The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  Little Lucy tugged on his hand. “Anne and Lydia would like to come, Uncle.”

  “Well, they shouldn’t have exchanged my ink for mud, dear.”

  “They didn’t mean it.”

  The child’s father came onto the patio, bent down, popped Lucy’s drooping chin up with his finger. “No, they didn’t mean to get caught.” Chuckling, Jasper straightened, clear-eyed, energized. He reached out and thumbed Ewan in the chest right atop his deepest scar. “Literally, they’ve tried to scare him so much they’ll give his weak heart pains.”

  “My heart’s not that weak, just scared and cautious. Girls will do that, won’t they, Hartwell?” Ewan swung his niece, her white dress floating about her short legs. Absolutely cute.

  The wistful look in Jasper’s light blue eyes concurred. “They’ve tormented your uncle Ewan enough. Missing the festival is fitting punishment. Besides, it’ll take the two of us just to keep you from mischief.”

  Setting down the girl, Ewan looked down to Tradenwood. “Seems quite a show.”

  “One year, Cecil had chimney sweeps on his roof, dancing and singing with their brooms. They wore gilt paper and masks. It was a sight to see. Cecil had a fondness for extravagance and made his festival like a May Day celebration. It’s crowded and noisy, perfect for an afternoon of ridiculousness.”

  Ewan scooped up Lucy and pointed to the fields. “Look at the milkmaids. I guess it’s them with the wide skirts of red and gold.”

  “Uncle, they have huge pyramids on their heads.” She put her hands above her head like she balanced something, too. “I want to do it. Mama used to make us paper hats, but with regular paper, not the gold stuff.”

  Jasper’s countenance soured for a moment. “Maria did that? We never went. I didn’t know she…” He took his dark top hat and popped it atop Lucy’s bonnet. “You can use this.”

  The giggling girl put it on for a second then handed it back. “This is round.”

  Impatience winning over humor, Ewan started down the steps. “Let’s go see the pyramids and all the gilt paper. You never went?”

  “No, your mother hated it and pretty much convinced everyone it was low class and a travesty to Tradenwood. I’d never heard her scream before my oldest brought up going. But Maria liked fun and music. I should’ve known she would go.”

  Mother…screaming? Ewan shook his head, but realized Theo wasn’t the only one mourning a legend, a mate who seemed more perfect than life. Was love possible again for one who had loved and lost so deeply? Ewan thought about his own heart and what he believed he had felt for Theo six years ago and now. There was a chance for them now. Right?

  He had to get her to elope…in his brother’s carriage. What type of man did that make Ewan? Shrugging inwardly, he picked up his pace. “I’ll not tell Mother we are going. Can you keep that secret, Lucy?”

  “Yes, Uncle. Now hurry. I hear a violin.”

  “I’ll not tell Lady Crisdon.” Jasper caught up and took his laughing girl from Ewan and put her onto his shoulder. “Perhaps, I should blend in. Maybe borrow Father’s other title again, Lord Tristian.”

  “No.” Ewan lowered his tone and plastered on a smile. He didn’t want to upset the letter-writing widow. She’d be humiliated and think he was up to tricks. She’d never trust Ewan, and her trust was important. He tugged his niece out of the way of a parade of toe-tapping musicians who rammed through the thick crowd, making their own path. “I think you should be your lovable viscount self. In fact, stay long enough to attest to our family only wanting the leases, nothing more. Not her land.”

  Jasper nodded. “Can you attest the same? Nothing else you seek?”

  There was more, but Theodosia had to come away with him first. “Let’s get to Tradenwood before all of London arrives.”

  Ewan let Jasper and Lucy lead the way as he followed behind. The rhythm of the musicians hit him first, the laughter, and buzz of the crowds. Then the heady smells of cooked pork called to his spirit and the breakfast he’d skipped. If it had the tart tamarind like the dishes of the West Indies, he’d dance himself dizzy. He’d missed that taste since his regiment disbanded.

  His hungered spirit leapt when he saw Theo. Her hair was curled and pinned high, leaving her neck free for nuzzling. Yet, she stood on the portico wrapped in gray. Distant, lonely gray. She needed music and Shakespeare. She needed lightness.

  With rainbow colors for paper patterns and bright pink table linens surrounding her festival, shouldn’t she come alive with an emerald ribbon in her silky hair?

  Staring at her like a schoolboy couldn’t be done, so Ewan parted from his brother and niece as they became more interested in the hot air balloon hovering above the blooms. He headed to the food tables, slipping through the crowds separating him from Theo.

  A wild cart owner pushed his wares too near his toes, so Ewan bounced out of harm’s way and stood behind a man and older woman awaiting their turn at the carvers.

  “Old Cecil would love this,” one said.

  The other sneered over her yellowing teeth. “The darkie got it right. The perfect amount of garish and finery.”

  “If you feel that way, Millie, why did you drag us here?”

  “I wanted to see what she’d do and if she’d taken up with someone else. A rich widow is still rich, no matter how black.”

  “Stop it, Millie. She’s a fairer vendor than Lord Crisdon, and you’d never see the likes of us invited to anything with their name on it.”

  “I hate the name of them.”

  Stepping away, a myriad of emotions swished into Ewan’s throat like hot gall. It wasn’t the insult on his family that burned, but the ones to Theo. These people ate her food, drank her wines, and did business with her, but still talked about her badly…

  As he had in his play.

  His gut twisted a little more. Theo wasn’t stupid. She knew to the penny the cost of each morsel. She knew their sentiment. Yet she’d committed to this fair, all the trouble and expense. This Theodosia was indeed different from the girl he knew. He hungered to know her more.

  He spun and glanced at Jasper running after Lucy who had Maypole ribbons. Lucy pattered up to a lady trimmed in a fine bisque bonnet and pale peach-colored gown.

  Taking another look at her fair features, the indeterminate shade of brownish gold curls, she looked like one of Theo’s friends from the theater. He cupped his hand to his eyes and looked again. Was that the Duke of Simone’s daughter with Jasper and Lucy?

  Mulatto or not, the woman and his niece had his poor brother twisted up in pink ribbons. Yet, Jasper was laughing, a full-bodied, belly-shaking laugh.

  Jasper deserved to be happy. If only he could find a way to stay that way. Then he wouldn’t be chasing after a bottle, a newspaper bride, or inadvertently, Theo.

  Looking to the left and then to the right, Ewan saw revelers, and people pushing food carts, but where had Theo gone? Searching, his gaze fell upon Theo’s son, a little boy with an ashy tan complexion. He played near the bottom of the steps of the portico. An older woman sat at his side. Maybe she was his governess.

  The woman came closer to the boy right in front of his face. “I’m going to get us lemonade. Stay here,” she said in a loud voice, before kissing his head and leaving him to play. The child was alone, a perfect time for an introduction.

  Ewan’s chest had no more room for what-ifs: what if he’d stayed, what if she’d waited for him, what if they’d married…instead he’d fill them with would-be’s. She would accept him, he would be her lover, her husband, a stepfather to her child, and father to another babe. Well, he would enjoy trying for that one.

  “Cousin?”

  He turned at the sound of Theo’s voice. Tipping his top hat to her, he bowed. “Is everything fine?”

  She bit her lip for a moment then said, “I didn’t think you’d really come. Fitzwilliams never attend.”

  Extending his arm to her, he waited for her to take it, but she didn’t move. Disappointed at how wary s
he seemed again, he dropped his palm to his side. “I’m here and so is my brother, Lord Hartwell, and my niece. You should meet them, Cousin, as I am going to meet your son.”

  As he stepped toward the boy, she came close and took his arm. “He’s playing, enjoying the fresh air. You can meet him later.”

  “Why? You’re coddling him? The boy’s still in a pinafore, even with his little knobby knees exposed.”

  Her fingers tightened about his elbow. “They’re not so knobby, but he is little.”

  Ewan’s gut was at odds. He liked her being so near, her holding on to him with the scent of lavender making him want to dip his head to her neck and inhale all of her. Yet, she was only touching him to keep him from her son. He pried at her thumb to be released and took two more steps to the boy. “Your son, he must be young or he’d be breached and in a full pair of pants.”

  A wince washed across her countenance. “He’s not six, but I suppose your father tried to make you boys men as soon as possible. I want my son to enjoy every minute. I’ve no expectations of his growing other than health.”

  She had mistaken his fishing for an age as condemnation. He must have sounded judgmental, very much like the earl. He gazed at the boy again. He seemed frail as he rolled the hoop back and forth between his palms. Remembering Theo’s first response to the newspaper advertisement he and Jasper had penned, about a sickly child, Ewan wanted to smack his stupid gut. The boy suffered and Ewan felt even more the blackguard.

  “There’s something I have to say.” Tears were in her voice as she seemed to choke and sputter. “I need—to tell—”

  “Let’s go somewhere private.” She couldn’t accept his proposal between jugglers and musicians. No, it had to be in private, where he could kiss away any sadness. Her bold confession about wishing things were different, that she still felt love for him, that she wondered if they could start anew would be applause-worthy. Except, that would be the line he’d pen for one of his heroes.

  Her other friend from the theater, the shorter girl with a pearl-laced bonnet, came to her side. “Mrs. Cecil. There’s a young woman who says she must see you.”

  Theo raised her head. Her countenance cleared and his hope of her coming to her senses disappeared, too. “Take me to her, Miss Croome.”

  He clasped at Theo’s hand but she slipped away. “But our talk?”

  As soon as a dray cleared the path, the ladies started to move again, but Theo stopped. Over her shoulder she said, “We will, Cousin, after all is done.”

  He let her ominous tone sink in as he watched her walk away. Didn’t sound like a confession of love was forthcoming. Was she going to reject him? No, he felt in his bones that this was right for them to wed. Something else was amiss.

  Whatever it was, she would have to release it, forgive him, forgive herself, and then move forward. He’d tell her it was fine. No more guilt for what had happened. Things were finally on the right path. He was going to be a successful playwright, and this rivalry between the flower farms would be done as soon as Theo signed the papers. Everyone had a chance for peace, if they seized it with both hands and never let go.

  Scanning, he found Theo again. Miss Croome had led her to the patio and up to the terraced gardens. The elegant negress with her creamy coffee complexion left Theo with a young blonde.

  The girl’s hand swung wildly.

  His chest beat faster. He feared for Theo.

  Something had to be amiss. Before he could stop himself, he started moving. He dashed to the side as a wobbly dray rumbled in front of him, nearly missing his leg.

  Not waiting for an apology or acknowledgment, he moved closer to the gardens, navigating around a food cart. Everything was chaotic, like his beating heart. He raced up the terraces, past the laughing crowds, and stopped at the knee wall of the patio. He was within earshot of Theo.

  “All can be made fine,” Theo said. “You’ll come work for me now.”

  “I’ll take what you’ve given me and go to the country and have this babe. I have a cousin who’ll help.”

  “If that’s what you think is best. You have to keep this babe safe. You have to eat a lot, even if you don’t want to.” Theo’s voice sounded weepy.

  Ewan fought the urge to come out of the shadows. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  “Mrs. Cecil, I should’ve listened to you when you came to Burlington Arcade. I shoulda listened. You said not to be his mistress.”

  Theo, giving mistress advice? Ewan rose from the wall and stared at them. He didn’t care if he was discovered. He had to hear things correctly.

  Theo had the girl in an embrace again.

  The young woman snapped up, kissed Theo’s hand, and fled down the terrace levels back to the revelers below.

  Pivoting toward Ewan, Theo frowned deeply, her beautiful face marred with sadness. “You’re supposed to only haunt me, not my guests.”

  He came closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Giving advice about not being a mistress? After we marry, I’m not sure I want women coming to you for the dos and don’ts of this business.”

  How was it possible for lips to disappear even more? She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. The almond-shaped pearls quivered.

  His gut froze with instant regret. Before he could take his boot from his mouth, she slipped past him. “Excuse me.”

  He should’ve reached for her hand, and apologized for the poor joke, but they both had pasts. He had forgiven her last night for not grieving him long enough, for letting her heart move on to his cousin. He had no choice. Unlike her, he hadn’t forgotten her, hadn’t stopped lov—

  “She’s too nice, you know.”

  Ewan lifted his head to see who watched him.

  It was Theo’s friend, the duke’s daughter. She stood near, with her fan moving, frowning almost as much as Theo had. “I see how you are watching her. You care for her, more than a cousin should.”

  “Miss?”

  “Miss Burghley.” She crossed her arms. “If you don’t intend to stick around, don’t trouble her. Her heart’s too big. It cares too much for others. It’s too easy for her to be hurt.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Miss Burghley.” Her lips pouted, as if he should’ve repeated her name. “Why are you here now? Your cousin died almost a year ago.”

  “Seems your dear friend has been silent on things. Perhaps you should be asking her questions.”

  He turned to go back down to the party, when she swatted him with her fan. “She’s silent on things and people who hurt her. Maybe that is why I hadn’t heard of you until the theater.”

  Ewan hurting Theo? What, for a month? “I believe—

  “Oh, no, that Mr. Lester fellow has her cornered. I don’t know who I need to protect her from more.”

  As the musicians started again with a loud high-spirited tune, he turned to see where the blackguard had Theo, ready to pummel somebody like he had the night of the theater, but he spied something worse. “Move!”

  Leaving the woman with her mouth open, Ewan shot down the terrace levels as if he’d become a bullet from a discharged flintlock, heading straight for a runaway cart. The big, barreling object made people jump out of its path and flee in all directions.

  Everyone moved but one.

  Theo’s son.

  “Move!” he yelled again. Ewan lengthened his stride, trying to become as fast as a racing horse. He huffed and puffed like a steaming tea kettle. The timing of Ewan snatching the boy had to be right or they’d both die, smashed by the cart. Mouthing a prayer, he leaped, clasped the child in his hands, and raised the boy high over his head—knowing the cart would hit him square in the chest.

  Blam.

  Something crunched inside as the cart exploded against him as the steel balls of war had done six years ago. The impact flung them like a rag doll. Sailing backward, he still clasped the boy about the ankle. He held on even as his own eyes began to dim, but he fought the pain.

  Tucking
the squirming boy into whatever remained of his chest, Ewan slammed into the grass, his head bobbing up and down. The boy wrestled free but stuck his face over Ewan’s.

  That’s when he saw it.

  Mother’s irises, the same crystal blue, the same as his.

  He tried to fight the darkness but lost the chance to see once more the light, the light in his son’s eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Ghost House Guest

  Theodosia paced outside of the bedchamber she’d had Pickens and Lord Hartwell put Ewan. Navigating the few chairs she had brought to sit on the deep burgundy carpet, she kept remembering the screaming, the impact of the cart, falling to her knees upon Philip’s and Ewan’s still bodies.

  Everything inside her was torn up and grieving. She had almost lost her son today. Philip couldn’t hear anyone’s warning. And Ewan had risked everything to save Philip, and now he could die. He could be dead and not even know he’d saved his own son.

  She stopped a few times and touched the door. It felt like six years ago as she’d waited for a shop owner to read the letter the earl had tossed in her face. The man had only gotten out the words “killed in battle” before the weight of losing Ewan had collapsed upon Theodosia. All her dreams had died, a day or two after she had discovered she carried his babe.

  But now, Ewan wasn’t far away.

  Frederica came up the stairs. In her hand was a tea cup. She held it out. “Here, drink this and then go sit. You’re pacing so much you’ll wear your slippers clean through to the soles.”

  Pulling up her hem to make sure she hadn’t already done so, Theodosia lowered her head. “I’ve been barefoot before. It doesn’t matter. Why must women be stuck outside, waiting? Shouldn’t I be with him? Or maybe I should go hug Philip again?”

  Ester came from her son’s bedchamber. When she closed his door, the lights of the hall sconces danced. It was a hopeful sparkle, something Theodosia needed to keep her fears away. “Is my son awake? Does he need another hug?”