The distinguishing feature of the room was the number of books. Shelves along one wall included classics, novels, atlases, histories, poetry, and herbals.
“You do love to read,” Patience said as Dougal coaxed a fire to life. “You speak French?”
“I was a schoolteacher. Once you have the Latin, you’ve a toehold on French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Greek. I like the look of you here, Patience, among my books and treasures.”
No longer Miss Friendly. “Show me the rest.”
He dusted his hands, replaced the fireplace screen, and bowed her through the door into the second room.
A sanctum sanctorum. In the corner stood a very large bed—neatly made, a blue and white patchwork quilt over the whole. More books graced another set of shelves, and a large desk occupied the corner nearest the windows. The table beside the bed held three books, one of them open, and on the desk the standish, stack of foolscap, and blotter sat in the same arrangement as on the desk one floor below.
A faded carpet of cabbage roses covered the floor, and a pair of large, worn slippers were positioned by the bed.
Those slippers would be exquisitely comfortable.
Patience peered behind the privacy screen and confirmed that Dougal was a tidy man, even in his private quarters. His wardrobe was similarly arranged, everything in order.
He wouldn’t expect her to pick up after him, and he’d set that example for their children.
That mattered, but still, Patience could not find the words to tell Dougal she’d marry him. She’d said yes once before—clearly, unequivocally—and hadn’t ended up married.
Perhaps instead of words, deeds might do.
She crossed the room and stood before Dougal. “I care for you a very great deal, Dougal P. MacHugh, publisher. I esteem you greatly, and circumstances have conspired to give me an opportunity to esteem you intimately as well. Take me to bed, Dougal.”
His brows rose, suggesting she’d surprised him, and then he raised her hands and kissed them, one after the other.
“Are ye sure, lass?”
“I’m sure,” Patience said, stepping into his embrace. Mrs. Horner and the professor would be scandalized, the Windham sisters might not understand, and Patience wasn’t entirely sure of her own motives, but she knew exactly where she wanted to spend the night, and with whom.
* * *
The part of Dougal that reveled in words worried that Patience hadn’t explicitly said yes to his proposal. Perhaps he should have asked permission to court her, which was how the Quality went about an engagement, except he wasn’t a true gentleman, in the strict definition of the term.
And yet, Patience was kissing him as if he were the crown prince of her every dream.
Dougal kissed her back, because she was the crown princess of his every dream, also the queen of his mercantile ambitions and the empress of his good fortune.
Patience shivered, and Dougal recalled that his bedroom was damned near freezing. “Come with me,” he said, leading her into the front room. “Swing the kettle over the fire, and I’ll get a blaze going in the bedroom. There’s bread, cheese, and apples in the window box. I’ll be but a moment.”
He needed that moment to regain his self-possession, then gave up the exercise for hopeless when all he could think of was Patience warming up the bed with him. He turned down the covers, traded boots for slippers, made sure the fire was off to a good start, then prepared to persuade a lady to accept his proposal.
Patience sat on the sofa, staring into the fire. “There’s much I don’t know about you,” she said. “How old are you?”
Dougal took the place beside her. “I’ll be thirty-two on St. David’s Day. What else do you want to know?”
“You don’t care how old I am?”
“You’ve reached the age of consent. A few years one way or the other aren’t relevant. I would like to know what day you were born.”
She drew her feet up under her skirts. “The viscount valued my youth.”
Him again. “The viscount was a shallow, greedy, arrogant young fool. Cuddle up, Patience.”
The dubious glance she shot him confirmed that in addition to many other failings, the viscount hadn’t bothered to share simple affection with the woman he’d proposed to. Dougal hefted Patience into his lap and drew his grandmother’s quilt around her.
“Like so,” he said. “Cozy and friendly. Ask me more questions.”
“When will you take me to bed?”
“Your enthusiasm for this venture warms my heart, Patience. May I remind you, you haven’t eaten since noon. If we’re to put that bed to its best use, you’ll need your strength.”
She straightened enough to peer at him. “You’ll need yours too.”
“I live in that hope.” Dougal also hoped he’d be able to restrain his passion enough to please his lady, and he further hoped the snow didn’t let up for a few days, because recovering from his good fortune might take that long.
“Tell me about your family, Dougal.”
Over tea, cheese toast, and sliced apples, he obliged as Patience pulled pins from her hair. MacHugh the saddlemaker was his cousin, as was MacHugh the stationer. MacHugh the fishmonger wasn’t related as far as they could tell, but the trail was promising, three generations back on the Irish side.
Cousins Hamish, Rhona, Colin, and Edana might visit London in the spring, though Hamish had no use for city life. Dougal’s younger sister Bridget was walking out with the blacksmith’s son.
“So many people,” Patience said around a yawn. “Do you suppose the bedroom has warmed up?”
“Aye. I do admire your ability to focus on a topic, Miss Friendly.”
She was back in Dougal’s lap, a warm, lovely weight of female cuddled in his arms. She’d put away a good quantity of food, while the wind had rattled the windows and spindrifts of snow had whirled from the rooftop.
“I like this,” she said. “I like that you’re affectionate. I suspect I am too.”
Please, may it be so. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
Dougal rose with Patience in his arms and carried her to the bed. For all that she’d asked after his relations, his education, his favorite books, and whether he knew how to ride a horse, she still hadn’t officially, entirely, unequivocally accepted his proposal.
He settled her on the bed and closed the door, the better to keep in the heat. “Do you need help with your hooks and stays and whatnot?”
“Hooks, yes, but I favor jumps,” she said, pushing off the bed and giving him her back. “I have experience, you know. The viscount saw to that.”
She swept her braid away from her nape and stood before Dougal, her back to him, a tender, private part of her exposed for the most mundane reasons.
“You must not tell me the viscount’s name,” Dougal said, starting on the three thousand hooks marching down the center of her back. “Not ever.”
“You can’t call him out. He’s a titled gentleman, and he’d decline to meet you, owing to the differences in your stations. That tickles.”
“I’m not about to give some useless prat of a title a chance to injure me,” Dougal said, “but between the MacHughs, the MacQuistons—my mother was a MacQuiston—the MacDuffs, and the MacPhersons, all of whom I claim as relations, the viscount’s every debt, inane blunder, stupid wager, or expensive mistress would soon become common knowledge if you tell me his name. My competitors would pay dearly to publish that sort of tattle.”
Patience peered at Dougal over her shoulder. “You don’t publish tattlers. Why not?”
“It’s not my calling. How do you ever get dressed in the morning?”
“My housekeeper assists me, and not all my dresses are this impractical.”
Her chemise was a surprisingly frothy, frilly affair peeking up over her jumps. Dougal was not a connoisseur of lady’s underlinen, but he wanted to see Patience some fine day wearing only that chemise and a smile.
Though stockings might be a nice t
ouch too. White silk with red garters.
“All done,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I haven’t a sheath, Patience. Do you know what that means?”
He felt the heat of a blush rise over her skin. “It means the apothecary on the corner is a gossip, among other things. Can’t you…wait?”
Dougal kissed her nape. “Withdraw, you mean?”
“Is that the term for when you don’t spend?”
Her blush would have scorched the entire West End. “Coitus interruptus gets the notion across as well. The idea is to prevent conception. I’ll withdraw.”
He paused between kisses in case she had any other comments, questions, or pithy observations to offer, but the lady had gone quiet. Dougal acquainted his lips with the soft skin below her ear and the pulse beating beneath that.
The simple act of kissing her neck had him aroused. He slid a hand down over her derriere and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the privacy screen.
“Use my tooth powder, and I’ll heat you some wash water.”
Patience moved off to the privacy screen on a soft rustle of fabric, her braid swinging gently above her fundament.
Dougal went into the front room, opened a window, and breathed in a half-dozen lungfuls of frigid air. He was considering whether arctic air wafting over his open falls might aid his flagging self-restraint when God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen floated from the bedroom on a soft hum.
He warmed an ewer of water from the steaming kettle on the pot swing, sent up a prayer for fortitude, then brought Patience her wash water.
“Will you undress, Dougal?” she called from behind the screen.
He passed her his nightshirt over the top of the screen. “In a moment.” Will you become my wife?
Tonight, he would become her lover. For now, that was Christmas gift enough. By morning, he had every intention of becoming her fiancé.
Though for that to happen, she’d have to say yes to his proposal, wouldn’t she?
Chapter Six
Late on a bitter winter evening, Patience delighted in her own personal springtime. The soft breeze of Dougal’s breath at her nape had been her only warning that a man could kiss a lady in places every bit as interesting as her mouth. The sensations that followed had been sweet, surprising, lovely, and so…
Words failed. Patience suspected they’d fail frequently when it came to Dougal P. MacHugh’s lovemaking. His nightshirt bore the scents of heather and lavender, his blue and white quilt put her in mind of the sky on a fine May morning.
He came around the privacy screen, his manly wares on display from the waist up.
Gracious, everlasting angels. “What was the point of combing your hair, Dougal?” She would delight in mussing it up for him.
“To be presentable for my lady. My nightshirt has never looked so fetching. I haven’t a warmer to run over the sheets.”
Patience had cuddled in Dougal’s lap for the better part of an hour, and nothing—nothing at all—compared to the snug, cozy intimacy of his embrace.
“I suspect a warmer won’t be necessary.”
“I wish I had one, though,” he said, starting on the buttons of his falls. “Seemed like an extravagance for a bachelor. For you, I want only warm sheets, fresh sachets, and a steaming pot of chocolate in the morning.”
He might have been reciting the legend of Beowulf for all Patience could heed his words. The tone, though—the intimate, casual tone—did odd things to her insides. The placket of his falls draped open, and he stepped out of his remaining clothing all at once.
He folded his breeches over the privacy screen, giving Patience a good view of his backside.
“I’ve seen statues,” she said. “The Elgin Marbles, for example.”
Dougal, as naked as God made him, banked the fire. “Are you a connoisseur of ancient sculpture, then?”
Patience’s breath had developed a hitch to go with the peculiar leaping about of her heart. “I have a lively sense of curiosity, which I suspect you are generously obliging.”
The viscount certainly hadn’t. He’d fussed about under her skirts, told her to close her eyes, and then commenced slobbering, poking, and muttering mangled French allusions to flowers and honeybees.
“I am a great believer in the power of knowledge,” Dougal said, hanging the cast-iron poker on the hearth stand and facing Patience. “I also favor deliberation over a heedless rush.”
Patience had lost the ability to fix her gaze where a lady should. She’d apparently acquired the eyes of a lover, because every inch of Dougal fascinated her. His arms, his knees, the distribution of hair over his chest, and…elsewhere.
“That ancient sculptor would have needed a deal more clay if you’d been his model.”
Dougal scratched his chest and yawned, looking magnificently male and oh so gloriously comfortable with it. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you were one of those Greek fellows, in the museum. The sculptor would need…perhaps the Greeks were a diminutive lot. I’m babbling. Are you giving me time to change my mind?”
Had Patience been cold earlier? The sight of Dougal in his natural glory pooled heat low in her belly.
He stepped closer. “You can change your mind, Patience. If you ask me to share that bed with you and not touch you the whole night through, I’ll do it. Don’t adhere to an earlier decision out of stubbornness, pride, or some notion that Mrs. Wollstonecraft would approve. Become intimate with me solely because you want to.”
Dougal’s regard was the least lover-like expression Patience had ever seen on a man. He was serious, almost somber.
“You could share a bed with me, having proposed marriage to me, and simply roll over and drop off to sleep?” She didn’t like that idea at all. Her fists were clenched with the effort to not touch him, to not lean in and taste him, not feel him body to body.
“I’d be daft by morning,” he said, threading a hand beneath Patience’s braid. “You might find me lying in the snow stark naked on the roof of the awning, only George to guard my carcass, but if you tell me to keep my hands to myself, I will.”
“I’d rather you made the effort to warm up the bed with me.”
He swept Patience up against his chest and deposited her on the bed, then came down over her.
“Do you have any questions, Patience?”
She loved Dougal for that. For making one last gesture as the man who believed in knowledge, the lover who was determined her role would not be passive.
“When can I take off this nightshirt?”
He shifted to the mattress beside her and pulled the covers up over them. “When the sheets aren’t as cold as the rooftop, I’ll be more than happy to assist you with that nightshirt.”
“You are so warm.” Warm like sunshine on daffodils, like a soft breeze on green fields.
To see Dougal behind his desk, polishing his spectacles, working at his ledgers, or reading the broadsheets put out by his competitors, Patience would not have suspected him of warmth.
But when he left the last of his crumpet for Harry, petted the lazy old cat, or strutted about his quarters in the altogether for Patience’s benefit, she saw a generosity of spirit that kindled both tenderness and desire.
“I’m having my cousins knit you some proper stockings,” Dougal said, working an arm beneath Patience’s neck. “Your feet are…they wake a man up.”
“Sorry.”
He cuddled her close. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Patience. If you’ve cold feet, I’ll warm those up too.”
Too? Well, yes too. Dougal rolled to his side and recommenced the kissing at a lazy, daundering pace. At first Patience tried to hurry him, to urge him on. She went so far as to put his hand on her breast—surely that was part of it?—but Dougal made no move to…move.
“I think the sheets are quite comfortable now,” Patience said as Dougal traced her eyebrows with his nose.
“I think you are in much too big a hurry. We haven’t a deadline her
e, my love. If, for example, you wanted to touch me—my chest, say—you have as much time to do that as you like.”
My love. What a delightful pair of words. “Touch…your…chest.”
The sheets were toasty by the time Patience realized that Dougal had presented himself as an assortment of sweets. She could select the curious textures of his chest—springy hair, odd little nipples, solid muscle, and a steady heartbeat—or she might prefer the satisfaction of sinking her fingers into the silky abundance of his hair and clutching tightly, the better to delight in his kisses.
Or those kisses might be her choice—soft, tender, passionate, playful. Dougal’s kisses were like spices wafting from a busy kitchen. Tantalizing, heady, exotic.
So much he offered her, and so generously.
This is how lovemaking is supposed to be. In the midst of this abundance, Patience felt both anger and sorrow for the young woman who’d been willing to settle for a mere prancing title.
“They lie to us,” she whispered. “The parents, governesses, and dancing masters. They lie, Dougal. And thus we lie to ourselves, until the truth is so obscured, a young woman dares not recognize it.”
Dougal shifted over her. “My feelings for you are honest, Patience. I love you. All that I am, all that I have will be yours forevermore.”
She kissed him, for having listened to her, for the very deliberation that had so frustrated her earlier.
“If you don’t get me out of this blasted nightshirt, Dougal, I will—”
He sat back, a rearing lion of a healthy male. “Sit up, then, lass.”
Patience wiggled to her elbows, and there was an awkward moment when her breasts were first bared to her lover. The awkward moment didn’t last, because she was too busy studying the part of Dougal that would now require far more clay than those puny Greeks in the museum had.
“Touch me,” Dougal said. “I adore your curious mind.”
They touched each other. Patience learned the contours and textures of the aroused male, and Dougal obliged her with all manner of caresses and kisses to her breasts. She also learned that lovemaking could happen in a variety of positions—Dougal claimed most of his knowledge was theoretical, which diplomatic untruth she allowed him.
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