But you are not dead. Probably not even a scratch and you are mad at me for continuing to live. You should be relieved that you didn’t have to return to these fields to wed the ignorant flower seller. Can you imagine figuring out how to feed mouths while still waiting for your father’s approval?”

  He came alongside her, took her free palm, and flattened the fidgeting thing against his chest, sneaking it under his waistcoat to the smooth linen of his shirt, making sure her fingers covered the raised scars on his chest. “Do you feel those scratches? The physicians call them scars.”

  Her hand stilled a moment and a world of emotions twirled in her eyes, across her trembling countenance. She shrank backward. “I’m sorry, Ewan.”

  Her face became streaked in silent tears, and though Ewan wanted to provoke her, he didn’t want her to cry. He coughed, clearing the knot of humanity that lodged in his throat. “I didn’t come here for pity. I took a mortal wound but managed to live. Knowing you became a hot little piece for a rich man, that about killed me all over again. Didn’t know you’d chosen my cousin.”

  She wiped at her face, then steadied her shoulders. “So after six years, you’ve come back to haunt me about things that can’t be changed?”

  He sat on the high part of the chaise’s arm, still marveling at how much she had and had not changed. Still beautiful. Still determined, but with a new sense of calm or reservation that gave him pause. He smoothed his cravat back into place. “Father was right about so many things, including the military. I was good at it. I served in the West Indies until these past three months. I came back because I am a Fitzwilliam. Part of me missed family.”

  She folded her arms and turned toward the fireplace. “Family is important.”

  “And I was helping my brother, the viscount, with an errand at Burlington Arcade. I had no idea I would see you today.”

  She stormed to the patio door, opening it wide. “Well, now that you have, leave me alone. Go live your life, Ewan Fitzwilliam. Be that successful playwright you dreamed of becoming.”

  “I intend to, but not your way. Success won’t be had by scheming, lying, or selling myself.”

  Theo stopped biting her lip and pointed outside with both hands. “I may not be happy with my choices, but I own them. No one else. I did what I needed to do to survive. I have no luxury of a father to blame or surname to tarnish, for that matter. Now, leave. Don’t sneak back here. And if you see me in passing while staying at Daddy’s, call me Mrs. Cecil. That is my name. One I love.”

  He stood up and walked toward her. He wasn’t in the habit of staying, if a lady requested him to leave, but Theo was no lady. She was a usurper intent to harm the Fitzwilliam family. “I will, if you stop threatening us.”

  She squinted at him as if he’d said lunacy. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know you are threatening our farms by cutting off the water to our plantings. Relent and I’ll do you a favor. I’ll take your name out of my latest play.”

  “You’ve written a new play?” The hope in her voice suddenly dropped to nothing. “And you’ve put me in it?”

  “Yes. This one centers on a woman who uses her womanly wiles to seduce and gain riches until all her schemes become announced to the world. Then, she’s left with nothing.”

  Her frown deepened. She slunk backward until she clutched the doorknob, her beautiful tawny fingers pressing so hard against the brass, they almost blended. “And you’ve named this villain after me?”

  “Yes, Theo the Flower Seller. I told you, I wrote you in every scene. How do you think you’ll fare when that name is circulated?”

  Her chest rose, up and down, as if she struggled to breathe. “Ewan.” Her voice became airy and choppy. “My name, laughed at in London… You w-wouldn’t be so cruel.”

  He rounded back, took her cold palm, and pressed his lips to them. “Ghosts are supposed to be cruel.”

  This time she did strike his face. It was a hard slap that jerked his head backward. His Circe wasn’t a pushover. He’d always liked that about Theo.

  “Go home to your daddy, Ewan. And never come back.”

  “Time is ticking away. The play is being circulated. Once it sells, it will be too late. Stop threatening the Fitzwilliam part of the family, Cousin.”

  He marched out of Tradenwood. With one foot over the low wall forming the edge of the patio, he took a last glance at her. Her back was to him, but her shoulders shook as she hugged herself. He’d surely left her crying.

  If she were heartless and opportunistic, his threat should anger her, not make her hurt. It should be an opening for her bartering, something at which he remembered her excelling. Why did it still punch him in his gut, as it had so many years ago, when she cried?

  He trudged back to Grandbole, reminding himself that this was the same woman who’d sullied herself with his distant cousin. She was a greedy woman who could only be made to heel with threats. This kind of female, as Lord Crisdon would say, only responded to money and power. Ewan lacked funds, but his pen was mighty, and he’d use it to protect his family.

  The wind whipped a little, bringing the lavender smell imprinted upon his hands to his nostrils. It felt horrid to threaten someone he had once cared about. Lifting his gaze to the stars, they winked at him, reminding him of his humor. He remembered all the ways he’d coaxed a young flower seller into his arms. None of his teasing or affection had had anything to do with threats. He wasn’t the earl and should only rely on such tactics as a last result.

  Determined, Ewan walked a little fa
ster. With a little poignant teasing, he could get Theo to relent about the water rights and not have to ruin her new name. She was family now, after all. He chuckled to himself, contemplating the joy of wearing her down. He’d need to do so quickly. His play could be bought in a fortnight.

  Chapter Four

  Love & Regrets

  Theodosia sat in the parlor, pushing a translucent sliver of onion across her breakfast plate. The silver fork scraped and clanged, and she lifted her gaze to Ester’s wide eyes.

  “Dearest,” her friend began, with a lilted voice dripping with the perfect blend of condescension and amusement. She lifted her pert nose from the parchment Theodosia had labored all night writing. “You get shifty and bothered when I review your correspondences, but there is no need to fret. I’ve corrected your letters these past four or five years. I know what to expect.”

  Theodosia nodded and began again her battle with the onion. This letter had to be worse than the others Ester had edited. Theodosia surely wrote nonsense after what Ewan had said. How could it be otherwise when he accused her of harming the Fitzwilliams, a family that had wanted her dead?

  Why did he view her as a threat to his family? Hadn’t the Fitzwilliams been the source of all her problems? They were a seed pod for stinky flowers, the perfume of her every regret. Regret. Such an awful R word. She caught herself stabbing the plate, the fork tines making an awful screech. “I tried very hard. I wanted it to sound personal.”

  “Everything should be personal, or at least sound as if it is.” Frederica’s voice held too much cheer, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Characteristically forty-five minutes late to breakfast, she sailed into the parlor with her eggshell-colored skirts floating about her thin ankles. The fabric moved about her as she danced to the window glass of the patio door. Her fingers tapped to an inaudible tune as she spread the curtains wide.