by Eva Devon
“I’m not like her,” countered Patience. There was no point in allowing such a misconception to stand.
“Are you not?” Charles looked her up and down. “I think you are. You’re no nonsense and you get things done. That’s Cordelia.”
“But—She’s a duchess. She’s so confident. So beautiful.”
“Well, I can’t make you a duchess.” Charles’ eyes narrowed slightly. I hope that isn’t what you were hoping.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
“It needed to be said,” he replied with surprising harshness.
Wherever had his sudden coolness come from?
As if he, too, realized his turn was too sharp, he smiled. “Shall we get to it?”
“Get to it?”
“Shall we sort your mess and wed?” he explained. “We can do it in Scotland or I can get a special license and then there shall be no bother for you.”
It sounded so horrible the way he put it. . . Or did it? Was she being terribly missish? Yes. She was.
“Have I mucked it up?” he asked, amusement lightening his voice. “Did you wish for me to get down on bended knee and declare my love divine?”
She laughed. “I cannot imagine you doing such a thing.”
“Nor can I.”
She glanced down at her hands. “My lord, what I truly think is that you should turn around and exit the way you came.”
“Lady Patience, I’m more than happy to assist you,” he said gently.
She eyed him. He didn’t seem like a man approaching the noose but nor did he appear. . . Well, anything except positively blasé. He was doing this for one reason alone.
“I cannot allow you to do this out of guilt.”
“Who says I’m willing to—”
“The sacrifice would be too great.”
A laugh burst from his throat. “My God, but you do seem determined to rescue me. Are you a fate worse than death, Lady Patience?”
She gaped. She had no ready reply.
“I am not a martyr madam. Nor will I ever be. I have been involved in the ruining of more than one man. I didn’t ask all their nieces for their hands in recompense.”
“Clearly,” she stated dryly, “as you are unshackled.”
“Guilt is not a motivator for me. I find it to be a largely useless emotion.”
“Then why?”
He shrugged his beautifully broad shoulders. “I must marry at some point. Now seems a good enough time.”
“Ah.” She nibbled her lower lip. “That seems acceptable.”
“So glad to hear it,” he said, his eyes suddenly shining with amusement. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to not wish to marry me though your reputation is about to be blacker than mine. . . If such a thing was possible.”
“Ironic is it not?”
“Now, I want you to understand this isn’t some Draconian horror,” he assured, crossing toward her. “You are not like other women. We shall be fine.”
She grinned. “Do you think?”
“That you’re not like other women? Indubitably.”
“No.” She bit her lip then asked, “That we’ll get on fine?”
“We do not have foolish expectations of love. That will make things much easier.”
“So it will,” she said. Though to her own chagrin, she felt a hint of dismay. She’d never wanted to marry and, well, marrying for love had always sounded a bit too much like her novels. Real life seldom worked that way which was why so many read her books.
“As my wife, you’ll be able to continue writing. Openly, I should think.”
That gave her pause. “I could write publicly?”
Charles nodded. “I would imagine so. The family of the Duke of Hunt has always been able to do as they wished. We are above normal mortals, don’t you know.”
“I did know that,” she confessed, suddenly feeling more and more like a fish cast upon the shore. Given her sudden ruination, her sudden salvation seemed equally as shocking. “Just not that I could do something so. . . Well. . .”
“Common?”
That rankled but it was true. In the eyes of the aristocracy, writing was trade and trade was common.
She looked at him. He was so handsome and he made her feel so many things she’d never felt before. On that particularly interesting note, she lifted her chin and asked, “Are we to bed together then?”
A slow burning smile turned his often dark expression hot. “Yes.”
With marriage in place, she had no reason to abstain. A child might even be welcome, though it wasn’t necessary. “I should like that.”
“Patience, you’re a marvel,” he breathed.
“I am grateful that you’re open to this mad conversation.”
“I’m more than open, Patience,” he replied. “I never thought I could marry. I was resigned to being a bachelor. But you and I? I think we’ll be happier than most of London.”
Given the states of most marriages, she didn’t think that would be particularly challenging.
“I want you to promise. . .” she searched for the right way to say it. . . “That you won’t pretend to be an ideal husband. That you will continue to be yourself.”
He frowned, studying her. “I don’t understand.”
“You won’t change your ways because. . . Well, you don’t love me and it would be silly to act otherwise. So, can we not be honest from the beginning?”
“Honesty is a good thing, I suppose.”
“Good then. I want no delusions that you plan to be loyal.”
“Lady Patience,” he said, his eyes surprisingly hard. “I promise that I won’t lie to you. That will have to be enough.”
She nodded then. “Good. Good.”
The idea that she’d make him suffer by marrying her was appalling. He wouldn’t be a loyal husband or a devoted lover because, well, he was marrying her just to rescue her and she didn’t think she could survive if she pretended otherwise.
It struck her then that her life was taking on the strange sort of adventure that one of her heroines might have. In the past, she’d written happy endings more often than not. What would her tale be?
Without thinking further, she took her dark skirts in hand and got down on one knee, right there before him in the morning room.
His eyes widened and he stared with an arched brow of severe skepticism. “What the devil are you doing?”
“One of us ought to do it right even if the whole thing is almost a sham,” she pointed out firmly. “Since this isn’t your style, my lord, it’ll be me.”
“And you say you’re not like Cordelia.” He shook his head with exaggerated woe. “I never thought you’d be bothered by proprieties. Not the true you.”
“You may find me full of surprises.”
“At least I won’t be bored,” he drawled.
She laughed then held out her hand.
For a moment, he stared at it like hers was a scorpion but then he put his strong hand around her palm.
Very seriously, or at least she tried to be very serious, she looked up at him. “Though we love each other not, my lord, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband and get me out of a very difficult situation?”
“Yes, Lady Patience,” he said softly. “Though we love each other not.”
And there. She kissed the back of his hand, her heart hammering with a surprising fierceness. It was done.
Chapter 14
The Duke of Hunt held out his hand and waited for his wife to join him on their massive bed. Cordelia stood by her dressing table, brushing her long, lush, blonde hair.
He could watch her brush her hair for hours. But just now, he wanted her. He wanted her with a ferocious passion that astounded him.
Even after more than a year of marriage. He was desperately, madly, passionately in lust with his wife. With each day he’d come to love her more. He’d felt certain when they’d finally been able to embrace their arranged marriage that they would love each other until they we
re old and gray but having been a confirmed reprobate and disappointment for so long, he was still amazed at his own luck.
And hard work.
It was something he’d realized and been informed of by his mother and his friend, the Duke of Darkwell. Marriage was not something one allowed to happen but rather one gave it one’s all.
He’d quite enjoyed devoting himself to their union.
She turned from the mirror and fiddled with her silver-back brush. Her silk dressing gown of white beads and lace nearly distracted him from her face, but not quite. When Cordelia fidgeted, it meant she’d been up to something.
“I’ve something to confess,” she said.
“Have you?”
She nodded and, to the unpracticed eye, she looked positively defiant, but Jack knew her well enough to know that when she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin so determinedly, she was nervous about the outcome of her actions.
“You’re concerned I’ll be angry,” he ventured as he sat up in bed.
The counterpane fell to his waist and her own gaze wandered to his bare chest appreciatively.
“Cordelia?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Your confession.”
She snapped her gaze up to his face. “It has to do with your brother.”
Jack groaned. “What have you done? Or what has he done? It makes me bloody wild when you two conspire.”
“I’ve found him a wife.”
“You’ve what?” he roared.
She scowled. “Don’t fly off the handle, Jack. Charles deserves to be happy.”
“Marriage will not make Charles happy.”
“It made you happy.”
“You made me happy,” he corrected. “By teaching me to forgive myself.”
She nibbled her lower lip and a pair of lines appeared between her brows. “You’re saying I’ve simplified things.”
“If one might call the ocean a puddle, then no. You’ve not oversimplified things.”
She let out a laborious sigh then strode to the bed. “I really think she’s the one for him.”
“How long have they know each other then?” he asked, knowing that his wife was terribly clever and that she would never do anything to harm him or his family. “Is she a widow? Only a widow could keep up with Charles’ machinations.”
Cordelia hesitated then obfuscated, “She’s a woman of experience but not the kind you seem to suggest.”
“Cordelia,” he warned.
“All right. She’s a young woman about to face imminent scandal.”
Jack stilled. “I repeat. How long have they known each other?”
She flashed him a cheeky grin. “Perhaps a week.”
“A week?!”
Cordelia tsked. “You’re being very negative about this.”
“I know you love to manage.”
“And I’m almost always right.”
He opened his mouth to disagree but he couldn’t. His wife had a way with people. A way with assessing their weaknesses and strengths in a completely nonjudgmental way and helping them to pursue their best selves. It was uncanny.
That’d she finally gone after Charles shouldn’t have surprised him.
He sighed. “Well then, who is the young lady and what scandal? Her father pass some money to the wrong member of parliament?”
“She’s an authoress.”
A laugh rolled out of him. “Mother will love that.”
And actually, his mother probably would. She was as eccentric as they came and adored the arts.
“So, is she another Mrs. Radcliffe then?” he asked.
Cordelia positively beamed. “She’s P. Auden.”
“But his books explore the most scandalous parts of ton life,” Jack sputtered. “How the devil would she know about that unless. . .” He groaned. “You have picked a perfect person for Charles, haven’t you?”
“I told you,” she gloated.
Jack kept silent then felt compelled to point out, “He can be very perverse, my brother.”
“And?”
“Well, he might very well reject her because she is perfect for him. He seems to have an aversion to happiness.”
Cordelia’s merriment dimmed. “It’s that business about your father.”
The declaration brought to mind how hard it had been for him to let go of the past. He studied his wife’s now gentle face. “You’re saying he needs to forgive himself, too?”
She nodded.
“You think P. Auden can help him?”
She nodded. “If anyone can.”
“Come here, wife.”
To his delight she did.
Jack pulled her into his arms and stroked back her hair from her much loved face. “Do you know why I adore you so?”
“My wit and bulldogged determination?”
“That goes without contest,” he said, holding her close, “but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Oh?” She leaned into him and kissed him softly on the mouth. “What then?”
He gazed into her eyes. “Your unflappable optimism.”
“Then you trust me?”
“Always, but I’d like to meet her.”
Cordelia leaned and kissed his neck then nipped it lightly. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Does the poor woman have any idea what sort of family she’s allying herself to?”
“None, at all,” she said merrily.
He shook his head. If the woman was P. Auden, at least she wouldn’t be completely unhinged by his family.
“I love you, Your Grace,” Cordelia said tracing her fingertips over his hard chest.
“I love you, too, Duchess.” And then he lowered her to the bed, determined to prove just how much.
Chapter 15
Patience stood on the doorstep of one of the grandest homes she’d ever seen, bit the inside of her cheek then knocked the massive brass knocker.
If she had been a lesser person, her knees would have knocked, too, but luckily, she was made of sterner stuff.
The door opened and a crusty fellow stood in the frame. He eyed her up and down.
In that moment, she felt more judged than she had in a lifetime of ton events. My goodness, the old fellow was quite something.
“May I help you?” he intoned, his wrinkled, old face a map of condescension.
“Lady Patience to see the Dowager Duchess of Hunt and I do believe I am expected.”
The butler sniffed. “Do enter, my lady.”
Relieved that the old curmudgeon hadn’t turned her away due to her, no doubt, infamous state, she crossed the threshold into one of the most breathtaking foyers she’d ever seen.
A sprawling mahogany and marble staircase dominated the space, leading to the, no doubt, cavernous and numerous rooms above. The floor was beautifully done tile, laid in the pattern of a Greek ocean mosaic. The room was remarkably light and when she looked all the way up, she discovered why.
The ceiling was an intricate glass dome, decorated with green glass palm fronds.
“This way, if you please,” he said as he headed down a wide hall to her left.
She followed, trying not to look like a tourist in Westminster Abbey.
After all, if this was going to be a family home, one shouldn’t walk about with one’s mouth agape.
It had been the one thing Charles had requested in return for their convenient marriage.
That she meet his mother.
This would have caused most women to quake with terror.
And she was quaking. But not because she was terrified her soon-to-be mama would disapprove of her scandalous ways but rather that Dowager Duchess Hyacinth would find her to be all too boring and rather low in the stratus of their kind.
The dowager duchess had a reputation of her own. One all London was familiar with.
Truthfully, given the circumstances, Patience would have been pleased to hie to Scotland for their wedding. A blacksmith of Gretna Green would have been q
uite good enough priest for her.
Charles had, in the end, been adamant.
Considering the importance and strangeness of their arrangement, she’d accepted.
The dowager duchess was someone she would have been delighted to meet for the purpose of research but not as a potential mother.
Truthfully, Patience had no idea how to act. Her more adventurous self wore a mask on outings and the mask allowed her to be quite free.
Her regular self? Well, her regular self never left Barring House. And different though she might be from her husband’s family, unlike them, her adventures were in her head.
The butler strode through a towering, open door.
She followed and despite her best efforts, Patience gaped.
The room was crimson.
Not just crimson. But emerald green and blue and yellow. The ceiling above was draped in more crimson and gold damask and a great phoenix coiled about the chandelier.
There were cushions and ottomans everywhere.
Before the fire, gracefully draped over a beautiful cream-colored divan, was a stunning woman.
Her golden gown bared a surprising amount of perfect, pale flesh and her black hair was curled to perfection.
The woman’s berry-colored lips were pursed in an amused smile. Like a cat that has seen a canary.
She looked all of thirty-five years old.
But she had to be older for this had to be. . .
The butler bowed. “Your Grace, Lady Patience.”
“Thank you, Catesby.”
That voice was deep and rich.
Patience drew in a fortifying breath. She wasn’t about to meet such a person with her lungs crying for air and her tongue completely tied.
“Do sit down,” the dowager said, gesturing with a graceful hand to a backless chair beside her.
Patience crossed and lowered herself.
“Champagne, Catesby, and a few cakes, I think. You do like cake and champagne, do you not?”
“I do.”
“I’m so glad,” she purred. “I never could have liked you if you hadn’t.”
Catesby bowed and retreated.
As Patience stared at her soon-to-be mother-in-law she was uncertain if she was being welcomed with open arms or being lured into a trap.