He clenched and unclenched his jaw. Sinclair was wrong. Weston cared for Patrina. He could admit that to himself. Though he didn’t love her, he would do right by her in every other way. “I’m not Marshville.”
“There is something to be said for that,” his soon-to-be brother-in-law muttered.
He went on. “But I’ll give her the protection of my name. She’ll want for nothing.”
The earl stared into the contents of his glass. He swirled the brandy in a small circle. His lips pulled in a grimace. “I wanted more for her than this.” He finished the remainder of his drink in a single swallow. “As there are no other prospects, this will have to be enough,” he said more to himself.
Weston remained silent as the protective brother grappled with letting go of his sister to an unworthy man.
At last, the earl looked up, a hard glint in his eyes. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.” He set his glass down hard and reclaimed his seat. “Shall we discuss the terms of the contract?”
Chapter 12
A short while later, Weston strode up the handful of steps to his townhouse. His butler pulled the door open, and cleared his throat.
“My lord, your sister, the Viscountess Merewether arrived a short while ago. I took the liberty of showing her to the drawing room.”
He shrugged out of his cloak. “And the children?”
“Are abovestairs attending their lessons,” the servant replied, accepting the cloak.
Weston gave a nod of thanks and continued down the corridor toward the drawing room. He hadn’t known what he’d expected in terms of his meeting with Sinclair. He understood the earl’s reservations. As a father, Weston would have snarled and sneered at any bounder who’d had the ill-sense to present such an offer to his daughter. All assurances Weston had given the other man had been met with wary silence.
He rounded the corner and continued down the long hall. Surprisingly, he found the whole and absolute truth to his promise. He’d told himself he’d sought Patrina out and offered her marriage following his children’s deplorable behavior in the park and his sister’s constant reminders of their need for a mother. In truth, the lady’s effervescent spirit had become a flash of light in his oftentimes dark, lonely world. Oh, he loved his children. Yet, every day he lived with reminders of his wife’s faithlessness and the heartbreak he’d known after her treachery. He’d convinced himself all women were duplicitous, faithless creatures. Ah, God…he’d pledged to never love again. Only, with Patrina’s goodness, spirit, and convictions, she’d forced him to acknowledge just how very different she was than all others.
Weston paused beside the doorway of the drawing room. He braced his palms upon the walls and pressed his forehead against the cool, silk wallpaper. In this short span of time, she’d slipped past his defenses, shattered his ugliest perceptions of women.
He shoved himself from the wall and took a steadying breath. So, Sinclair and the world would see any union between Weston and Patrina as nothing more than a match of convenience. They’d not see a woman who’d shown him that not all women were title-grasping, indulgent creatures who’d place their own happiness before all else.
They’d not see how much she already meant to him. That thought in itself should terrify him…and yet…
He smiled and stepped inside the parlor. “Amanda,” he greeted.
His sister sprung to her feet, a stiff smile on her lips. “Weston.”
He strolled over to the sideboard and reached for a glass and decanter of brandy. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He turned to face Amanda.
Her lips flattened into a tight line. “Oh, do hush. I’d identify your sarcasm from across a crowded ballroom at Almack’s on the first event of the Season.” He arched an eyebrow, studying her over the brim of his glass. She planted her arms akimbo. “Is there anything you’d care to mention?”
He silently cursed. She’d discovered his interest in Lady Patrina. There was no other accounting for the glare of disapproval in her eyes or the pinched set to her mouth. Weston took a sip and knowing it would infuriate her, he drawled, “Nothing immediately comes to mind.”
“Your children were forthcoming.” She folded her arms at her chest and drummed her fingertips upon her forearms. “Very forthcoming.”
A little, curled head peeked in from the doorway. Sorry, Papa, Charlotte mouthed. Daniel yanked her backward.
Amanda ran her gaze over the room. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Couldn’t his children remain abovestairs and attend to their lessons but once?
“Er, nothing. I’d thought I’d heard a…” she waved a hand. “It matters not. Charlotte mentioned that you took ices with that woman.”
Rage thrummed through him at the icy disdain in his sister’s tone. “I’ll not defend my actions,” he bit out.
“She is a scandalous creature who’ll never be welcomed back into polite Society, Weston. A young lady does not simply elope and then return to the folds of the haute ton. Your reputation—”
A cold, mirthless chuckle cut into his sister’s fiery diatribe. “Do you imagine I’m over-concerned with my image after…?” His gaze strayed to the doorway. Two heads quickly withdrew. He crossed over and closed the door with a soft click then strode back to his sister’s side and dropped his voice to a near silent whisper, mindful of his children’s presence. “Do you imagine I’m over-concerned considering the scandal of having a wife who took a lover and abandoned her children?”
Lady Patrina’s only crime had been to give her heart to an undeserving cad. And yet, a woman of her strength, loyalty, and courage would be forever cast out by the haute ton when shameless mothers incapable of love were welcomed within the cold embrace of the glittering ton.
Amanda gave her head a pitying shake. “I understand you were hurt by your wife’s…proclivities.”
His jaw tightened reflexively. So, that is what they were to call disavowing one’s marital vows and parting her thighs for lover after lover, and then forsaking all others for one bastard?
“But you must think of your children. The scandal in even being linked to that woman.” Amanda shuddered as though repulsed by the very thought of his intended.
“Patrina,” he said, gruffly.
Her mouth fell agape. “I b-beg your p-pardon?” she sputtered.
“Her name is Lady Patrina Tidemore and she does not owe Society any type of explanation.” Patrina should be made an outcast while that bastard Marshville was free to move about, unscathed by his own ignoble deeds; the unfairness of it knifed at Weston’s insides.
The color leeched from Amanda’s cheeks. She touched a trembling hand to her throat. “Oh my goodness. You’ve come to care for that wo—” He glared. “Lady Patrina,” she wisely amended. She pressed her fingertips along her temple. “Weston,” she began slowly in the tone she reserved for his troublesome children. “I understand you are lonely but—”
“This isn’t about loneliness. Lady Patrina has far more strength and courage than all of the Society’s peers together.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” The nervous mantra an indication of his sister’s thinly held control.
He took pity. “Amanda,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your concern and the love you’ve shown my children. But be assured, I’ll not make any unwise decisions where Lady Patrina is concerned.” He hadn’t. “I’ve been rational and logical and carefully considered the implications of a relationship with the young woman.” And ultimately arrived at the inevitable truth—she’d be a good wife. When most ladies would never be good wives. And what was more, he wanted her. Wanted her smile and her laughter and even her deplorable pianoforte playing—he wanted that endearing part of her, too. He swirled the contents of his glass, staring into the amber depths, the rich brown shade putting him in mind of her eyes. “She has been good to the children.”
“She shouldn’t be around your children,” she said bluntly.
He took a steadyi
ng breath. Then, when he still felt like having her turned out, took a sip of his drink. Now that the lady had agreed, she’d be around his children every day. “Patrina saved your niece from certain harm.”
“Patrina?”
“And such a woman should be treated with the utmost respect.”
His sister’s eyes slid closed. She mouthed what appeared to be a silent prayer and then gave a slow nod. “You know, my concern merely stems from—”
“I know,” he assured her.
She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
“Is that all?” he said dryly, taking a sip of his brandy.
She drummed her fingers together, contemplatively. “Why, yes. I do believe it is. We leave for the country in two days and I didn’t want to leave without …” She blushed.
Meddling in his life. He arched a brow at her unfinished thought.
She gave a toss of her curls. “Er, Happy Christmas, then Weston,” his sister said softly.
He inclined his head. “And a joyous holiday to you and yours, Amanda.”
She smiled and made for the door…
“Amanda?” he called out as she pressed the door handle.
She turned back, a question in her eyes.
“I’d mention one more thing.”
She tipped her head. “What is it, Weston?”
He drained the contents of his glass. “I paid a visit to the Earl of Sinclair earlier this morning. I’m to wed Lady Patrina.” He bit back a grin. “Again, a Happy Christmas.”
Chapter 13
A howling wind beat angrily against the frosted windowpane of the parlor. Patrina pulled her knees close to her chest. The roaring fire ablaze in the metal hearth bathed the late afternoon winter-darkened sky in shadows. She fanned the pages of The Bride of Lammermoor on her lap and stared out at the rapidly falling snowflakes.
She was to be wed. To a gentleman she’d met but six days ago. She expected the idea should terrify her, yet an absolute sense of rightness filled her at the decision. Oh, she’d told herself marriage to the marquess would fill her empty life. She’d have the children she’d given up hope of having after the scandal with Albert. She’d have a home of her own.
She set the book down on the windowseat. With his somberness and cool logic, Weston would never have been the gentleman she’d dreamed of with her girlish hopes. With a woman’s eyes and a woman’s heart, however, she appreciated that he didn’t fill her ears with platitudes. Weston represented the logical choice of a woman staring down the life of a spinster. Yet, if marriage to him was based on little more than logic, why did marriage to Weston stir a rapid beating of her heart in ways Albert had never managed?
Patrina began to quietly sing While Shepherds Quietly Watched Their Flocks at Night. She trailed the tip of her finger over the cold glass and marked MofB in the frost, testing the letters of her soon to be title and then embarrassed by such a flight of fancy, hastily scratched out the slight carving.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. “What is it, Jonathan? If you’ve come to try and convince me not to wed him, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,” she said drolly.
“The Marquess of Beaufort to see—”
Patrina’s leg jerked reflexively and she knocked her book over. Heat blazed through her body as she made to rise. Except she forgot her legs were otherwise awkwardly covered by her skirts. She stumbled and pitched forward. Weston swept across the room in three long strides and caught her in his arms. The air left her lungs on a soft, whispery gasp. She swallowed hard as she took in the handful of inches between her head and the floor.
“Is there anything else you’ll require, my lady?” Smith boomed, seeming wholly un-phased by one of the Tidemore girls nearly toppling onto her face before a powerful nobleman.
Weston grinned down at her. Words. She tipped her head, studying him in all his golden beauty. She really required a handful of proper words, at the moment.
“Thank you, perhaps?” he supplied on a quiet whisper.
She wrinkled her brow. Why in thunderation was he thanking her?
“The butler. I was suggesting you thank the butler.” He winked.
“Er, right.” Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you, Smith. That will be all.”
As the old servant left, his mumbled words carried into the parlor. “Unfortunate the manner in which everyone seems to be falling.”
Patrina stared up at the marquess. She really should insist he set her away, yet her body burned from the point at which he touched her, inspired all manner of fluttery sensations in her belly she could neither identify, nor care to. It was enough he still held her…and she wanted him to continue doing so.
He really should set her back on her feet. He really should do all manner of things that were appropriate, but instead he was besieged with an unholy desire to take her in his arms and kiss her red, bow-shaped lips until she was moaning with need for him. Then the tip of her pink tongue darted out and touched her lips. He groaned.
Her brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
“Quite,” A lie. His reply came harsher than he intended. He battled his desire for this small slip of a young lady. Then, he recalled the words she’d uttered mere moments ago.
Her eyes formed wide circles in her face. “Oh. Dear.” Her gaze skittered away from his. “I suppose you heard the words I inadvertently spoke aloud.”
“Indeed,” he drawled. It was hard to hate her brother for saying what Weston already knew to be truth. Lady Patrina deserved more than a cool, emotionless entanglement.
“He was merely…”
He quirked an eyebrow.
She sighed. “Trying to convince me not to wed you,” she finished.
His heart thumped painfully in his chest. He straightened and set Patrina back on her feet. “Oh?” He affected an attitude of indifference. “And what have you decided, my lady?” He’d originally offered her marriage to provide his children a mother, and yet if that was all he wanted of Patrina, then why this cloying panic that she’d wisely changed her mind?
She touched his cheek. The delicate caress a blend of boldness and innocence. “I made my decision when I accepted your offer, Weston.” Again his body thrummed with awareness of her. “I’ll not change my mind.”
At the resoluteness of her words, the vise-like pressure in his chest lessened. He raised her knuckles to his lips, this woman who with each meeting became increasingly important to him. He supposed the idea of it should terrify him. Oddly, it didn’t. Oddly, this felt right. They felt right. He cleared his throat. “You sing,” he said, the statement surprising the both of them.
She tipped her head at the abrupt shift in discussion.
He gestured lamely toward the pianoforte.
“Often.” She waggled an eyebrow. “And poorly.”
“Not at all,” he insisted with the familiar ease he’d used before Cordelia had turned him bitter.
She snorted. “That is quite kind of you, but I’ve no delusions about my capabilities.” She strolled over to her pianoforte and dusted her fingers along the keys. “I merely do it for the enjoyment it brings me. My one guilty pleasure, if you will.”
He closed the distance between them and placed his palms on the top of the instrument. “And muscadine ices,” he reminded her.
“Yes, of course. And muscadine ices.”
They shared a smile. Something passed between them. A somberness settled in the delicate plains of Patrina’s face. Her brown-eyed gaze searched his. He took a step toward her, truly appreciating for the first time the extent of her beauty. Had he ever truly considered her drab? Her eyes sparked with intelligence and her trim waist and thick black hair conjured all manner of forbidden thoughts, most of which involved Weston and Patrina in bed and her long tresses wrapped about them like a silken curtain.
“What is it?” She touched a hand to her head, displacing a black curl. “Is there something wrong?”
He swallowed hard. There was everything wrong. He desired h
er. Weston claimed the single strand and took it between his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed the silken strand, and then raised it to his nose, inhaling deep. Lavender filled his senses, a bright contrast to the dark, storming winter day.
“W-Weston?” The faint tremble to her words, the manner in which her lashes fluttered indicated her body’s awareness to him.
He dropped his brow to hers. “You sing beautifully, Patrina.”
A snorting, breathless laugh bubbled past her lips.
He stroked his thumb over her cheekbones. “You sing from your heart with joy and laughter and that passion passion is far greater than any soulless, perfectly sung melody.”
Her laughter died.
Weston dropped his gaze to the tempting red flesh of her lips and with a groan, claimed her mouth. Gentle at first, and then his body registered the heat of her pressed to him; the sweet curve of her hips, the small, perfectly rounded breasts practically made for his hands and he was lost. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again. She moaned and he slid his tongue inside her mouth, tasting, exploring all of her. She twined her hands about his neck. Encouraged by her response, he began his search of her. He gripped her delicately flared hips, drawing her close to his manhood and then continued his quest. He palmed her breast. Patrina’s head fell back on a desperate moan.
“Weston,” she pleaded.
He weighed the flesh of first one breast, then the other in his palm. Through the fabric of her dress he devoted attention to the bud. She groaned in protest when he drew back, but he only continued his exploration of her graceful back, the curve of her buttocks. He drew her closer and angled his head down to shower her neck with kisses.
She arched into him, tightening the grip she had on his hair as though she never wanted him to stop, as though she wanted to meld their bodies as one, even as he wanted the same.
Weston wrenched away. Even as he ached to lay her down and lay claim to her body, he would not disrespect her. He imagined soldiers had waged far easier battles than this, setting Patrina from his arms.
A Little Winter Scandal: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 16