Patience blushed, self-consciously smoothing the neckline of her crimson velvet gown. To make it appropriate for day, she was wearing it over a high-necked muslin chemise with long, gathered sleeves. “Yes,” she said. “I liked it so much I thought I’d wear it again.”
“Crimson velvet is vulgar,” said Pru.
“It’s one of yours,” Patience said, frowning.
“I bought it in Philadelphia, before I knew any better,” Pru answered. “Red velvet is for curtains,” Pru declared. “Curtains and courtesans.”
“Dolley Madison wore a red velvet gown,” Patience said coldly. “I’m sure you don’t mean to criticize our First Lady!”
Pru got up to fill her plate at the sideboard. Trudging back to the table, she plunked herself down in her chair. Suddenly, her green eyes widened. “Are you reading the society pages?” she asked incredulously.
Patience’s face was bright pink. “I thought there might be some mention of Mrs. Adams’s reception,” she said.
“Is there?” Pru said doubtfully.
“No, there doesn’t seem to be,” Patience replied, trying not to show how vastly relieved she was about that. “It is all about the ball at Sunderland House.”
“Well, of course it is. Who cares what happens at the American embassy?”
“Who, indeed,” Patience murmured. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Oh, yes!” Pru said eagerly. “Even if Max only danced with me twice. He said it wouldn’t be proper to dance with me a third time.”
“You were not a wallflower, I trust?”
“Wallflower!” Pru said hotly. “No, indeed! I never lacked for a partner. But none of them were as agreeable as Max. I really do think I must love him—I miss him so much when he is not there.”
Patience stared at her sister in unhappy silence.
“What?” Pru said at last.
“You can’t be serious,” said Patience. “In love with—with Purefoy? You never said you loved him before.”
“I don’t think I fell in love with him until he went away, just before Christmas,” Pru said thoughtfully. “At least, I didn’t realize until he had gone that I loved him. I’d grown so accustomed to him taking me out every day in his curricle.”
Patience sighed in relief. “Is that all? I can take you out in a curricle, if that is what you want. You just get bored without someone to entertain you.”
“Perhaps,” Pru replied, with rare sense. “But last night, I was privileged to see him in his own element—master of Sunderland House.”
“Was the duke not at home?”
“Of course he was,” Pru said impatiently. “But he is nothing more than a dried up old bean in a chair! Everyone treats Max as if he were the duke already. You should have seen how they fawned over him! If I were his wife, I would be the Queen of London. They would fawn over me.”
“If you were his wife—!” Patience exclaimed.
Pru bit her lip. “You would not stand in my way, would you, Patience?” she said anxiously. “By law, you are my guardian, and by law, I would need your permission to marry before my twenty-first birthday. You wouldn’t make me wait, would you?”
“I don’t know where all this is coming from,” Patience said, taking a sip of her coffee in an attempt to soothe her rattled nerves. “Has Mr. Purefoy asked you to marry him?”
“Not yet, but he will.” Pru seemed very confident.
“Was Lord Banville at the ball?” Patience asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Pru. “I danced with him twice. He was extremely disappointed that you weren’t there. He asked after you in the most particular way. He brought his mother with him, of course,” she added, laughing.
After breakfast, Patience retreated to the drawing room. Taking out a sheet of paper, she took up her pen. She knew very well what she wanted to say—what, indeed she must say—but for several moments, she could not decide how to begin.
“Dear sir” would not do, of course. Much too cold. “My love”? Too hot.
“Dear Mr. Purefoy”? Perfectly ridiculous after the events of the night before.
“Dear Max”? As if she were addressing an old friend?
Yes, that would have to do.
“Dear Max—”
Her hand trembled as she wrote, sending a fine spray of ink across the page, but she soldiered on, dashing from one phrase to the next.
Do not come today—I cannot see you. Be assured my feelings remain unchanged—Pray, give me time to explain all to my sister. She will be greatly astonished when I tell her, and—I fear—none too pleased with me.
Yours ever and always—
Patience
Blots were everywhere on the page, but, she thought, it was still legible. Setting it aside to dry, she found a wax wafer in the drawer and set her brass seal over the burner to heat.
“What are you writing?” Pru asked, coming into the room. “Not a love letter to Lord Banville, I trust?”
“Certainly not!” Patience said, laughing nervously. “Only a note to Mr. Bracegirdle. I have had good news,” she added, turning to smile at her sister. “We have an offer on Wildings. Ten thousand pounds. I am going to his office this afternoon to meet with the land agent. Would you care to go with me?”
Pru made a face. “Leave Mayfair to go sit in a fusty old lawyer’s office? Mr. Bracegirdle ain’t even a barrister. He is merely a solicitor. Besides, I have to stay at home today. It’s traditional for gentlemen to call on their dance partners the day after a ball.”
Patience hastily folded her letter to Max, even though it was not quite dry. “I wonder if any of my dance partners will call on me,” she said.
Pru scoffed. “I seriously doubt it. American men are all ill-mannered clodpoles.”
“That is quite untrue,” Patience said sharply. “There were many charming and agreeable young men at the embassy last night. I met someone you know, as a matter of fact.”
“Who?” Pru demanded.
“A very promising young physician from New Jersey. He sends you his regards.”
Pru scowled. “If you mean that Ronald Mollycoddle or whatever his name is—!”
“His name is Roger Molyneux.”
“If you say so. I don’t want his regards. Don’t tell me you danced with him?”
“Several times. We cut quite a rug.”
Pru made a face. “Really, Patience! He’s nothing but a country doctor. And his father is nothing more than a country parson. You could do a lot better. Lord Banville, for instance!”
“I think Lord Banville is more your type than mine,” Patience said. “You know he’s much too handsome for me. And he seems to go everywhere with his mother.”
“There’s always Lord Milford, then,” said Pru. “He is not too handsome! And, of course, Sir Charles Stanhope.” Holding her stomach, she doubled over with laughter.
She was still giggling as Briggs came into the room bearing a card on his big, silver tray. Pru sat up and wiped her eyes. “Do you sleep with that tray, Briggs?” she asked irreverently, subsiding this time into soundless mirth.
“No, Miss Prudence,” the butler replied.
“What is it, Briggs?” Patience asked, her tone apologetic.
Briggs cleared his throat. “The most noble Earl of Milford begs the favor of seeing Lady Waverly in private.”
Pru burst out laughing. “Who? I’m afraid we’re only acquainted with the less noble Earl of Milford,” she roared. “I didn’t know there were two of ’em!”
Patience stood up. “Oh, do be quiet, Pru!” she said crossly. “You’re giving me a headache. Tell his lordship I am not at home, Briggs, if you please.”
“Don’t send him away!” Pru said quickly. “This may be the only offer of marriage you are ever to receive.”
“Marriage! Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Of course he means marriage,” Pru insisted. “Why else would he ask for a private interview? He has come to declare his love! If you send him away, he’ll just keep coming
back,” she added. “Best get it over with now.”
Patience sighed. “You’re right. Very well. I will see his lordship in the book room downstairs,” she told Briggs, rising from her desk.
“Would you like me to go in your place?” Pru asked solicitously.
“And wake up tomorrow engaged? No, thank you!” said Patience, moving for the door.
“Be kind!” Pru called after her sister. “Don’t break his heart!”
Briggs followed his mistress from the room, closing the doors after him.
Pru went immediately to the desk. Something in Patience’s manner had aroused her suspicions. Surely, a letter to the attorney would not inspire such blushing! No, it must be a note to Lord Banville—or possibly, even one to that clodpole Roger Molyneux. Pru picked up the letter, turning it over in her hands. It was sealed, but Patience had left the room without directing it. With the tip of a letter opener, Pru easily removed the wax seal, which was still warm and pliable.
Spreading open the page, she read the brief note through. At first, she could not believe her eyes. “Dear Max”! Patience was writing to Max? Why?
She read the few words again, their meaning sinking in slowly. Her hands began to shake. Cold rage swept through her body.
Patience was in love with Max. Patience, who had pretended for weeks that she didn’t even like Max. And she was worried about telling her sister the truth?
She should be, Pru thought darkly. She should be bloody terrified!
Her first impulse was to rip the letter to shreds, and throw the bits in Patience’s face when she returned to the room. But that, of course, would change nothing. Patience would still have Max. “Yours ever and always”! And Patience would never have written those words if the gentleman did not feel the same.
“You won’t get away with this, Patience,” she said through her teeth.
Snatching up her sister’s pen, she scribbled a postscript. This, she thought with wild satisfaction, will change everything. Quickly, she folded the letter, found a fresh wafer, and sealed it again. Leaving it on Patience’s desk, just as she had found it, she resumed her seat, and waited for Patience to return.
Chapter 14
Lord Milford swung around as Patience entered the room, and Patience was again struck by how large his head was in proportion to his body. With his short legs and tiny feet in tasseled boots, it was a wonder he didn’t fall over. “Won’t you sit down?” she said quickly.
Until this moment, Milford had clung to the hope that it had been Miss Prudence, not Lady Waverly, whom he had seen kissing Mr. Purefoy in Grosvenor Square. Now, of course, there could be no doubt.
“My God!” he exclaimed, goggling at her. “So it was you, after all! Don’t deny it, madam! You’re still wearing the same dress.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Patience.
“Cock-a-doodle-do!” he said coldly. “I trust I make myself clear, madam?”
Patience raised her brows, fighting the impulse to laugh. With his red face, red hair, and indignant expression, he actually did resemble the rooster he was impersonating. It was no good, however. She could not help laughing. “I don’t understand you, sir! Is it not a bit early for a game of charades?”
“Cock-a-doodle-do!” he repeated very firmly. “Sometime after midnight, madam? Grosvenor Square? Cock-a-doodle-do!”
“Was that you, Lord Milford?” she asked, her fingertips at her lips. “Well! It seems I must thank you for acting as our lookout.”
He blinked at her, which made him look even more like a rooster. His brain clicked rapidly. It did not seem likely now that he would win his bet with Lord Torcaster. But, if he played his cards right, then he might still win his bet with Mr. Purefoy. And he would need to win his bet with Mr. Purefoy, if he was to pay off his wager with Torcaster.
“I am here as your friend, my lady,” he said. “As your friend, let me advise you that Mr. Purefoy is not to be trusted! I am sorry to pain Your Ladyship, but he does not love you. He only trifles.”
Patience smiled incredulously. “I thank you for your opinion, sir. You need not worry about causing me pain, however. I know Mr. Purefoy, I think, better than you do.”
“But he is a scoundrel, ma’am, a blackguard, an utter rascal!”
“That was his past,” said Patience. “I do not regard it. I did not fall in love with him, sir, with my eyes closed. I love him in spite of his faults, just as, I trust, he loves me in spite of mine.”
“Your Ladyship has no fault,” Milford declared. “Unless it be a nature far too trusting.”
“If anything, my nature is too suspicious!” said Patience. “Indeed, I can’t help but wonder at your motives, sir.”
“My motives are ever pure!” he said stoutly.
“Oh? Then you mean to marry your mistress?” Patience said politely.
“My what?” he said indignantly.
“The lady my sister and I saw you driving with in the park,” Patience prompted him. “She is your mistress, is she not?”
“Certainly not! That was my—my cousin.”
“Pardon me,” Patience said contritely. “I did not know that Mrs. Philips, the actress, was your cousin. I look forward to seeing her in the new production of Macbeth. I have bought my tickets already.”
“We were not speaking of me, madam,” he said, becoming a little short with her. “We were talking of Purefoy—and his designs on you.”
Patience only smiled. “Sir, I am well aware that your sister has designs on him. If Mr. Purefoy is such a blackguard, perhaps you should be having this talk with Lady Isabella.”
“But he does not love you,” Milford insisted. “You are deceived! He makes love to you, but that is only to win a bet!”
Patience, naturally, gave this statement no credence but it was bizarre enough to give her pause. “Sir—” she began.
He seized on her discomfiture eagerly. “It is true, my lady! If he does not marry you, then he must pay fifty thousand pounds. It is in the betting book at Brooks’s club. There can be no escaping it.”
“Go home, Lord Milford,” she said coldly. “I do not believe you. I will never believe your lies. Save your breath.”
“It is true, I tell you,” he cried, seizing her hands. “He made the bet with me.”
“May I see this betting book?”
“See the betting book?” he repeated impatiently. “Of course not. It is in the vault at Brooks’s.”
“Then you have no proof of what you say.”
“I give you my word.”
Patience shook her head in disgust.
“I tell you this not to hurt you,” he said. “I tell you because I—I care for you, Lady Waverly. Indeed, I love you! I know you are infatuated with him at present,” he went on quickly, “but in time you will see him for what he is. Then, I hope, you will think of me more kindly. I only pray, dear lady, that it is not too late!”
“Sir, you are becoming ridiculous!”
He caught her roughly in his arms. “For you, I will make myself ridiculous,” he said. “I still want to marry you. You have only to say the word.”
“Let go of me,” Patience said coldly.
“Not many men would stoop to marry you, not after seeing you forget yourself in the arms of another man,” he went on, trying to find her mouth with his own puckered lips. “But I am quite run away by the violence of my feelings!”
“Cock-a-doodle-do, sir!” she said, looking at him dispassionately.
“What?” he said, scowling. At the same time, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Upon turning his head, he was immediately acquainted with Roger Molyneux’s fist. With a moan, he slid to the floor. “You hit me,” he whispered. “You hit me before I was ready. Not cricket!”
Patience frowned. “I said cock-a-doodle-do,” she pointed out, “and Mr. Molyneux tapped you on the shoulder. You were warned, sir.”
“Do you know who I am?” Milford said haughtily.
“Somebody important, I hope,” said Mo
lyneux, laughing at him.
Milford climbed to his feet, adjusting his lace cuffs and gathering his dignity. “I would challenge you to a duel, sir, but you are so decidedly beneath me in consequence, it would be an insult to my illustrious forebears. I see someone has already beaten you—for impertinence, no doubt,” he added contemptuously.
Indeed, Molyneux’s nose was swollen and bruised from his encounter with Max the night before. “You should try it,” he said, reaching out to swipe at the blood on Milford’s cheek with one finger. Terrified, Milford threw himself down on the floor, curled into a ball, and covered his head with his arms.
“Charades, is it?” said Molyneux, highly amused. “Hedgehog?”
“How dare you, sir,” said a cold voice from the doorway. “How dare you offer violence to our noble visitor.”
Darting into the room, Prudence helped Lord Milford to his feet. “Are you all right, my lord?” she said gently. “Did this big, stupid oaf hurt you?”
“Of course I hurt him,” Molyneux said irritably. “He was taking liberties with your sister!”
“He really was making an ass of himself,” Patience agreed.
“Patience can take care of herself,” Pru snapped, helping Lord Milford to a chair. Putting her back to Molyneux, she took out her handkerchief. Dampening it with her tongue, she began dabbing at the blood on the earl’s cheek.
Molyneux scowled. “Is he a friend of yours, Miss Prudence?”
“He is the Earl of Milford,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Laughing, Molyneux turned to Patience. “Well, at least he’s something in his own right, not like that fellow last night. Purefoy, as he calls himself! I found out later, he’s nothing more than somebody’s nephew. Imagine having nothing to hang your hat on but that! I’d be ashamed to be nothing more than somebody’s nephew!”
Pru rounded on him furiously. “Mr. Purefoy is heir to the Duke of Sunderland!”
“Oh, well,” he said coolly. “That makes all the difference, I suppose.”
The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness Page 20