The Bittersweet Bride

by Vanessa Riley

The look in her friend’s eye, the love and reassurance filled that spot in Theodosia where all had drained. With more confidence in herself, she determined it would be better to go with Ewan than to expose her friends to whatever tricks her ghost had planned. “It will be perfect, just as Cecil wanted. I’ll accept your offer, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  Thunder crackled as she took his hand. The glint in his bluer-than-blue eyes surely meant she’d done what he wanted her to do. That was almost scarier than the noise.

  The crowd below erupted.

  Ester’s mouth gaped, but then closed. She nodded and turned back to the stage. Maybe her dream actor had arrived.

  Frederica bounced in front and drew the curtain open for them. “You make sure your cousin gets to Tradenwood safely, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

  “Ladies, I’ll see you Monday for the final preparations,” she said, counting seconds after the latest streak of lightning.

  “It will be my duty to see she’s handled with care,” Ewan said. “Evening, ladies.”

  Free of the box, Theodosia dropped his hand, adjusted her cape, and walked past him. “Good night, sir.”

  “Not so fast.” Triumphant, smiling, and too handsome for words, Ewan clasped Theodosia’s hand, pinning it to his arm, as if she’d escape. “Don’t want you to fall. It’s treacherous tonight. The stairs might be wet.”

  No, it was more dangerous to have her hand in his, to be nestled next to the scars upon his chest. Pulling away had to be done at the right moment to leave Ewan stewing. Patience, as Mathew would say, would win, or at least retain, her peace.

  He laced his fingers with hers. “Not too much further.”

  They stood about halfway down, moving farther and farther from the lone window that let in light and stars, if there were any. She squinted and could see the exit, the door she’d entered. “Thank you for helping me out of here.”

  “My pleasure. Ghosts can be helpful, especially those bent on apologizing.”

  Without responding, she took another tread. Truthfully, she’d let horrible Napoleon help her out of here, if it meant getting her more quickly to Tradenwood.

  “Theo, I remember how storms make you nervous. I’m remembering a great deal.”

  His voice purred against her ear, but she didn’t have the luxury of swatting him in public. Who knew how much the slap would echo in the stairwell. “Ewan, no games. Please get me to my carriage like you said you would. Your word is good?”

  “As good as yours, my grieving widowed cousin.” He moved slower and held fast to her hand.

  She tugged but he didn’t budge. “Is something wrong?”

  “I was wondering if you enjoyed the play? The Taming of the Shrew. Maybe the storm kept you from paying attention.”

  “I followed. A woman marries a beast who starves her. I didn’t enjoy that.”

  He chuckled and hummed, but his hands tightened about hers, keeping her next to him all the way down to the last step. “Yes, Petruchio wasn’t nice to Katherina. Perhaps he didn’t understand how to get past her anger.”

  “I’m no shrew.”

  “I’m the shrew, Theo. I was so angry at you; I couldn’t see past my anger. I forgive you.”

  A flash of light from the window above made the dark passage glow, framed his face with what looked like truth, but she didn’t want that now. Too many things needed to happen to protect Philip without her growing weakness for Ewan putting things into jeopardy.

  “I said I forgive you, Theo. Have you nothing to say to me.”

  “What do you want from me, other than a lease for your father?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m duty bound to find out.”

  Another bone-jarring thud of thunder groaned, and he slid her into his arms. Like in the fields, she hid against his chest. The world moaned outside, echoing in the darkened shaft, and she shook. When he pulled her closer, she didn’t resist. She needed the storm to go away. She needed to believe that something sturdy could hold her up. Right now, Ewan served the part.

  But wasn’t he a part of her bondage? Initially, she’d kept her heart from Mathew by mourning Ewan. That time couldn’t be returned. She’d wasted it on a love that hadn’t been pure.

  The thundering wouldn’t quit and she drove her nails into Ewan’s arm.

  He didn’t squeal; he merely flattened his palm atop her squirming digits. “I have you, Theo. Don’t be afraid.”

  Nobody had her. “There is much to fear. It’s called tomorrow. I can’t face its revenge again, when minds are changed and promises are broken.” She bucked up her spine and moved backward, away from him. She pushed open the door and went into the night.

  She bristled beneath her cape and for an instant she wished she still stood sheltered.

  “I don’t disappear that easily, Cousin.” Ewan came alongside her. “Now, where is your carriage?”

  “I need no help.”

  “Of course you don’t. This assistance is to keep me honest. I said I’d get you safely back to Tradenwood.”

  Rain drizzled overhead and began seeping into her hair. She chided herself for standing around like a nervous hen. She would ruin her expensive gown because of Ewan. He was too near, being too nice, talking of forgiveness, reminding her of the dreams of happy-ever-after that had led her astray.

  He tugged her arm. “Your carriage is over here.”

  She chided herself but kept pace with his larger strides. The sooner he put her into her carriage, the sooner this haunting would end. Then, she’d be rid of her ghost and all the annoying butterflies twisting in her tummy.

  “I should’ve asked you to stay in the stairwell until I retrieved your carriage. But then I wouldn’t have you at my side.”

  Again, he tucked her close, as if he cared she felt fragile.

  Any thought of protesting died, drowned with a flash of light and thunder crashing about them. The night smelled of rain. London smelled fresh like the fields of Tradenwood.

  “Easy, Theo. Like I said, I remember.”

  She froze for a second, her mind swept back to six years ago, when a boy and a girl thought they’d found love. She’d held on to the sweetness too long before giving it up to find contentment with Mathew. She bit her lip, gnawing it raw. “When will this end?”

  He raised his head and looked about. “This storm isn’t done. Neither are we.”

  Her stomach dropped even lower.

  Ewan leaned down, within nibbling distance of her ear. “Not much farther, Mrs. Cecil.”

  She looked out in the blackness. The link boys had settled down and huddled underneath overhangs. Cupping her hand to her face to focus, she finally spotted her footman at the front of the mews. “There it is. My driver must’ve known I might not stay. I debated upon turning around several times.”

  He steadied her as they traipsed to her carriage. He waved off her footman. “Easy now, Mrs. Cecil. We’ll have you home in no time.”

  His expression hurt her heart, making her chest thump at the sparkle of determination visible in his eyes.

  Now her feet felt cold and she fretted about how he’d found her at the theater. His play. Was his scandalous work about her going to be performed in Frederica’s favorite theater?

  She stiffened as his arms went about her, but she couldn’t stop him from putting his hands on her hips and lifting her inside.

  “Skittish? Six years too late, Theo?”

  She sank back against the tufted squab of the seating. “Thank you, and good evening.”

  When she pulled at the door, he caught it. “Driver. To Tradenwood.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She heard the words and almost released a sigh of joy, but then, Ewan barged inside. The door banged shut and he sat next to her. “I’m going to see you home, like a good cousin.”

  It was too dark to be alone with him. She bent and lit the carriage lamp on the floor. The light made things worse. It let her see how strong and virile he looked and how near he sat, with lips that were in want of a kiss.<
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  She pushed at her temples hoping to free them of ridiculous ideas. “Get my driver to let you out then go away, cousin ghost. I’m in no mood for your haunting. The storm has upset me enough.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone, and we are headed in the same direction. It’s best to be at your side. Just a pleasant ride for Theo and her ghost.”

  The slow-moving cabin felt hot, and sitting so close to Ewan made her skin warm with anger. She dropped her hood to her shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to cool down, not with molten temptation a hug away.

  The last thing she needed was to become faint because of him staring at her. She drew her arms about her as if to add another layer of protection. “I didn’t ask you to accompany me into my carriage, only to take me to it. You’ve completed this promise. Don’t you have a flat in Town? Some other relative to bother?”

  “It’s less than two hours to Tradenwood which is practically next door to Grandbole. You can abide two hours, no? Much shorter than a month.”

  She stared at him and hoped her face didn’t show how unfair that was, but it was better he thought her disloyal than know the truth. No, the truth remained hidden, buried with Mathew.

  He took off his hat and sidled to the other side of the bench.

  Thunder growled and he smiled a little. “Let me be helpful. This storm still has plenty of strength.”

  Trapped with him in a storm for two hours. Her fear would addle her. What if she accidentally admitted to things? The delicate balance she shared with her ghost would be eroded even more.

  Her mind went to the embrace on the stairs and the one in the fields. Each felt more natural, reminding her of the stolen embraces of six years ago.

  “So Theo, do we share? Or do we argue all the way to Tradenwood and share by default?”

  Ewan, the Fitzwilliams—they were against her. She pushed at her brow. “Enemies don’t share. You came into town some way. You can most certainly return to Grandbole the same way. I’m stopping this.”

  She reached up to tap the roof, but he caught her hand. He’d removed his gloves and pulled off one of hers. Bare hand to naked finger, he stroked her wrist, forced her to feel his lively pulse. It was too strong, too fast, like hers.

  “You can’t be here,” she whispered.

  He kept her hand and moved nearer. The dim light danced upon the angles and planes of his lean face. The set in his jaw tightened. Self-possessed. Strong. A determined Ewan was a dangerous thing. And unfortunately, it was catnip to Theodosia, making her voice purr his name. “Ew-wan, let go of me.”

  Why did she have to sound stupid—breathless and stupid? She pushed away.

  That disarming smile that had made him so handsome six years ago grew. “Methinks, you are afraid of ghosts, too. Do you fear me or the truth, as much as you fear thunderstorms?”

  Yes, to both. But the words never left her tongue.

  He claimed her hand again and put his mouth to her wrist.

  In a blink, he slid off her other glove, then kissed each naked fingertip. The motion soft, tender—bad, determined ghost. “I need to tell you something, Theo. My play will be produced.”

  His eyes radiated joy. Part of her was happy. He was living his dream. The other part, the sane side, boiled. She snatched her palm away from his coercion, his seduction. “Good for you. Slander looks good on you.”

  He took her by the shoulders, forcing her reflection to swim in his eyes. “I’m taking your name out.”

  She’d been holding her breath when he touched her, and when his words started to make sense she gasped. “What?”

  Nodding, he stroked her palm. “It wasn’t right to threaten you like that.”

  The anxiety of what the play would mean to her reputation eased. Her chances at the Court of Chancery for Philip’s guardianship improved. A sigh fled. But this was Ewan Fitzwilliam, and her heart tamped down to a near normal rhythm. “You’re being kind to me? In exchange for what?”

  The clap of thunder made her shiver, almost as much as when his finger slid under her cape to her shoulders. “I have you, Theo. I’m not ready to let go.”

  Trying to wriggle away made it worse. Her cape slipped, allowing his hands to be free. The heat of his palms wilted her cap sleeves. It was as if he stroked her skin.

  “I still need my family protected, but that has to be done without hurting you. I don’t want to be one of those people in your life who push you to do things. I’d rather be someone who you can turn to.”

  “And this is why you’re in my carriage? With your hands on me?”

  The pressure of his palms disappeared, but he never let go of her gaze. “Was your skin always so soft? I don’t remember.”

  “Leave.”

  “When you turned to me earlier…it reminded me of something I’d missed. Our friendship. I sold my play, Theo, and there was no one to share it with, no one who truly understood the meaning. No one else has ever heard my dreams and encouraged me, and I have no one to take care of, no one to make sure she didn’t work so hard that her ride and her burdens were easier.”

  Those big eyes of his, which looked even larger and more soul penetrating than ever, made her nod, made her remember, too. “I’m happy for you. You can stay until we reach the fields. Then out you go.”

  His arm moved to her back and slowly drew her closer, inches from his chest. “That’s a poor congratulation. Can’t think of a better way?”

  “It’s all I have for you or anyone.”

  His gaze lowered. “I know you are in trouble. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll talk nonsense and make you laugh, like before.”

  He used to tell her nonsense about plays and Greek theater things. His face had been full of vigor…and love. Like now.

  She gulped and looked away. The seam on her cape became safer and more fascinating.

  Thunder shook. She shook. “We’ll be getting to St. Martins Lane soon.”

  That arm of his tightened about her. As much as she didn’t want to, she found herself pressed against his chest. The memories started. The laughs, the dancing, the joy of how special it felt to be near him returned. “We’ll be getting to St. Martins Lane soon.”

  “You said already that, Theo.”

  Hating her weakness, she focused on the loud thud of his heart. His alive heart.

  “Why do you hate thunderstorms?” He made his tone low and dipped his chin onto her forehead. “You know everything about me. But I know so little about you.”

  Fearing too much would be said, she tried to push on his chest to put distance between them, but her thumbs tangled in his cravat, skirting over his thin shirt, scraping his scars, deep and long scars. She froze, thinking of him suffering, almost dying, all while knowing her choice to keep living.

  But no one would’ve suffered if he hadn’t left her. Growing too warm, too hot with memories, and those R things, she moved his arm and sat back against the seat. “You know enough. Can’t give you another thing to use to coerce me or blacken my name. That’s the Fitzwilliam way. Is Fitzwilliam Greek, meaning to crush Theodosia?”

  “Were you always this funny?” His lips pushed together for a moment. “Here’s something that you won’t hear a Fitzwilliam say and mean it. I’m sorry, Theo. I was so angry at you for not mourning, I wanted you to pay, but I was the shrew. I thought nothing but the worst of you. I raged and wrote. But I forgot how young we were and how easy it was to let fear affect us. You’ve been in my thoughts—some of them have been focused on revenge, some quiet like now, remembering what we had. I never once forgot you. Look at me. See the truth.”

  She didn’t want to look up. It was too easy to become lost in those eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t believe you.”

  “If I can admit regrets, can’t you?”

  No. She couldn’t. To do that would steal Mathew’s legacy, the man who had saved her, who had given her so much.

  “I have regrets, Theo. Deep ones.”

  Rs. He had them? Couldn’
t he see the turmoil churning in her stomach? Against her will, her face craned up to his. She put a shaky finger to his lips. “No. No more of this or you can leap out and find your own way to Grandbole.”

  His mouth opened. With his teeth, he raked her finger, shooting lightning down her skin. “I’ll be brave and say it. I regret you thought me dead. I regret that my absence made you vulnerable and made you prey for others. I regret you weren’t awaiting my return.”

  He leaned closer to her face. She could feel his breath, warm, sweet-smelling like sagebrush. The heat of it fell upon her cheekbone. “Don’t you wish things had been different?”

  That stupid part of her heart took over. She let her ghost, the man who symbolized the first kindness she had ever known, the first love of her heart, brush his lips against hers.

  He took her face within his palms. “Well, I wish things were different, even if you can’t admit it. I’ll be transparent. I suppose that’s what ghosts are good for. See through my misgivings. Know I’ve missed you, Theo.”

  His eyes had surely put her into a trance, for her palms were too weak to plant upon his chest to stop another advance. He angled her face then branded her mouth with his fire. He stole her peace, her sense, her air, as he took a second and then a third deep kiss.

  Panicked and panting, she fell into his chest and let years of tears puddle in her eyes. She had loved Ewan, more than herself.

  Ewan mopped her sobs with his thumbs. “Do you remember loving me? I remember.”

  He gave her no chance to respond to his whisper. His passion began again as his hands became more urgent.

  She remembered his love and measuring everything against it. If she fell for Ewan again, there would be no Mathew to catch her. “No.”

  Her voice sounded small and weak and stupid. Why had she let Ewan into her carriage? Why had she given him room to tempt her?

  His pinkie tugged a lock of her hair. “Is no what you want?”

  Swatting at her stinging eyes, she sat up straight. “No. I—I can’t do this. I’m a proper widow. I won’t sit in the dark clinging to the past.”

  His head tilted toward her. The inches of separation she’d recovered disappeared. “Then cling to a future. I’m here, and I’m not scary.” He took her mouth, tasting that raw lip that she’d nearly chewed off. “Trust me, Theo.” The whisper was cool upon her jaw. Then nothing separated his kiss from hers.