The Bridemaker

by Rexanne Becnel

  “We’re fine the way we are.”

  “No. We’re not.” Horace turned to face his father. “Do you want grandchildren, Father? Do you want a family around you before you die? Aren’t you weary of our lonely, bachelor household?”

  There was no answer forthcoming from the older man. But Horace understood his father’s silence as the acknowledgment it was. For five years he’d been disappointed each time Horace returned home without a bride. That was probably why he’d traveled all the way to London in his own ancient vehicle: time to ensure his son was wed.

  A new worry occurred to Horace. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “Me ill?” his father barked at him. “I’m never ill. I’m just irritated is all. It’s damned expensive, this coming and going to town every year. It’s past time that you settled on a suitable wife. Long past.”

  “Indeed it is. But it won’t happen until I have something better to offer than a moldy old place fit only for two moldy old bachelors to reside in.”

  Despite the harshness of his assessment, when Horace turned his attention to the team, he had a faint smile on his face. This was the first time he’d ever broached this subject, and if not for Mrs. P opening his eyes, he never would have. It felt good. It felt right.

  His father was as old-fashioned as they came: tight-fisted, set in his ways, and not particularly demonstrative in his feelings. But he loved his only child, that had always been clear to Horace.

  He clucked to the horses. “It’s a good thing you didn’t have a daughter,” he remarked. “You wouldn’t be so eager for me to marry if you didn’t want a woman to fuss over you in your old age.”

  Again there was no answer. But had Horace turned he would have seen the bleak look that came into his father’s face. Bleak, but fleeting. When they arrived on Rotten Row it was long gone. And when they spied Miss Dulcie Bennett taking a turn around the park with her mother in her family’s open phaeton, it was replaced by an expression of consideration.

  A pleasant girl of some wealth. But the mother was quick to bid them adieu. Horace’s face was wistful as he stared after them.

  “How about her?” the older man asked. “Isn’t she the one you said is mad for riding?”

  “Yes.” Horace tucked in his chin. “But her family wants a title for her. A higher title than ours,” he added. “And a greater fortune as well.”

  “Harrumph. Better write her off then. I didn’t like the manner of the mother anyway. You can tell a lot about the girl by observing the mother.”

  Horace nodded. “You never talk about your mother-in-law. Was my mother much like her?”

  Exactly like her. Pretty. Flighty. But to his son he said, “I didn’t know her well. Only met her four times before we wed, and three times after that—and one of those times was at her wake. I’m hungry,” he said, changing the subject. “Didn’t you tell me we were going to sample French cuisine today?”

  Hester arose at half past one, sore, still in need of at least ten hours more sleep, yet energized in a way utterly foreign to her. She stretched, feeling every muscle she’d never before used. It felt wonderful.

  She felt wonderful.

  She vaguely recalled Adrian leaving. He’d kissed her and told her to stay put, he’d let himself out. After only one meager word of protest, she’d sunk into the deepest, most profound sleep of her life. No dreams, no restlessness. Just the sleep of the dead, or rather, the sleep of the well sated, the well satisfied, the sexually drained.

  Was this what married couples had every night?

  She pulled the sheets up to her neck and clutched them there. She didn’t think she could survive night after night of such powerful emotional and physical exertions.

  But she’d certainly like to try, she decided, giggling out loud.

  From downstairs she heard Mrs. Dobbs scolding one of the dogs—probably Fifi, who had a habit of hopping up on a chair to see what delicious tidbits might be found on the kitchen table.

  Her giggle died. What was she going to tell Mrs. Dobbs? Would she believe the story about the headache?

  She could complain about her monthly which was due any day now. Especially if there were any bloodstains on the bed linens. Having been sorely troubled on the score herself when she was younger, Mrs. Dobbs was always solicitous of that particular female complaint.

  But the truth was, dealing with Mrs. Dobbs was not Hester’s biggest problem. What to do about Adrian Hawke—that was the problem she must address. How to greet him when next they met in public. How to arrange their next meeting in private. And of course, how to deal with the crushing reality of his eventual departure from London.

  Hester gazed up at her bedroom ceiling, not really seeing the whitewashed plaster or the heavy beam that ran the length of the attic room. She had taken her first lover knowing he would not be here very long.

  At the time it had seemed a decided advantage. Now it seemed the worst tragedy of her life.

  CHAPTER 17

  Adrian called on Hester the following day only to find her already departed. Visiting a friend, her housekeeper said, giving him a curious, searching look, especially when both dogs clamored so insistently for his attention.

  “D’ye wish to leave your card, Mr. Hawke?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” But Adrian didn’t feel nearly so polite as he sounded. He’d slept through the whole previous day like a man drugged, and then had been unable to escape a family outing with his aunt and uncle. He’d prayed that Hester might be at the same event. However, it had been a small supper at a private home, and by the time it ended it had been far too late to call upon her.

  It had taken all his restraint to wait until an acceptable hour this morning to call upon her. And now this. She was already gone.

  He turned away from Hester’s front door, so frustrated he wanted to punch someone, to kick something, to strangle anybody. He was desperate to see her, like a lunatic boy in the thralls of his first love. The difference being that he was old enough to know it wasn’t love at all. But that didn’t make it any less powerful an emotion.

  Where in God’s name was she?

  In Cheapside, he realized, with her friend who was not her lover. With a surge of relief he headed east to Cheapside, oblivious to the noisy thrum of the city, the carriages and carts, the riders and pedestrians.

  He didn’t find her, of course. His luck was not running that way. Instead he ran into Horace and his father, a distraction he did not want, yet knew he needed. Chasing after will-o“-the-wisp Hester was a stupid idea in the first place. So he accepted Horace’s invitation to lunch and they headed down to the Old Swan for baked oysters, potato bread, and pints of rich brown ale.

  “I want real food,” the elder Vasterling said. “Not that sauced-up foreign business we had yesterday.”

  “This place has real food,” Horace replied, unfazed by his father’s crankiness. “And it’s cheap.”

  Vasterling gave a satisfied grunt and off they went, Adrian riding behind their ancient carriage. A sunny day along the Thames combined the best and worst of London in a vivid, pungent display. Watermen plied their trade, ferrying people up, down, and across the river. Ducks competed with fish for the refuse that floated along. Commercial ships, barges, skiffs, and pleasure craft jostled for their portion of the flow. Mud flats slick with debris, grassy banks shaded by willows, solid docks projecting out into the current—they were all a part of the mighty Thames, as was the fetid smell tinged with salt and the smoke from a thousand coal fires.

  But on this day the wind was crisp and it cleared the air as they sat at a table alongside a set of granite steps that descended right into the river.

  “This is my favorite place in London,” Horace said. “You see every sort of people here. Would you like to take a water taxi after lunch?” he asked his father.

  “What for?”

  Someone needed to shake the old man up a little, Adrian thought, and he was in a foul enough mood to do it. Fortunately the serving gi
rl arrived with their food, an aproned fellow refilled their tankards, and they all dug into their meals.

  “ ”Twas Mrs. P who told me about this place,“ Horace said, wiping a dribble of oyster gravy from his lip. ”Mrs. Poitevant,“ he clarified to his father.

  Adrian paused, his fork suspended in midair. “Hester Poitevant frequents this establishment?”

  Horace grinned at his surprise. “I know. Hardly what you’d expect. But then, she’s full of surprises, isn’t she? She knew I was being careful of my purse. She knows how to stretch a penny, that one.”

  Edgar Vasterling had stopped eating also. “Hester. This Mrs. Poitevant you’ve been going on and on about, you say her given name is Hester?”

  “Yes. Did I never say so?” Spying the odd expression on his father’s face, Horace frowned. “Is something wrong? Do you know her?”

  The man didn’t respond at first, and when he finally did, it was with a sharp shake of his head. “It’s not a name you often hear these days,” he muttered as he stared down into his bowl of oysters in a thick brown soup.

  “No, I’s”pose not,“ Horace agreed, digging back into his meal. ”Anyway, she often comes here when she’s out. P’rhaps we’ll run into her. Wouldn’t that be a happy coincidence?“

  The rest of the meal Adrian focused less on his companions, and more on the restaurant entrance. Would she come today? A man came in with a woman just her height. A trio of women entered, none of them her.

  He drank a third glass of ale and a fourth, then had to retire to the necessary, frustrated and angry but with no focus for those emotions. When he left here he was going straight back to Mayfair, he vowed, and if he had to he would camp outside her house until she arrived.

  But upon his return to the table, who should Adrian spy at the base of the water steps disembarking from a boat but Hester. She was here!

  He halted half the way to the table, drinking in the sight of her, struck as he was every time he saw her by how incredibly beautiful she was. Whether in her primmest guise or, as now, her most stylish, she had somehow become for him the pinnacle of womanly beauty. Maybe it was because of her guise, he speculated. For she had come to embody every sort of woman to him, moral arbiter, wanton tease, sorrowing widow, enticing lover.

  She didn’t see him as she turned back to her companion, an elderly woman dressed as elegantly as Hester. Was this the friend he was so jealous of?

  They started up the steps arm in arm, laughing together, when Hester looked up and saw Horace. He’d risen to his feet at the sight of her and started toward them, leaving his father at the table. But Hester didn’t give Horace more than a brief glance before turning a horrified gaze upon Edgar Vasterling.

  Horrified? Adrian’s eyes narrowed. That made no sense. But it was the only description Adrian could give to the expression on Hester’s face. She reared back as if to leave, as if repulsed. But the other woman clamped a hand on Hester’s arm, then murmured something that drew Hester’s gaze to her.

  Adrian frowned. What was going on?

  He started forward, determined to draw Hester’s attention to himself. But when she did see him it was clear that his presence only increased her distress. Was it pain he saw in her huge eyes, gone a tumultuous hazel shade? Was it anger? Or was it fear and confusion—and a hint of tears?

  He started to reach for her, then let his arm fall when he realized how inappropriate that was. Damnation but he wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her and protect her and learn why she was so upset.

  For Hester, Adrian’s appearance in the midst of this awful run-in with her father made the disastrous situation seem almost farcical. Were it a play at the Royal Victoria Theatre she would be laughing out loud at the heroine’s ludicrous plight. Father, brother, lover, all together and none of them aware of each other’s relationships to her—nor in two cases, of their own true relationship with her.

  She felt Verna’s hand tighten on her arm and her rubbery legs somehow stiffened. Thank goodness for Verna DeLisle. If Hester got through the next few minutes at all it would be solely to Verna’s credit.

  Horace was beaming, a smile that required an answering smile from her.

  “I say, Mrs. P—pardon me, Mrs. Poitevant. What jolly good luck to run into you today. I was hoping we might.” He gave her a perfectly executed bow which would have pleased her had Edgar Vasterling and Adrian Hawke not been looking on. The best she could manage was a rather stiff nod.

  At a nudge from Verna she cleared her throat. “Mrs. DeLisle, may I present the Honorable Horace Vasterling.”

  Between Verna and Horace the other introductions and presentations were made, all just as proper as could be and following every rule of etiquette. But even after his courtly bow, Hester could not meet her father’s eyes. Nor could she look for long at Adrian. Beneath her gloves her hands grew clammy and a bead of nervous perspiration trickled down between her breasts.

  It fell to Horace to bridge the awkwardness, and to his credit he gave it his best. “We’d be pleased if you would join us for luncheon,” he said. “Wouldn’t we, Father?”

  “Indeed, we would.” The senior Mr. Vasterling smiled at Mrs. DeLisle. “You must join us.”

  Oh, no. Hester shook her head. “I’m afraid we cannot—”

  “Now, dear. I think we must,” Verna countered. “It would be positively rude to turn down such a kind offer, and from three such charming gentlemen.”

  “But really—”

  “Now, now, Hester,” Verna said, patting her forearm even as she shot her a challenging look. “You were just remarking how hungry you were and what a perfectly lovely day it was for dining al fresco.”

  So it was that they were seated at the table, Hester between Horace and Adrian, opposite her father, while Verna sat beside the man. How had this come to be, her dining with the one man she’d hoped never to have to meet?

  They ordered their meal—Hester did not recall what— and settled into idle conversation: the Thames, their boat ride, the other water traffic, the seagulls who thrived so far inland. While Mrs. DeLisle regaled the other two men with the story of a near disastrous ride she’d once made with a drunken waterman, Adrian leaned nearer to Hester.

  He murmured for her ears only, “I called upon you this morning but you had already gone out.”

  The sound of that husky, familiar voice sent a shiver of remembered passion shooting down Hester’s back. Fortunately the serving girl brought their meals and she was able to ignore him. Across the table her father’s attention remained focused on Verna, who looked especially lovely today. Always one to enjoy any company, her dark eyes sparkled, and her bubbly personality, tempered so perfectly by her impeccable manners, bridged the initial awkwardness of the situation.

  Then again, Hester was the only one aware of any awkwardness, and the only one affected by it. Horace was in a jovial mood and his father seemed well pleased by the inclusion of the two women in their party. Likewise Verna seemed exceedingly gay, laughing out loud as Hester hadn’t heard her do in an age.

  “This is the pleasantest hour I’ve passed since arriving in London,” Edgar Vasterling said once the meal was done and the dishes cleared away.

  “I second that,” Adrian said.

  Verna smiled at Adrian, then at Hester. They had not quite gotten around to their discussion of that night. Hester had been planning that conversation for the lunch table. But she could see the speculative gleam in Verna’s eyes, and she sensed the approval there too.

  “We’d be more than happy to deliver you ladies home in our carriage,” Horace said.

  “That’s very kind,” Hester replied. “However, it’s not necessary.” She wasn’t certain she could survive the intimacy of a carriage ride with her so-called father. “Besides, we’re probably going in different directions.”

  “Those clouds are looking ominous,” her father said. “I’m a farmer at heart, and I know rain clouds when I see them. I’m afraid I must insist that you accept our offer
,” he added, smiling at Verna, who smiled right back.

  Would this nightmare never end? Hester fretted as the four of them crowded into the Vasterlings’ carriage. At least Adrian took his leave, departing on his horse. But her relief at his departure was offset by an irrational sort of longing for him. Would he and she ever have another chance to talk in private? Or do other things? she wondered.

  Her cheeks flamed at such a wicked thought and she pressed a handkerchief to her damp brow. She must get herself under better control. She must.

  In the carriage she confined her conversation to Horace. But she could not escape a word or even a nuance of her father’s conversation with Verna. That he was unfailingly pleasant, and courteous to a fault, made no impression on her; she would not let it.

  “Do you agree, Mrs. Poitevant?” he asked her now.

  Caught unawares, she blinked. “Agree?”

  “My father thought a night at the opera might prove more entertaining than an evening at the Caldecorts’ ball,” Horace explained. “He’s not one for dancing.”

  Hester sent Horace a grateful smile for covering her distraction so well. She glanced briefly at her father. “If one is an aficionado of opera, I’m certain one would much prefer that sort of activity.”

  Outside a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, a perfect reflection of her mood.

  “I take it you would rather dance,” Mr. Vasterling said to her.

  “No.” In truth, Hester adored the opera. But she didn’t intend to like it anymore. Not if he did. “It depends on my mood,” she added. “Ah. We’re here.” Thank goodness!

  To the accompaniment of even more thunder they said their good-byes, Verna’s long and gracious, Hester’s approaching curt.

  Once inside Verna’s parlor, however, Hester found little relief, for the older woman fixed her with an observant gaze. “What a rude display. Had any of your students behaved so, you would have been sorely disappointed.”