The Bewildered Bride (Advertisements for Love)

by Vanessa Riley

  Her pinkie touched his mouth. “They are smooth.”

  “They can be, Ruth. Here’s a quick answer.”

  He leaned in.

  She did not move.

  Wycliff dipped closer and blew a breath onto her lips. “May I?”

  One, two, three, three and a half.

  He gave her a small peck. Then a bigger one. And a bigger one.

  Then she kissed him back.

  Four years, two continents, two seas, and death, this feeling had never left him, like he was falling and being caught in the softest net.

  She had a delicious mouth, one that curved perfectly to his. Her sensitive lips trembled when he whispered her name, vibrated when she moaned his.

  Had a kiss done it?

  Had that broken the spell? Had this moment returned his wife to him?

  He sought to draw her closer. To trace and embrace what was his, what was meant to be his.

  He took her hand and put it to his chest, drawing her fingers beneath his waistcoat, snaking her palm to his heart. “Warm it, Ruth. Reach in and own it. Make it shine bright for you.”

  Her hand tightened on his, and she allowed a deeper kiss.

  Heaven was in his arms. But that always meant hell was next.

  Ruth pulled away but wiped her thumb along his mouth. “Those lips are nice, but no more, no more, Wycliff.”

  She said his name like she had to remember it.

  It was time.

  She craved truth. He needed to give his, theirs. “Ruth, I need to tell you something.”

  “No, you don’t. I know you’re not Adam. You’re too thoughtful, and I feel safe with you, so much more with you.”

  His chest hurt. She’d kicked him in the teeth and complimented him in the same breath. “I’ve a secret that I can keep no longer from you. I need to confess.”

  “No. Don’t force your secrets upon me. I don’t want to know. I don’t want my world changed or ripped asunder. Be silent on it.”

  What?

  He rubbed his face, searched for a joke, but his throat was dry, knowing his wife wanted no part of Adam. But he was Adam.

  “I don’t know how to respond.”

  “Don’t. I’m not looking for a confession of love or a kissing cousin, Wycliff. Promise me that this will not happen again.”

  “That’s hard to do when this kiss has so much promise.”

  “I was curious. It was wrong to use you.”

  “Ruth, use me up. Burn me with your fire.”

  “My son’s fake name has been made true. I can’t compromise you and ruin things again.”

  “Maybe you should reconsider. I’m very willing to be compromised, and I have time for it. Seems Mr. Marks does not. He didn’t even attend you at church.”

  She pulled at the strings of her bonnet. “He’s…he’s been busy, but you’ve been watching me.”

  “I can’t help watching you. I was in the vestibule, making sure you were well, that you didn’t fidget too much. Your sister talks too much. Bexeley fell asleep. How, I’m not sure.”

  “You’ve been very nosy.”

  “I said you are under my protection.”

  She gripped his cape as if she needed to hold on to him to stay upright. “Is my family in danger because of you?”

  There was no danger, for he had the situation under control and he had taken every precaution. He flexed the muscles in his hand. “Have no concerns. I have everything secure.”

  “Then they’re coming again, the men who killed Adam?”

  The trembles in her limbs became more and more pronounced. “I need them gone for good.”

  Ruth crumbled at his feet, a ball of gray silk. She swatted at his arms, fighting him like she did not know him.

  “It’s me, Ruth. Let me take care of you. Let me protect you.”

  Her hands slowed, and she nodded. “I’m grateful for food, for shelter, for family, for my son, for you, Wycliff.”

  Her voice was low, but he heard her, her words. It patched up at least one hole that her honest disappointment in Adam had wrought.

  Wycliff scooped her up into his arms. “I have you. I’ll never let go.”

  He rushed, running at top speed down Fournier Street, cradling her to his bosom, speaking words of strength to her. He might have even said he loved her. Flying up the steps, he shouldered open the heavy door.

  Then he held her in the empty hall. Waiting for her to strengthen, he kissed her brow. “You’re safe Ruth. You’re safe, back in the house.”

  Clancy came. “Do we need to get the doctor to fix her?”

  “No,” she said. “The fixing is for me to do. Put me down, Lord Wycliff.”

  Her voice sounded stronger than she looked, but he complied.

  Setting her feet to the ground, he kept her palm, bolstering her from swaying. Soon she patted away his arms. “I’m better. Thank you.”

  With his fingers to her throat, he undid her bonnet strings, taking the same care he had with the ribbon of her stays, all those years ago. She needed to know how he longed to care for her. This time, he could be trusted with her love.

  He kept her palm. “Adam failed to protect you from his enemies. I will never fail you.”

  She pulled off her coat and gave it to Clancy.

  “Mrs. Wilky,” Wycliff said, “I’m going to leave you now. I must see you tomorrow. Let’s take another walk.”

  She wobbled to the stairwell. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough? I need to lie down.”

  “I’ll never have enough of you. We’ll just stay in your garden.”

  Her back was to him. Her foot dangled, but she did not take the next step. “Why? Nothing more can come from this.”

  “I need to meet Christopher. I need to see Adam’s son.”

  He made the bold proclamation and waited. Ruth couldn’t deny him that.

  She turned and adjusted her spectacles. “Yes. You need to see Christopher. I think he’d like to meet his big cousin.”

  Wycliff bowed. He knew better than to press her on anything more. He knew she’d never be his unless she felt completely safe.

  The end of his uncle’s business needed to hasten. Soulden Wilkinson walking free, not in debtors’ prison, was dangerous. He could strike at Ruth or the Croomes. Wycliff trotted down the stone steps of the entry, thinking about how to finish off the evil man. It needed to be done before Ruth decided Wycliff couldn’t keep her and her son from harm.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her Morning Blues

  I didn’t want to get up this morning.

  Rainy mornings should be spent in bed, hiding beneath the covers of my pine bed.

  I’d left the window open last night, so the early dawn shower sent nippy air into my room. My arm ached as it often did when the weather turned cool. The knitted bones in my forearm were stronger, but I still hated the questions the lump drew when my sleeves were short. I detested explaining.

  It didn’t matter. I was grateful I could write and hold my son.

  The fresh air filled my chest. Rain or shine, a soft mattress was the best remedy for being spent.

  Tired beyond measure, I turned on my side and curled deeper into my favorite fuzzy blanket, a knitted piece of mint-green wool. Something Mama had made for me when I was eight. It reminded me of my old life, the simpler one above the warehouse. The softness of the well-loved wool—it felt like it knew my body. I could hide in it.

  This blanket was safe and smelled of lavender. I liked lavender, but I loved Bay Rum. I slept on the baron’s cape again and let his fragrance surround me.

  My new cousin, my kissing cousin. He’d been sweet to me yesterday. He was coming to see Chris today. I knew I smiled thinking of Wycliff.

  He acted as if he loved me.

  Adam had said he’d fallen for me fast like that. That scared me, a little.

  I’d let Wycliff kiss me, and I’d kissed him.

  I’d told him he did not remind me of Adam. That wasn’t quite true. He kissed lik
e him, the way I remembered he had—passionate, toe curling, like the world would end if he couldn’t touch me.

  If I closed my eyes, it was like I’d kissed my husband. I kissed Adam sometimes in my happy dreams, in those blissful half-awake, half-asleep moments.

  But his arms had never felt this safe, not like the baron’s.

  Wild me, kissing a boy on my street. I’d wanted Wycliff’s lips because I’d craved all the good pieces of Adam. I’d become me, that brave girl who’d talked to a boy she’d met on the docks.

  Noises sounded outside my room. The day at Nineteen Fournier was well underway. Little Chris would be up soon. He didn’t understand when I grew quiet. Last night, my boy had kept asking, Mama ill? Mama ill?

  Yes, I was—on cold nights, on rainy mornings, and sometimes outside.

  But I was a good mother, one who didn’t want her son to be afraid.

  I needed to repeat that I was wonderful as I was. I was alive. I was grateful to have Chris. I was grateful these topsy-turvy moments did not spin me so far that I couldn’t come back. I had seen girls at Madame Talease who had gone mad, crazed from their troubles.

  I wasn’t mad or witless. I was good, good enough, better than good.

  With a few blinks and a rub to my eyes, I started my day. The familiar blurs and shadows of my room offered comfort. Nothing in my vision had changed. That made me sigh.

  My door opened.

  This time the knock was Mama’s.

  “Ruth, wake up, dear. You have a guest coming. This time he’ll meet your father.”

  If there were ever a more dangerous statement to begin a day, that was it. My guest…meeting Papa. The shock of it drove me to shoot straight up.

  I dangled my feet over the side of the bed. Stepping down, my cold toes found no slippers. The puce, deeply pink things had been moved again.

  Fingers tapping on the bed table, I found my spectacles.

  Mama was in the closet. The sound of her fumbling through tissue paper separating my gowns annoyed me. She was doing this for the baron. Had she forgotten that it was up to me to choose?

  And she’d never done this for Mr. Marks, but the barrister had never visited two days in a row.

  “Ah, Ruth look at this. It has details at the bosom and on the sleeve. It’s lively.”

  The rust color was rich, made for a woman who didn’t mind being seen. Is that me? Do I want the baron’s attention?

  She held the dress to my chin, then laid the heavy silk over my stiff arm. The damask silk felt cool to my sleep-warmed skin. “Yes, Mama. Thank you.”

  She kissed my forehead. “Christopher is already downstairs. He’s looking forward to spending time with Lord Wycliff.”

  Mama moved to the door, even clasped the knob, but turned. “I hope you are looking forward to seeing him, too. He’s quite attentive.”

  I lifted my gaze from the silk to Mama.

  She stood still, with her hands fidgeting at the door.

  Was she lingering, to hear me agree?

  Was she checking to see if my fit had passed?

  Or was she hoping for something else—that smiling at a pretty dress erased four years of not being believed. No silk, no matter how bold or fancy, would hide that proof came in the form of a man and not her daughter’s words.

  Stoic Mama stared back. The silence between us grew.

  I waited for her to say, or even hint at, her sorries out loud. Didn’t she know the wild child was a stubborn tigress? I was quick to love, fast to offer sass, and slow to forgive. That was me.

  “I’ll send up a maid. Do you need help with your hair, Ruth?”

  When we were little, Mama had always done our hair. Ester was tender headed. She’d hollered something awful.

  But not me. I was strong, and I welcomed the finish, the perfect braid, the hoity-toity chignon and our two faces, Mama’s and mine, smiling and shining in the mirror.

  They’d survived another hairdo-ing together.

  I was still her stubborn wild child, and I’d survived four years by myself. “I can manage.”

  My mother nodded, then left.

  The door closed. Very easy was the sound, not a slam, nothing showing finality or disapproval. Perhaps that meant she’d return and try again.

  I fingered the lace on the gown’s bodice, the long sleeves. Maybe I’d welcome another try. Maybe.

  But I was grateful that she’d reminded me of who I was. I needed to stop forgetting.

  With Wycliff coming, I prepared myself to comfort my child if the baron looked at Chris and saw nothing of Adam. My baby couldn’t be hurt. If he wasn’t Adam’s, Chris’s paternity would be the one lie I’d accept.

  My baby dreamed of a father. I’d give him one that Wycliff talked of when he described Adam—brave, loyal, loving to me till he died.

  Not the Adam I knew—seductive, secretive, steeped in danger.

  …

  Wycliff arrived outside the Croome house. It should be a good morning for him. His uncle’s business partner, Mr. Johnson, had put out word of more cancelled shipments.

  Soon the skeleton crews that ran his cargo would run out of bones. Men didn’t work without pay. Whether a farmer, a sailor, or a henchman, money made things happen.

  With Wycliff cutting off their access to financing, the business of his enemies had begun to falter. Their debts were mounting. One by one, Johnson’s and Uncle Soulden’s empires would erupt like match sticks. Those debts would be called. They’d be inmates in debtors’ prison soon.

  The deal he’d struck last night with Captain Steward would make the explosion happen faster. It was only a matter of time before bankruptcy. The men who had destroyed his life would spend the rest of theirs in one of the rat-infested jails—Fleet or musty King’s Bench. Perhaps they’d go to the one they’d almost sent Wycliff’s father to, Marshalsea. That one was the worst of the worst, where they charged broke prisoners for leg irons.

  Wiping a hand through his hair, he stepped out of the carriage. When he donned his hat, Lawden handed him the basket.

  “You don’t look happy, my lord. Every step in your plan is working. And you’ve been invited to see your lady.”

  “A wounded animal is never more dangerous. Johnson and Uncle will grow desperate. If I could convince my lady to marry me today, I’d have her better protected, her and the boy.”

  Lawden tweaked his cravat. “Then get in there and be convincing, my lord.”

  “If I was as convincing as I was yesterday, she’d banish me for sure.”

  “Faith accomplishes much.”

  Faith was all Wycliff was holding on to when it came to Ruth. He didn’t have much else. Adam was the villain to her. She craved truth, and he, Wycliff, still kept his identity from her.

  In the past, he’d thought his secrets had protected his father or Ruth. In the end, he hadn’t even been able to save himself.

  She’d erased the Adam she’d loved from her mind. Maybe that was what he deserved. “Do you know what happened to my wife after the attack? Any new information?”

  Lawden brushed lint from Wycliff’s onyx cape. “No, my lord. I can find nothing.”

  “No signs of Cicely, either. I hate this. I hate not having all the information—not controlling things.”

  “That would be where you turn to your faith. Believe in Mrs. Wilky. Believe in your love. Believe that all will work for your good.”

  Adjusting his grip on the basket handle, Wycliff started for the entry. “Wish me luck.”

  Lawden fixed Wycliff’s high collar. “You have more than luck. You have right on your side.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, my lord, I am. Go convince her that things have changed, except your care.”

  That was what he needed to remember. Everything he did now was to fix the past. Making Ruth happy and secure, that was the greatest wrong to right.

  He stopped on the top step. Perhaps he was looking at things wrong. She did willingly kiss him. A woman like her didn
’t allow such liberties. Just a little more finesse, an inch of yielding, then she’d realize they were meant to be. He could taste her, she was so much a part of him.

  The idea of tasting Ruth was a good one.

  The door opened.

  Clancy took his hat and cape. “I’ll let Mrs. Wilky know you are here.”

  “I know.” Ruth’s voice floated from above. “I’ll come down for my cousin.”

  Wycliff followed the echo like a happy puppy.

  At the base of the stairs, he watched her descend. She wore a warm rust-colored gown with delicate silver lace banding below her bosom. The color brought out the jewel tones of her warm honeyed skin and enhanced his appreciation of her fine figure.

  This was his Ruth. Bold, vibrant colors.

  He almost stopped breathing.

  That wasn’t difficult given the damage to his throat. Everything awakened inside when she took his hand.

  No giving up. Never.

  No way he could live without her in his life.

  “Christopher is in the garden,” she said. “I could get him. I hope I don’t have to clean him up to present him to you. It’s muddy outside.” She poked at the basket lid. “Are we going somewhere?”

  Could eyes frown? Ruth’s had. Spending time with Wycliff should not be a drudgery.

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I thought we’d go into the lovely gown…garden again.”

  Behind her spectacles, a mischievous glint sparked in her gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Many things, but we’ll start with sitting outside in the sun, close to the house.”

  He led her to the doors to the garden and swept her through them before anything changed her mind.

  He helped her sit at the small table on the short stone patio. “See, we can feel the warm sun, watch your son, and still be close to the house.”

  Her tentative smile turned into a conclusive one. “What’s in the basket?”

  “Wickedness.”

  “Wickedness. You would be a Wicked Wycliff? That’s an insult to someone who keeps surprising me.”

  “All depends upon how you say it, my dear. Could be an invitation.”

  She smiled, and it eased his spirits.

  He slid the basket to her. Ruth had always liked surprises. “Open, says me.”