The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

  Theodosia straightened her shoulders and strode across the carpet as the proud widow of a good man. Enough of ghosts, slurs, and Lester. She wouldn’t let anyone stir up anymore uneasy inside.

  Then a zigzag of light sailed at the window. The noise would come soon.

  She froze, her feet unable to move. Not until she heard the sound.

  “Ma’am.” The footman tapped her elbow. “Your box is waiting.”

  It hit and she panted. She should turn from the window, the swords of light dancing and fighting. The next rumble shook the building and everything in her chest. It wasn’t safe to move. No one said it was safe to move.

  “Mrs. Cecil. All is well. Come with me, Mrs. Cecil.”

  That soft voice sounded like Frederica’s. “Come along. The duke’s box awaits.”

  Pearl-colored gloved hands claimed Theodosia’s and unwound her fingers from the tight clasp she had about her arms.

  Shaking, she stood next to Frederica.

  “See, we only need to go a few more steps. Then we are in papa’s box.” Frederica, in lockstep with Theodosia, held on to her waist and marched her inside.

  Before the black velvety curtain closed behind them, Theodosia stuck out her palm with the shiny copper penny. She gave it to the footman. “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t his fault she let thunder scare her, but her word was good. Always good. Shamed, Theodosia drew deeper into her cape. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

  Frederica gave her another hug. “No one but a footman saw you. We are not in front of the theater, and in a few more minutes, Ester will be engrossed by her actor. The man took the stage, and she set down her book.”

  Ester offered a smile, then a giggle. “’Tis true. Mr. Bex has a lovely voice.”

  Still embraced by Frederica, she moved to the seats. Four chairs were pulled to the rear. Ester sat in the one closest to the corner with her crimson satin overdress swishing about pearl slippers and a pink skirt. She cupped her hand to her face and became engrossed by whatever happened below, the music and a baritone’s direct address. No one would see them unless they made a scene. If the orchestra kept playing over the thunder, no one would know it was dark money night.

  Sitting, she pulled off her cape and tucked her neat silver slippers beneath her. When Frederica nodded and smiled, she knew her gown, with dark silver cap sleeves and a misty gray bodice and skirt was a success. “I am so glad you came. You need something different from mourning.”

  “This gown is still half mourning. My Mathew is still honored.”

  As she took her seat, Frederica’s face lost its natural glow, not upon her smooth skin but her eyes. They dulled in the dim light. “You can live and still honor him. That is what he would want for you and Philip.”

  Theodosia clutched the girl’s gilded glove to her bosom. “I know he’s honored by the friends I keep. I am honored to be here.”

  Frederica gave a nod and half a smile. She was a sensitive type of girl, but did she know how much of a struggle it was for Theodosia to be away from Tradenwood and Philip on such a horrible stormy night?

  With no more cheer to offer, she closed her eyes and sighed inwardly, setting her hopes on hearing the dramatic lines and the swirl of the violins—all while wishing the storm would end and free her from fear.

  …

  Ewan stood in Mr. Brown’s office at the Royal Theatre, Covent Garden. It was quiet now, most of the actors were on stage. The play had begun. He listened for Shakespeare’s words to be recited in direct address. He closed his eyes. Oh, for that day when his play would entertain crowds.

  How much would they love his current creation—Theo, as a saucy Circe? Or would they prefer the version bumbling about in his mind, the one about the woman whom he held in his arms, the one who needed him? Theo had changed. She’d never truly showed herself vulnerable, only scared of thunder.

  Today, she had been different. And yes, his wary chest had puffed up in pride when she’d turned to him. Yet, how long could a peace between them last? A day, a month, a year?

  The roar of thunder blended with clapping. The first act must be over. The footfalls of the actors sounded, as did a violinist. The intermission between scenes—had Petruchio accepted his fortune by marrying Katherina? The farce made of Shakespeare’s boastful idiot and his shrew bride was a sight to behold onstage or in Ewan’s mirror. Yes, he was a boastful idiot to be thinking of Theo returning to his arms.

  The storm boomed and rain pelted on the ceiling with a heavier rhythm. It was like a gong, echoing and cleansing him of wanting her. It helped him refocus on his purpose of being at the theater. He had come to sell his play without the earl’s assistance or his blockage. Now, at least, his father wasn’t using his influence to stop Ewan’s plays. He hoped.

  The door opened and Mr. Brown, a portly fellow with thick glasses and balding head, entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem at all.”

  The man flopped on a well-worn leather chair.

  A hint of tobacco touched Ewan’s nose. The man’s delay, had it been a vice? There were flecks of rain on his coat. “You’ve come from outside?”

  “We’re making some dark money tonight and had a bit of trouble.”

  The term sounded odd. He felt his brow wrinkling. “What is that? Dark money?”

  “The Duke of Simone pays me a little more to allow his by-blow and her Blackamoor friends to set up in his box from time to time. They usually sit quietly, not upsetting anything. Nothing harmed seating them in the highest box with the private staircase. If notable nobles sat in their boxes, they’d go unnoticed.”

  Ewan’s gut twisted at the disdain coming from Brown’s alliteration and his garish laugh.

  At least when Jasper had asked of Theo, his voice sounded of curiosity or brotherly probing. This man’s tone bristled with condescension, perhaps even masked hatred, like the earl’s.

  Ewan rolled his shoulder to allay some of the tension tightening his neck. “But tonight was different. What happened with the Blackamoors?”

  The man scratched his chin hairs, then leaned back in his chair as if set to spin a long yarn. “Seems one of them, the one with slant eyes… She had a fit caused by a little thunder. The footman thought she was going to start screaming or crying.” Mr. Brown rummaged through his desk, as if he hunted for something.

  Ewan braced to keep his own composure. His pulse raced, then slowed, as he glued his low-cut boots to the ground. Could Theo be here?

  Brown chuckled, then slapped his desk. “You should see them all gussied up like regular women.”

  “But they are women, sounds like women with means.”

  “I don’t care what they are. If the duke is paying and none of my other patrons are aware, I keep the money, dark and lovely.”

  How money changes things. Theo, the rich widow, was now an acceptable choice of brides, to even the earl, but Theo the Flower Seller was not. One could be in the theater like normal women, if the price was right. Ewan soured immeasurably, wanted to walk away, but respectable theater was small. If he couldn’t get his play here, there would be no chance at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane. “Well, hopefully, there will be no more complaints and your guests get to enjoy this play.”

  “I must say, the duke’s by-blow could be mistaken for a lady if not for the thickness of her lips.”

  He obviously didn’t know the joy of kissing such plump wonders. Ewan wondered if Theo’s were still extraordinary.

  The man stretched and laughed. “The one with the slant eyes, she could be a looker, too, if she wasn’t so dark.”

  His pulse ticked up. “With straight onyx hair?”

  Brown guffawed, then shot up. “Fitzwilliam, did you see her?”

  “Yes.” A thousand times in his dreams. There was only one Theo, with beautiful almond-shaped eyes, afraid of thunder. “She is some looker.”

  Brown shuffled more paper as Ewan leaned against the door. Theo was here, away f
rom Tradenwood on a night like this. Why? She was so different, a ball of compelling opposites that drew his attention like no one else.

  Thinking of her, feeling that old draw, made Ewan impatient. He twisted his hat within his palm. “So you’ve had a chance to review my play?”

  Brown sat again. He searched his desk and finally settled on pages at the bottom of his pile. “I did. Outrageous. I think it will be the talk of London. Theo the Flower seller is outrageous.”

  “Well, I’m working on that character’s name. I think Flora the Flower Seller.”

  “Don’t change a thing. I like it.”

  “Well, I’ll… keep that in mind, if you are going to buy the play, or Cleo the Flower Seller will bring in the allure of Egyptian culture.”

  “Perhaps. I do want to buy it. This will sell lots of tickets, but Fitzwilliam… How do I ask this without sounding condescending?”

  With all the things he’d said about Theo and her friends, did it matter? Ewan stiffened his stance, all but locking his knees as he’d done in the regiment. “Say it. Shoot, then reload.”

  Brown started rocking in his chair. He tapped his fingertips together, as if he were praying, but this man didn’t seem the type to have been to church in years. “I do a great deal for my wealthy patrons. I don’t like getting crossed or my license to be threatened. Does Lord Crisdon approve of this? Your father can make everything difficult, difficult with tradesmen and creditors, if you cross him.

  “I’m my own man. I can handle the earl. He’ll be no trouble to you.”

  Standing, Brown stuck out his hand. “Then you have a deal. How soon can you get the final draft to me?”

  Ewan shook the man’s hand, pumping it with vigor and a sense of accomplishment. “A fortnight.”

  “Good. I can start planning. Work on getting the earl here for the opening?”

  That would be a miracle. One with strings from the devil, no doubt. “I’ll see what can be done, but this deal is based on the merits of the play. Nothing more.”

  Catching the man’s sneer-like smile, Ewan donned his hat and pivoted to grip the door handle, but turned back for a moment. “A fortnight for the final play. Have the contracts ready.”

  “It’s a good play. We stand to make a lot of money. And I still like that name, Theo, Theo the Flower Seller.”

  “It will be Cleo, Cleo the Flower Seller in the final draft.”

  Nodding, Ewan closed the door behind him. His moment of success felt a little slimy. He wiped his palms upon his jacket. This was the theater. Some wore masks and costumes. Others showed you who they were. Mr. Brown, as his father would put it, was a necessary means to accomplish Ewan’s goals.

  Thunder crackled loud and hard as Ewan exited the theater. The rain had slacked to a light pelting. The next hoarse rumble in the sky didn’t make him dash to the mews for his brother’s gig. No, Ewan turned the corner and sought out the lone stairs that led to the highest boxes. He trudged through puddles, sloshing cold water on his formerly buffed boots. It didn’t matter. He needed to see if the story being written in his head was correct. That the heroine of his heart was misunderstood. The earl’s wrath had made her vulnerable, easy pickings for Cecil. A grieving soul was easy to mislead by a rich predator or made a villain in a farce by a playwright who needed a villain for his own bad choices.

  Six years ago, that strong, opinionated girl had become frightened by the storm. They couldn’t elope, not in such a deluge. So, they had holed up together in the carriage house. It was the first time they’d ever been alone. Except for a holding of hands, a shared laugh in a thick grove nestled behind the carriage house, or a gleefully stolen kiss near Grandbole, he’d never fully given himself to her, never felt so much love in her dark eyes. Not until that moment.

  Knowing how his father was, why had Ewan believed the lies and made Theo a gold-seeking mistress? Anger pained his breath as he pried the stairwell door open. He’d written the wrong fiend.

  It wasn’t a feeling of accomplishment for selling his play that drove him up those treads. It was that small lump in his scarred chest that tightened, thinking Theo was near and frightened—thinking of her clinging to him again like she had today made him take the stairs by two.

  Chapter Ten

  Night at the Theater

  Theodosia shifted in her seat. The actor’s voice couldn’t drown out the thunder or the memories. She’d paid attention to the horrible story, wondering why Ewan could think this Shakespeare so fine. Fighting, complaining, tricks, and starvation—that felt a little too familiar, too Fitzwilliam.

  A boom moaned above. The storm sounded as if it were gaining force, coming for her again. She shivered and pulled her wrap tighter about her arms.

  The world around her rumbled. It sounded ghostly, as if it whispered her name. She pivoted in time with the next crash and caught the dark curtains swaying. The storm had to be atop her. Her gaze became glued to the velvet. It shrouded this box as it did the space she had hidden inside at the brothel. Mama told her to be quiet, but how could she, trapped by the storm?

  A hand grabbed hers and she almost screamed, but she was too scared. And Mama would be angry.

  “Theodosia, are you well?”

  The voice wasn’t Mama’s, so Theodosia didn’t move. She wasn’t supposed to, not till she heard the signal. She hated the coal scuttle within the brothel wall and how it made every violent pound of thunder echo.

  A gloved hand slipped onto hers, but she couldn’t say anything; she hadn’t heard Mama’s knock. “Theodosia. You don’t look well. Dear?”

  The tones, the concern… It sounded like Ester, but why would she be here? Good girls like Ester wouldn’t be in a brothel.

  “Theodosia.”

  Something shook her by the shoulders, and she tensed. Blinking heavily made the world right. Frederica’s arms were about her.

  Disgusted by her fears, she shook free, not wanting to be touched, even by a friend. “I’m not feeling well. I need to go home.”

  Ester frowned deeply with her lips pressed tightly. “No. The new actor, the one who’s all the rage. He hasn’t come back out yet.”

  Frederica’s fun face seemed blank, but she nodded. “This isn’t any fun for you. I’ll signal a groom, and we’ll get you to your carriage.”

  She’d ruined her friend’s evening out. Theodosia’s insides hurt. “Stay. I’ve done enough to disrupt what should be a fun occasion. I’m ashamed…to do this to you two. I wish to make myself invisible.”

  Wrinkling her gown, Ester crouched down, pried off a glove, and applied the back of her hand to Theodosia’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with being frightened.”

  “Yes, nothing at all.” The man’s voice, the one that haunted her soul, introduced himself. “I’m Mrs. Cecil’s cousin. I’ll see her home.”

  A little damp, with a dark curl plastered to his forehead beneath his beaver-skinned hat, Ewan stepped fully inside. “I’m here for you Th— Mrs. Cecil. I’ll get you safely to your carriage.”

  Why? Why was Ewan haunting her outside of Tradenwood and on a stormy night? Theodosia stood up and stared at him. “Not you.”

  Gripping her hand and not letting go, Frederica stepped toward Ewan. “This is a private box. You have no business here.”

  The grin on his face looked triumphant. Would he shame her in front of her friends by bringing up their tawdry past? Oh goodness, would he tell them of the loving, the leaving, and the lies? With lips pressed shut, he bowed. “Miss.”

  “Miss Burghley.” Frederica kept her voice soft but her chin high.

  Nothing intimidated her, but shy Ester had skittered to the side in the corner.

  “Ladies, I’ll make sure Mrs. Cecil gets home safely.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “From what I recall, she doesn’t do well with storms.”

  Theodosia’s cheeks heated. She’d fan her face but that would let Ewan know she was weak.

  “No.” Surely not
understanding his reference, Frederica didn’t move. She stood as an equal to the son of the earl. “I will send her to her carriage. You may leave.”

  But Ewan didn’t move, and the heat of his steady gaze made Theodosia’s pimpled arms feel warm, too. “My cousin can trust me.”

  With a brow raised, Ester came out of the shadows, looking back and forth between Ewan and Theo. “Frederica, why is your cousin here? Does he know the duke?”

  “No, Ester, he means me. He was my Cecil’s cousin. This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  “Yes. We are cousins by marriage. My family is Mrs. Cecil’s neighbor and sometimes business rival.” He extended his hand again. “It is my pleasure to assist you.”

  Frederica smoothed her gloves. “Fitzwilliam,” she said in a voice not as strong as before, “as in the flower rivals, as in up the hill from Tradenwood.”

  Theodosia forgot about the new rocking of thunder and focused on getting Ewan away from her friends. Signaling that she conceded, she nodded to her conquering ghost. “Yes, he is the second son of Lord Crisdon. He is my late husband’s cousin.”

  “Guilty.” Ewan’s smile grew with bigger dimples, evil I-shall-now-embarrass-you-more dimples.

  She braced for his worst and that made his grin worse.

  He tapped the edge of her chair. “As her cousin by marriage, it’s my duty and honor to be of service.”

  Frederica squinted at Ewan as if there was some sort of recognition firing in her brainbox. “The man from the patio. Seems you not only do night deliveries, but pickups, too.” Frederica drew Theodosia’s palm up to the small diamond necklace hanging about her neck and the creamy gold ruffles of her bodice. “If you wish to leave with your cousin you may. Ester and I will be fine. We’ll have to do better with weather on our outings. The Cecil Festival must have perfect weather. I will put all my hopes on that and you.”