Having Patience

by Debra Glass

  His fingers loosened on her arm and she seized the opportunity to yank away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Hugging her arms, she turned away. God, she was shaking. He felt like an ass. “Patience, you don’t have to be afraid,” he said gently.

  Her head snapped around and she burned a stare into him. “I’m not afraid.”

  He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I think you are. I think you’re afraid of loving me.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she cried, her voice rising almost hysterically. “I married you. I wouldn’t have married if I didn’t have…if I weren’t…”

  James swallowed. His heart broke for her—for himself. “You can’t even say the word,” he said bleakly.

  “That’s not it,” Patience insisted. She began to pace.

  “Patience, let’s see if we can work through this,” James suggested.

  “There’s nothing to work through!” she wailed.

  He stared. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps she’d married him out of obligation or because her father had forced her. One thing was obvious. She had not married him out of love. He sighed, resigned. “This farce must stop. Once we produce a male heir, I will trouble you no more.”

  Her lips parted as if she might speak but instead she clamped them shut. She blinked as if trying to combat tears.

  James straightened his clothes before he raked his hand through his hair and started toward the door. He stopped and glanced back at her. “Tomorrow night, I will consummate this marriage. The sooner we produce an heir the better.”

  A chill ripped through Patience as soon as the door closed behind James. A male heir…

  If James died without a son to inherit his title, his estate would be scuttled off to some cousin or nephew—just like her father’s estate would be when he passed away.

  Gut-wrenching guilt consumed Patience. Once again, she was responsible for tragedy, for the loss of wealth and the end of a family name. She gulped but could not stop the sob that tore from her throat or the tears that flowed down her cheeks.

  She stared, hoping he would come back so she could apologize. She needed to change this, to change herself. Her fears were selfish and silly…and so terribly, terribly real.

  But James did not return. She took two faltering steps toward the door intent on going after him but stopped herself. She’d humiliated herself enough for one night.

  Afraid to love him! The very idea. Of course she loved him. She married him.

  She swallowed hard. Was he angry with her because of what they’d just done? It didn’t make sense. She hadn’t mistaken the look of lust and…oh God—love—in his eyes.

  Her knees gave and she grasped futilely at the post of her bed as she dropped to the floor. Tears welled in her eyes. James loved her. And she’d all but laughed in his face. Patience was mortified. How could she ever redeem herself?

  * * * * *

  “Dammit!” James slammed the door to his own rooms and marched straight to his liquor cabinet.

  He slapped a crystal tumbler on the counter and started to pour a shot of Irish whiskey. “Fuck it,” he muttered, dispensing with the glass and instead, turning up the bottle.

  Although the whiskey had a reputation for being smooth, the way James slugged it down set his throat on fire. His eyes watered and blurred. Heat unfurled through his limbs but the liquid comfort did little to assuage his anger and disappointment.

  Just moments ago, his cock had been buried practically to the hilt in Patience’s mouth. James had never felt more alive and thrilled that he was married to a beautiful, intelligent woman who was willing enough to experiment sexually. But all that had been dashed by her cold response to his kiss.

  Briefly, he closed his eyes as he dispelled a breath.

  He’d told her he loved her. Cringing, he regretted the admission. His heart twisted. At the moment, he had been so overwhelmed with emotion and had felt so connected to her, he’d uttered the first words that had sprung to his lips.

  The problem was that he did love her. He loved her with all his heart and he wanted only for her to return his affection.

  His stomach churned and he thought for a moment he might vomit. When the queasiness subsided, he turned up the bottle again. After a third slug, his heart rate slowed and some of the tension eased out of his body.

  There had to be more to this. Other than her reticence to be intimate with him, she had not demonstrated anything but kindness and respect for him. He began to think his initial observation of her actions was correct.

  She was afraid to love him and she was definitely afraid of his loving her. But why? He’d never been anything but kind to her. He’d never said a cross a word to her. He was certainly not the type to ever raise a hand to a woman—unless of course, she asked for it.

  Despite everything else, James smiled at the thought of spanking his wife’s scrumptious bottom.

  No. Patience would never have asked him to do such things to her if she hadn’t trusted him on some level.

  He stared at the dark amber liquid in the crystal decanter. Her terror stemmed from something else and the way she behaved indicated that her fear was dark and deep seated.

  He sank into a chair, decanter in hand. He’d first met Patience during her debutante coming out when she’d been eighteen. At once, he’d been astounded by her beauty but her quick wit and sharp mind had won his heart. As society dictated, they’d had a respectable engagement. When they married, it had been under the high honor of a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury which was difficult and expensive to obtain. During none of that time, had Patience ever given him any cause to doubt her. So what about love and sexual intimacy frightened her into frigidity?

  “I only know what I was told by Miss Killian.”

  James wondered exactly what the all-too-venerable Miss Killian had taught her charge. Since Patience’s mother had died, it was doubtless that Patience had been forced to rely on Miss Killian for all aspects of her education. James knew full well that Miss Killian would have had no marital experience to impart.

  He thought back over his own governess. Miss Marjorie Makepeace had been a shy, homely spinster who’d never entertained the affections of a man in her life. No doubt Miss Killian had been of the same ilk.

  He took a sip of his whiskey, this time savoring its woody redolence before swallowing. With the loss of her mother, Patience had missed a proper education. James wondered how the woman had died. Patience had never spoken of it and James had never been curious—or rather bold enough to ask—until now.

  Given Patience’s current state, it was doubtful, however, that she’d be forthcoming. Especially if the incident had anything to do with why Patience seemed terrified of intimacy.

  In fact, James doubted that Patience realized she was afraid at all.

  There was only one place to start but James was determined. He owed his wife—and himself—that much.

  Chapter Six

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. Patience swiped them away. She could scarcely read she was crying so hard. James was unhappy with her. He’d accused her of all manner of ridiculous things.

  Afraid!

  Poppycock!

  She wasn’t afraid. Her gaze fell on the words on the page but she stared without seeing. Her mind swept back over the things she and James had done together. She’d, in fact, been quite courageous. She’d dared to share her darkest desires with her husband and last night—she sniffed—he’d thrown it all back in her face.

  Even after spending most of the night sobbing, fresh tears emerged and Patience resisted the urge to throw the book across the room.

  Instead, she tossed it on her bed, stood and began to pace.

  Why was she bothering to choose another passage? James had not invited her to have breakfast with him. He hadn’t requested she bring a book to him today.

  No. He’d declared in no uncertain terms that he intended to consummate the marriage tonight. We
ll, he could do as he pleased. That didn’t mean Patience had to enjoy it.

  Her gaze drifted to her bed. Would he take her there—she looked at the carpet—or would he tumble her on the rug as if she were a licentious scullery maid like he’d nearly done last night?

  Despite her roiling emotions, her channel tightened in anticipation. Deep inside, she wanted him to take her, to force her, to tie her and blindfold her so she could spiral into that bliss of pure physical sensation she couldn’t seem to enjoy when she was free to participate at will.

  She closed her eyes, her limbs warming at the thought of it. Only when her will was taken away, her control quelled, did she feel…perfect. Opening her eyes, she stared at the book on her bed. What would he do if she chose a scenario where the hero tied and took the heroine? Would that please him?

  Her heart seemed to rise and pound in her chest at the thought. She could hardly breathe. She couldn’t begin to swallow.

  Forcing her lungs to fill with air, she took up the book and then sank into one of the chairs beside the hearth. She thumbed through the pages. She had to show him that she was sorry. She gnawed her bottom lip. Would he want to punish her?

  Her clitoris pulsed at the memory of his finger pushing and probing inside her channel the night before. She took a deep breath. Last night, she would have been willing to allow him to do anything to—

  To…

  “Oh, dear Lord,” she said aloud, her voice but a breath. Realization sank straight to her chilled toes.

  Everything they’d done thus far had involved James doing something to her. Not with her. When he’d kissed her, when he’d elicited a response from her, she’d closed herself to him. She’d been unable to participate.

  Suddenly, she felt like a selfish dolt.

  No wonder he was so frustrated with her. Even though she’d done something previously unthinkable to her last night and had taken him in her mouth, she’d only done so because she enjoyed the sensation of being punished, dominated. She hadn’t considered the act might be pleasing to James until she’d experienced his reaction. Even though she’d been tied and blindfolded, she’d truly enjoyed giving him pleasure.

  The memory of the sound of his harsh breaths and the feel of his thick, hard cock pulsing seed down her throat filled her with fresh desire.

  She squeezed the book in her hands so hard her knuckles burned from the strain. At every turn, he’d shown patience and understanding. He’d done everything—everything—she wanted without asking why, without judging her, without condemnation and without demanding anything in return. Like a willful child, she’d greedily taken all he’d offered without so much as giving him a kiss in return.

  Well…with one exception. The memory of the kiss they’d shared last night washed over her.

  “Naughty, naughty girl!”

  Miss Killian had been right about her all those years ago.

  Patience shuddered at the haunting voice resounding in her head.

  The awful image of her brother, his neck broken and grotesquely twisted while her mother clutched her own belly and dropped to the marble floor festered like an ulcer in Patience’s head.

  All her life she’d lived with the guilt of knowing she was responsible for not one death but two. And now, in spite of herself, she was killing her own marriage before it had ever begun. Even armed with the knowledge, Patience felt powerless to stop it.

  She bit her bottom lip as she looked once more at the book and then at the box of books in the corner of her room. She wasn’t powerless. Not at all.

  Casting the book aside, she went to her secretary and pulled several sheets of foolscap from the top drawer.

  After dipping her pen in a bottle of ink, she began to write.

  * * * * *

  “James! What a surprise!” Patience’s father, the Earl of Blickley, exclaimed as he limped into his parlor. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  James crossed the room to shake his father-in-law’s hand. “I suppose your question would be more appropriately phrased as to whom you owe my visit.”

  The old earl’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat. James could tell the man had once been a fine looking gentleman. If he’d resembled his portrait on the wall, he’d looked rather like a male version of Patience. Now, he was aged, portly and hobbled with the stiff gait of an old man.

  “What has Patience done, now?” the earl asked, chagrined. He gestured for James to sit.

  With difficulty the earl lowered himself onto a leather upholstered settee. “My knee always alerts me to impending rain,” he complained, rubbing the offending joint through his tan breeches.

  “Ah,” James commiserated remembering that the earl complained of his aching knee at every opportunity. “The result of a riding accident, wasn’t it?”

  The earl grunted. “It’s been fifteen years. The physician wanted to amputate the damn thing.”

  James winced.

  The earl chuckled. “On days like this, I deserve a swift kick in the breech for not letting him cut the blasted thing off. But back to the matter at hand. Has my daughter displeased you?”

  “On the contrary. Patience is a very pleasing bride.” James had not come here to reveal his wife’s secrets but rather to find out why she harbored them. “I was merely curious about her…governess. Miss Killian.”

  The earl’s face contorted as he thought and then he nodded. “Miss Killian. Yes.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “She left once Patience was educated. Are you displeased with her education? I’m certain a tutor could be—”

  “No, that’s not the issue,” James said. “Do you, or perhaps any of your staff, know where Miss Killian might have gone after she left Walnut Grange?”

  “I do not,” the earl said.

  James tried to keep the disappointment from showing on his face.

  “But the head housekeeper, Mrs. Donahue, might know,” the earl added.

  James gaze flicked to the portrait of Patience’s mother. So young. So full of life. “Your wife…she was a lovely woman. I imagine you must miss her terribly.”

  The earl twisted around and studied the portrait for several seconds before he turned back to James. “I do,” he said simply.

  An awkward silence pervaded. James had hoped the man would open up and talk about her death but he didn’t. Carefully, James prodded. “It must have been difficult being a widowed father.”

  “I lost three people dear to me that day,” the earl said darkly.

  James moved toward the edge of his seat. “Three?”

  “Margaret was with child. The trauma of Harry’s death was too much for her,” the earl explained.

  James swallowed. This was much more difficult than he’d thought it would be. “I was under the impression they died from sickness. What happened to…to Harry?”

  The stricken expression on the earl’s face made James nauseous. But he had to keep going, to keep pushing. He had to know why Patience was so afraid of intimacy.

  “He…fell. Took a tumble down the stairs.” The earl’s gaze drifted out the parlor door to the marble inlaid foyer.

  James’s eyes followed, stopping on the graceful coil at the end of the brass balustrade. A tremor rattled his spine at the knowledge a child had died at the base of those very stairs. But if Harry had died from a fall, how had the mother died?

  “Margaret heard the commotion and was the first to discover Harry—dead from a broken neck,” his tear-rimmed gaze swiveled back to James. “She and the child inside her perished four hours later.”

  “Where…where was Patience when this happened?” James asked. His gut wrenched at the thought of her suffering the deaths of her mother, brother and unborn sibling all in the same day.

  The earl stared as if the question had never crossed his mind. “I’ve no idea. With Miss Killian, I assume.”

  Thoughts tumbled in James’s head. Certainly, the deaths affected Patience. Perhaps she feared if she loved someone, she would lose them. He
r father seemed disinterested. Did he somehow blame Patience for the deaths? If he did, his reproach had to be misplaced. Patience had only been a wee child at the time.

  Hopefully, the answer to Patience’s distress lay with Miss Killian. As the earl changed the subject and began regaling James with the boring details of running Walnut Grange, impatience nagged at James to end his uncomfortable visit and find the head housekeeper.

  Two solid, dreary hours of boring stories and gossip passed before the earl rang for the head housekeeper, Mrs. Donahue.

  Within minutes a very bewildered Mrs. Donahue appeared. The diminutive woman was not the type woman James would have imagined could run such a huge manor. He could have stretched out his arm and Mrs. Donahue could have stood at her full height underneath it.

  Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back so severely it caused her gaunt face to appear drawn. Her sharp eyes darted between the earl and James.

  “Lord Somerset would like a word with you,” the earl said.

  Mrs. Donahue bobbed into a knee-cracking curtsy. James reached for her arm and helped her to rise. Surprised, she stared. “How may I be of assistance, milord?” she asked in a clipped Irish accent.

  “Do you happen to know the whereabouts of Lady Somerset’s former governess, Miss Killian?” James asked.

  Mrs. Donahue’s thin lips parted in shock. Again, her gaze flitted back and forth between the old earl and James.

  “Madam, if you know, tell it,” the earl bellowed.

  “After her employment was concluded here at Walnut Grange, she was unable to procure another position and she went…mad,” Mrs. Donahue stammered.

  “Mad?” both James and the earl asked in unison.

  Mrs. Donahue nodded. “She’s been in Bedlam asylum nigh three, nay, four years now.”

  James’s heart sank. Conditions in London’s asylums were deplorable. Four years? Miss Killian might be incurably insane or perhaps even dead. At any rate, Patience’s secrets were lost with her.

  * * * * *

  After putting her pen aside, Patience rubbed her sore hand. She glanced at the clock and was astonished at how quickly the hours had flown by. Of course, the sheaf of sheets of foolscap filled with writing was also a testament to how long she’d been sitting here.