The Bashful Bride (Advertisements for Love Book 2)

by Vanessa Riley

  “Is it that painful?” Her frown became a line of sadness and sympathy.

  Arthur hated pity.

  “So you’ve learned to be independent and alone.”

  The statement was small, but like a pinprick, it stung, echoing the truths he’d rather deny and avoid. “Smell the air. It’s different from London.”

  Her eyes never shifted, but the slight nod of her chin indicated a willingness to let him be on this matter. “I smell rotten egg. Is that sulfur from the coal? There is ash in the sky above the trees. I like London. The stench is familiar. In a way, it is comforting because I know it. I don’t know what it’s like to be alone, but I’ve chosen a path that may separate me from my family.”

  “You’re not much of an optimist are you, Ester? They’ll come around. Let’s be hopeful.”

  The furrows on her brow deepened, and she took another small bite. “I’m more a realist. I think it is easier.”

  “How very dull and unromantic. Do you dream? Surely you do. You liked me well enough all from the majesty of the stage. That’s a dream.”

  Her eyes drifted to the left, and he hoped she remembered the things that had drawn her to him, that they would sweep away the doubts which he knew had grown.

  “I do dream. Right now, I’m dreaming of a hot bath. The water’s the perfect temperature, almost steaming, maybe a hint of rosewater or lilac fills the room. Yes, I dream, Bex, but maybe my dreams are too simple.”

  She grabbed at the reins. “Bex! You’re looking at me and drifting. It’s not safe to go on when you’re so tired. You’re weaving more than I did.”

  He was tired, bone aching tired, but she had done too much for him. As a man, he needed to show her he could protect her…that she could depend upon him, no matter what they faced as a husband and wife—even the loss of her family. “I suppose I should stop glancing at you. Staring at the road is a safer bet than thinking of you in a bath.”

  Her olive cheeks darkened, and it delighted him as much as her hand, tiny and strong, winding about his.

  “Bex, you are struggling. Let me help.”

  “A little suffering is good for the soul. ‘’Tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune than to take arms against a sea of troubles.’”

  Her topaz eyes brightened. “Your Hamlet was very good, but our sea of troubles is the lack of sleep. Maybe we could pull over for a few moments. You could nap in the sulfurous air.”

  “The last time we did so, your highwayman found us and you danced for him. Though I am not opposed to seeing those hips of yours in a fit of fancy, I won’t put you at risk again.”

  He’d done it again. Her whole face fevered. A stranger might not’ve been able to tell, but he could. It meant he’d come to know a little more of this woman who was so concerned about his welfare. “I am finding you a good sport and a pleasure to tease, but you can help me.”

  “Oh yes, Bex. Let me help.”

  “Dig into my bag by your feet and pull out the long pages.”

  Her expression changed. The edges of her plump lips lifted as she dove into his things and retrieved the script. Lean fingers flipped through the pages. “Antony and Cleopatra.” She drew the papers to her bosom, and he envied the parchment. “Is this your new play?”

  Loving the light sound of her voice, he smiled. Good, the distraction of Shakespeare. “Yes. I’ll be General Antony. As long as we are back on time for rehearsals, I’ll get to keep the leading role in one of the greatest love stories.”

  Ester’s pert flared nose wrinkled. “If you say so, Bex. You’ll be wonderful in anything.”

  He scratched at his chin but returned his eyes to the road. “I sense you are not impressed. Have you read the play?”

  More pages rustled. “Yes, I’ve read it. Shakespeare’s plays were some of the first books Papa bought for his study. I saw this one performed a couple of years ago. It wasn’t that fine.”

  His curiosity was piqued. He thought a Shakespeare lover would enjoy all his works. “You don’t find the story of a great warrior totally enraptured by the queen of the largest African country to your liking?”

  She shook her head and pulled the pages to her bosom. “No, Bex. I do not.”

  The woman was quite adorable holding his script with such a serious pout. Was she again fretting? He needed to become better at engaging her, even as his own attention drifted from the road. “I am at a loss, Ester. I thought we were of like minds, yet how could you not find the story of a Roman soldier and an African queen not similar to, say, us? Albeit, I’m from Liverpool, very close to where the Normans, the Roman’s descendants, came through.”

  His jest didn’t seem to amuse her, not if her spreading grimace was an indication. “It’s not like us, Bex. It should never be anything like us.”

  Glancing at her and her rising tone, he saw her fingers tightening about his papers. “But their love was so powerful. Aren’t you looking for a love like that?”

  “No, Bex. I’m not. Their love was deceitful. Antony was married when he took up with Cleopatra. He was with the queen when his first wife died. How disloyal can a fellow be? Maybe Antony thought he’d get his wife pearls upon his return to gain forgiveness. Pity the wife never collected.”

  Arthur fanned his hat. “Uh, yes, Antony was a bit of a scoundrel at first, but you must concede he was devoted to Cleopatra.”

  Ester made a horrible laugh before shoving his papers back into his bag. “How devoted could he be? And to whom—the second woman he married, or the queen he returns to and with whom he continues an adulterous affair? I think Antony is horrid.”

  “Maybe you are missing the point. It’s a classic love story. His marriages were political.”

  “Bex, don’t tell me they were marriages of convenience. That still wouldn’t make me have sympathy for Antony or his portrayers.”

  Arthur hadn’t thought about the play like that, and with Ester still smarting over her father’s infidelity, he heard the pain she hadn’t forgiven. He rubbed at his neck. “I can see your point. It was wrong to engage in the illicit affair, but that is how Shakespeare sculpts the web of their relationship.”

  Ester tossed her head back onto the seat. “Webs are sticky. You do things for one reason, but you become entangled in another until you can’t break free. A neglected spouse, working all the time, too much to do to come straight home. Webs are ruinous.”

  Yes, they were. This wasn’t going well, but at least she wasn’t fretting at his driving. Might as well push farther down this hole. “Do you think the queen was at fault?”

  Cutting her eyes at him, Ester said, “Antony is responsible for his choices, but I wonder why he chose her, other than for her beauty. Every time Antony needed her help, Cleopatra was untrustworthy. She left her great love in need, and his ships were defeated. How can there be love, even a little love, if there is no trust? I hope we are never like them.”

  One forbidden glimpse at Ester revealed tears in her eyes—wet, topaz eyes. His chest ached as he turned back to the rocky road. “It’s just a play, dearest, not our story. I’m not Antony. You’re not Cleopatra. What’s the matter?”

  She fished in her bag for a handkerchief. “I don’t know why it matters to me. I mean it happened years ago. Mama has forgiven my father. Why can’t I? Why am I holding on to the grief?”

  They were getting to the steeper parts of the terrain. It was either pull to the side now or have to wait hours. One look at Ester and there was no choice. He slowed the carriage to a crawl then edged over to the side of the road and parked. Slipping his hand about her, he tugged Ester, small delicate Ester, into his chest. His lips found her brow, and he kissed away the creases. The sweet scent of lilac from the soap she used to wash her face was still there. The sweetness so fragrant, so enticing. “Don’t cry, Ester. Your father’s a flawed man. Most men are.”

  Fisting her hands, she beat upon his chest, but he did not let go. “You can’t be like that. You can’t lie to
my face and say we are everything and then risk it all for a Cleopatra. Papa was perfect. Tall and strong. You can’t be like him.”

  Arthur rubbed her back, settling Ester more firmly against him. “Your father, Antony…neither thought of the risks. If your father had properly weighed them, I am sure he’d have chosen the right course. But that is your parent’s marriage. Their lack of happiness or discord will be nothing to us. We won’t be foolish, Ester. We won’t squander what we have.”

  “What do we have, Bex? A response to a newspaper advertisement that wasn’t even mine? You don’t know anything about me. You just mentioned you were from Liverpool, but what else do I know? You raised yourself, nothing of your connections. Nothing but what has been in the newspapers, the caricatures of the scandals. Will you leave me when things get tough? Things always get tough.”

  Lifting her chin, he spoke of what he did know. “Ester, I’ve known you for two days. It’s not a lifetime, but I’ve never felt more like sharing a life with someone than I do with you. I’m not promising a grand passion, or that we’ll never argue. We’ve already done that.”

  “Yes.” She sniffled. “You can be condescending.”

  He tapped her nose, tracing the slight arch until he met her cheek. “And you, my dear, will not think of your own safety, in spite of my wishes.”

  “’Tis true, Bex. I can be stubborn like my father. That has to be bad.”

  “Ester Croome, I know I can depend upon you. That’s important to me. You’re right. I have to learn how to not be a loner, but you are the one I want to learn that with.”

  Any doubts about them not being of one mind had diminished to almost nonexistence. Ester was a quiet person, but not passive, and if she truly loved him, Arthur knew she’d fight for him. Wasn’t that what he wanted in a wife above all else—someone to believe in him and recommend him?

  Forgetting his past, stuffing it away to the rear of his brain, he gripped her delicate palm, her graceful fingers, so warm and full of life. “I promise you fidelity, Ester Croome. I promise to tell you the truth to anything you ask. I’ll cherish what we build. I won’t take it for granted.”

  She pushed away to the edge of the gig as if she’d jump. “Please don’t make promises, Bex. I know things change. One minute everyone is happy. The next, not so much. I’ve admired you for two years. Maybe that has blinded me to our incompatibility. Maybe this crazy trip and lack of sleep has blinded you, too.”

  “Ester, I’d rather you not see my flaws. They’re daunting.”

  “What if I’m your Cleopatra and every time you need me to defend you, I shrink away? I’m a private person. You’ll push for abolition and you’ll keep fighting, but it is so dangerous. What if you need me to support you, and I can’t because I’m afraid of you getting hurt?”

  He swallowed hard as his gut tightened. That couldn’t be. He knew that she was the one. Scooting over to her, he put an arm on her shoulder. “So tense, Ester. You think that I have doubts about a woman that danced in the bushes, placing herself in danger for me? You knew I would come back for you. Ester, what’s between us is new but it feels right.”

  Turning to him, she looked up, and he captured her gaze.

  He wasn’t ready to call what he felt love, but it was more than passion and thankfulness. “We have a beginning, Ester Croome. Something thick and rich to build upon. Yes, I am an actor playing parts in the theater, but my trust in you is no act. I hope to keep earning yours.”

  “Maybe, but I’m sure my parents must suspect something is wrong. Hopefully, my absence has ruined my chances of marrying Jordan. You’ve done enough, Bex. Send me home by coach at the next inn.”

  “Ester, your reputation. No one will think—”

  “I know, Bex. I know. I hope this won’t end up in Mama’s scandal papers, but I need to protect you. Without me you can take a room and rest. You’ll get a great deal of sleep and make it back to London for rehearsals.

  No.

  He couldn’t lose her over sleep. She cared about him, perhaps more than she did herself. No one had done that in a while. The last woman he’d cared for, the Countess Devoors, had liked his fame and the attention his name brought, but she would have sold his hide for her name to be put in the papers. That’s why bashful, brave, beautiful Ester was perfect.

  “Put me on a stagecoach, Bex. Then go on being London’s best actor.”

  “No. I will not send you away unless you have decided against me as a husband. Do you not care for me?”

  “You know I do, but this is not right.”

  It hit him like a dropped line, a bad review. Somehow, she’d taken up the notion that this was too hard for him. She surely thought he couldn’t do well in a mixed-race marriage. He slipped a frizzy curl behind her ear. “You’re wrong to give up on me, Ester. In four hours or less, I’ll have you in Scotland. We’ll marry as planned. I’ll not send you back to face the scorn of the world. I care too deeply for you.”

  He framed her face within his palms, claimed her wide-eyed gaze, and came within a whisper of her mouth. “You still wish to marry me, Ester Croome, don’t you?”

  “I…maybe…yes, yes, Bex.”

  The garbled words scented in apple were like a sultry kiss, exactly what he wanted. He started the horses. “Good, I want to be married to you, too.”

  But Bex knew the matter wasn’t settled. As the horses regained speed, he looked over at her fanning herself with a sketchbook, perhaps a little breathless, like he was.

  He wanted Ester, the right way, to be given to him in marriage. His past, like the miles ahead, was just an obstacle to overcome. He had to prove himself to her today, to wed her today, or lose her forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  Almost There

  Ester sat in the phaeton as Bex paid for the horses to be changed. She saw a couple traveling with a girl maybe a few years younger than she. The mother figure hugged the young woman, combing through the girl’s ash-blonde hair, as they climbed into their carriage.

  She wanted to turn back to her sketch, but Ester couldn’t and watched them sitting behind the window of their carriage, laughing, enjoying each other’s time. The picture sank her heart as she remembered Mama’s soft laugh, her knitting on the couch. When had their laughter stopped? When was the last time Mama had done her hair?

  Unable to help herself, Ester eased her charcoal from the dress she’d started, to glance at the back of the ebony barouche pulling away from the coaching inn’s courtyard. A sob collected in her throat. Ester wanted her mother. She couldn’t wait for this elopement to be done to see Mama again.

  Bex climbed back onboard, and she caught his half-closed eyes. “Not much farther, my future wife.”

  The yawn in his voice could not be denied.

  Her heart sank, hitting the bottom of her soul. She grasped his hand. “Bex, you are putting yourself at risk. An hour will change nothing. It’ll barely get us to the blacksmith at Gretna or back to London any sooner. Let’s stay at Carlisle, pull into a grove, and you can sleep for an hour. We’ll still have plenty of light left to make Scotland.”

  He shook his shoulders as he took up the reins. “Carlisle is ten miles from Gretna Green. Ten miles. We are thirty minutes away. I’ll sleep well in a room with my wife. Not in a stable or by the side of the road, but a proper room with my proper wife.”

  There was no reasoning with him. Though his determination to marry her touched the deepest parts of her, his bloodshot cobalt eyes ruined her peace, made her pulse race with fear. How could she stop someone so set on killing himself?

  If she didn’t voice her objections, did that make her a couch wife—or perhaps a phaeton wife, but without the knitting needles?

  “I’m fine, Ester. Put away that frown. We’re so close. We’re pushing through. Now don’t wear yourself to ribbons fretting. Why not finish the sketch you’ve been working upon. What is it, a dress?”

  He swayed and peered over her. “My, with a trimmed low-cut bodice. What color sho
uld it be? Scarlet? I think you’ll look so pretty in it.”

  Her pulse raced a little more as she absorbed his smile. Yes, she was a phaeton woman with charcoal instead of yarn. Resigned, she picked up her charcoal and positioned it within her fingers. The ride jarred too much for her to work on the delicate lace of the dress, but the contours of the hem could be refined. “I couldn’t wear something like this, not without adding lace up to the neck and maybe some sleeves—and in pink, not red. It would look too revealing on someone…of my height.”

  “It will show off that beautiful neck of yours and the delightful figure you try to hide. Maybe you should wear it for me, and me alone.”

  Was he trying to make her spark like a flame with such notions? “Please keep your eyes on the road, Bex, but thank you. This dress is for my friend Frederica Burghley. I make designs for her and Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil.”

  “Pity. That scooped neckline would be quite fetching.”

  “No…I’m a bit…” She found her hands floating closer to her bosom before she forced them down.

  Passing a yawn, he waggled a brow. “Buxom? Beautifully buxom.”

  She swallowed, but the unease lodged in her throat. “Yes.”

  “Ester. You seem embarrassed, but you’re beautiful.”

  Cheeks burning, she covered up with her shawl, rolling the silk tight about her neck. “I have a pretty face, but I think I’m…”

  “Well-endowed? A woman of substance? Possessing a round figure? You don’t need to be embarrassed. I think the cut of the gown would accent your curves.”

  “You noticed.”

  “Oh, I noticed. I’m sleepy, not blind.”

  If I hit him with the sketch pad, will he wreck the phaeton?

  “A man in the company of a woman sees many things—her modesty, her manners, her loveliness. I’ll be very proud to have you on my arm and in them.”

  His voice sounded so strong and overpowering, but Bex’s fine posture had become slumped, curving into a C-shape. More than once, before they’d stopped, she’d seen him blinking his eyes and shaking like he’d been caught napping.