by Eva Devon
He waved his hand at her. Shooing. Shooing!
But he was right. She did long to be with Charles. “As infuriating as you are, I concede.”
“Good, because I always win,” he replied merrily.
A laugh bubbled from her lips. “In this, I wish you victory.”
He smiled, a kind smile. “Goodnight, Miss Auden.”
She gave a small curtsy then rushed back out into the hall.
The Duke of Aston was right. Perhaps Charles would tire of her. But all the more reason to seize the moment and enjoy every bit of it that she could.
It galled her she’d been acting a silly school girl. It was time she started acting like herself. A passionate, strong, and determined woman.
Chapter 22
It was a very good thing that Patience was not only passionate and strong, but also determined. To her astonishment, on her return home to their London residence, she had not met with a wild night of love making with her husband. Instead, she’d been greeted by a note penned, it seemed, in some haste by her husband, conveying that he had decided to head down to the family seat and spend some time in the country.
She was to enjoy herself and her research.
Receiving this note had sent a chill down her spine. It had lacked Charles’ usual wit which showed itself even in missive writing.
Something was off.
So, after railing for two hours against the inability of a woman in a coach to travel at night (for many varied reasons, safety and the state of the roads most prominent), she waited until dawn to depart.
Then, she had to sit for hours upon hours as the coach bounced over deeply grooved roads, given to cavernous ruts by the continuous travel of other vehicles on surfaces little better than knee deep mud. A whole day’s travel and a stay in a flea-infested coaching inn had only added to her growing impatience.
Usually she would add such an event to her catalogue of research but, at present, all she could think about was seeing Charles.
At long last, the coach rolled onto the Hunt ducal estate and she clutched her hands on her lap as they passed the massive palace that was the home of the Hunts and headed into the forest.
The coachman who had been with the family for twenty years assured her that if Charles had gone home, he had not gone to the big house but to a small lodge on the far side of the estate.
She’d taken his advice. After all, there was still much about her husband that she knew little of.
The beautifully appointed, well-sprung coach that made the horrendous English roads bearable pulled to a halt in front of a cottage. . . A cottage!
The black thatch hanged over the whitewashed walls and there, to her absolute shock, was Charles, shirt open at the neck, a shovel in his hand, planting a tree.
A tree.
Dirt smudged his high-cut cheekbones and a light sheen of sweat shone on his forehead.
From the state of his black breeches, he’d been gardening for some hours.
Gardening. Her rake of a husband.
He had turned, one hand on the shovel, and was glaring at the coach.
A part of her, a very small part, urged her to not get out and simply return to London. After all, she was used to being by herself. Being by one’s self was safe. On one’s own, one couldn’t be rejected. But then the Duke of Aston’s words rang through her head. She wasn’t a coward and she wouldn’t be doing any running.
So, when the footman opened the coach door, she took his gloved hand and stepped down.
Charles gaped at her for a solid moment before regaining his terribly smooth composure. “You look a fright, wife.”
“You don’t exactly look polished yourself,” she replied as she set foot upon the black-earthed road.
He drove the shovel into the ground then strode forward.
As she waited, the footman then took down her box.
“Leave it, Edward,” Charles said. “I’ll take it in.”
The young footman nodded his bewigged head then jumped back on the coach.
With that, the vehicle lumbered off, leaving her alone with Charles in the most unlikely of settings.
She’d always pictured him in a ballroom, or a gaming hall, or a salon. . . Not like this.
The cottage was beautiful. Tudor in period with its black painted wood. Red roses climbed up the whitewash. Lilac trees gave the air a delicious scent.
Flowers of every variety covered the ground about the house.
Suddenly, it hit her, that her husband had likely planted every single one.
“You like plants,” she said stupidly.
He eyed her. “I like plants.”
There was something not quite right about him. The life had gone out of her husband replaced by a sadness that she had never seen before.
Then she recalled what she’d been warned about. His father’s black moods.
Was Charles in such a spell?
“Why did you follow?” he asked. “Surely, you had many appointments.”
“I did, but I wanted to be with you.”
Once again he stared, as if he were contemplating saying words he might regret.
She held her breath. The air was unwelcoming. He didn’t want her there. And she knew then that was exactly why she must stay.
“Are we sharing a room?” she asked, unable to think of anything else.
“There’s only the one bedroom,” he said flatly.
“Good.”
A muscle tightened along his jaw. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stay up at the main house?”
“Not at all.”
“It’s very grand,” he said.
“I’m sure it is,” she replied. If he thought he was going to fob her off, he was very mistaken.
“It’s more suited to your research,” he added.
“Perhaps, but it is not suited to me,” she said easily. “And besides, all life is research Charles. Now, I’d like a cup of tea.”
She waited for some witty rejoinder. Instead, he remained silent and headed into the cottage.
There was no invitation for her to join him but nor did he instruct her to hie off.
So, she followed down the stone path and through the low door.
Fortifying herself with a deep breath, she held her head high and caught the sound of him in the room to her left.
She strode in, her footsteps softened by a beautiful burgundy rug placed over stones polished for hundreds of years.
Charles stood near a massive fireplace with an ancient looking cookery spit and set of pots over the fire.
“I always keep hot water on hand,” he said blankly.
He grabbed a towel and pulled the black pot off its hook then poured water into a porcelain teapot painted with blue flowers.
She watched as he easily steeped the tea, strained it into a clay mug then handed it over to her.
She studied the black brew. “You don’t wish any?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t seem yourself,” she finally observed.
“You know so little about me, Patience.” He leveled her with a stare that verged on empty. “How could you possibly know?”
She lifted her mug and encouraged, “Then teach me.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Teach me about you,” she explained before she smiled. “It’s a subject I’m very fond of.”
“Who’s doing the flattering now?” he replied starkly.
“You know me, Charles. I don’t flatter.”
A wry smile pulled his lips. “Point taken. You’re fond of me, are you?”
She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling immensely vulnerable like a turtle thrust onto its back. But there was no retreating now. It was tempting to make some reading remark, but that’s not what she was here to do.
So, she said plainly. “I am.”
A small smile pulled at his lips before a sort of bone deep exhaustion pulled at his expression. “I’m in no mood to converse, if you must know.”
Taking a sip of her tea, she considered. She could press, but somehow, she was certain that was the fastest way for her to be left alone in the cottage with the dust of his departure upon the road. “You don’t have to. I’m quite skilled in entertaining myself. May I stay and simply observe?”
“I can hardly refuse you. But I’m. . . I’m not myself exactly. . . Or more to the point, I don’t let people see this side of myself.
“I’m not people. I’m your wife.”
Again, there was the touch of a smile. “So you are.”
She put her mug down and folded her hands. “If you wish to talk, we shall. Otherwise, I shall drink tea and work on my book. It is a state in which I am also very fond and accustomed.”
He shoved a hand through his this dark hair then granted, “If it pleases you.”
She nodded.
“Make yourself comfortable then. I’m going back out to my trees.”
She waved at him then gestured to the rooms upstairs. “I’ll just take the lay of the land then while you’re working.”
He nodded again and hurried out.
It was most unlike the Charles she knew. This was a side of him that was very much like a small boy. A boy desperate for the world not to see how very much he was hurt by it. And she longed to soothe that boy so very much.
Chapter 23
Charles drove the shovel into the soft earth again and again, for once wishing that the ground was hard clay instead of black loam.
She had been here for three days. Three days that should have felt entirely torturous. Three days in which he had been largely quiet as had she. They had slept in the same bed. He had held her in his arms. God, the feel of her in his arms had been at once heaven and hell. Because with each passing hour in the night, he felt he was living such a lie.
That lie had finally sent him away from her in London. But what had she done? She’d followed him.
Patience was tenacious and he adored that about her.
But more than that, she didn’t push.
He’d been out for hours already, waiting for her to come and pester him with questions. He’d waited the last three days for the questions to begin.
She had not.
In fact, her calm, her. . . Patience had been like a salve on his wounded soul and the simple act of being with her seemed to be healing him in a way he’d never imagined. Still, the wound was there, deep from years of not talking about his father’s death.
He’d not been himself. Not the self he showed people.
When in such a mood, most people invariably did one of two things. . . Firstly, they’d ask him what the devil had happened to which he had had no reply, because there never seemed to be an exact reason that set him down the dark road of despair or secondly, they’d try to cheer him up.
The state of affairs when he was in such a mood was so unpleasant to company or so off putting to people who cared about him that he’d decided long ago to avoid people altogether until the black humor passed. Which was why he traveled down to the country.
Some men got raging drunk when in melancholia. He gardened. It was the only thing that kept him from sinking too deep.
Usually, he told his family he was going to go drink a great deal of brandy and be thoroughly debauched for a few weeks. It was the opposite of the truth.
He didn’t think they knew that he came to the cottage and gardened, but perhaps given the ease with which the coach had brought his wife to him, they did.
Perhaps everyone knew that when he disappeared for a time it wasn’t to be purely sinful, but to wallow in despair.
How demoralizing that was.
He loathed pity.
Pity was something he’d seen in the eyes of many for months after the death of his father.
If they’d known the truth, that pity would have only been deeper. He was damned glad they all thought he’d accidentally shot his father whilst hunting.
Far better than the truth.
Yes. Far better.
The last light of the evening was fading and, frankly, he wanted a bite to eat and a glass of wine.
Which meant he’d have to see her. To chance conversation.
Despite this, he did wish to see her. But he was concerned that too many hours in his plagued presence would cause her to depart, never to return.
Even so, he took his tools to the small shed behind the cottage, then headed into the kitchen.
As she had for the majority of the past three days, she sat at the large oak table, writing. Tonight, a delicious spread was before her.
She looked up with her goddess-like hazel eyes and said softly as she poured two glasses of wine, “I thought you’d be hungry.”
“I am.”
“Good,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve eaten. Now, I must go back to my work. Do you mind if I write while you take your repast?”
She wasn’t going to push? Or pry? Still?
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she took up her wine glass with one hand and her quill with the other. Then as if he weren’t there at all, she bent over her manuscript and began to write.
The delightful sound of her pen scratching over parchment blended with the crackle of the fire.
He was finding that he loved that sound. It was as soothing and assuring as a lullaby.
He headed to the pump and sink beside the door and quickly washed.
The lack of conversation should have felt strange and, yet, he found the companionship welcome.
Carefully, he sat at the table and placed bread, meat, and cheese on his plate. As he ate, tasting little, he contemplated her.
She was still a goddess. Something powerful and otherworldly seemed to overtake her as she wrote. It was as if she disappeared though her body was still present.
It struck him as an honor that she was allowing him to be in her presence at such a time.
With each bite, he studied the lines of her face, the curve of her neck, the grace of her hands, her beautiful, still presence that felt as timeless and pure as an ancient river.
It filled him then. Love. Like water springing in a hidden pool. Love filled him. He didn’t worship her. He didn’t admire her. He didn’t simply enjoy her presence. He loved her.
In all his life, he’d never felt such love and it was such a strong contrast to the dark scar on his heart. How could light and dark all exist in him at once? But it did. He was dwelling in the mire of memory and yet he was full of love for his wife.
He should tell her the truth. About his father. After all, if there was one person who would understand, surely it was she. Her uncle had been down that same path that the old duke had done.
Yet, he couldn’t.
Patience was so very strong. He doubted she would look favorably on weakness. Weakness in an uncle or father? Of that, she would surely be sympathetic. But weakness in a husband?
His fiery angel surely needed a man without such faults.
And while he had his faults, she, at least, didn’t think him weak.
“Am I so very riveting?”
Charles sipped his wine, not looking away. Refusing to be ashamed of admiring her, of loving her. “You are.”
She leaned back, raised her arms, and stretched. “You say it so passionately, Charles, that I almost believe you.”
His heart sank. Did she think so little of herself? “I wish you would.”
Patience took up her own wine, and turned towards him fully. “I must tell you something. I’ve been avoiding it but I cannot now any longer.”
Charles’ innards twisted. Such serious conversation couldn’t bode well. Had she traveled all the way to the country to break with him? To tell him that she wished them to have separate lives in their marriage? For she’d certainly been acting thusly in London.
God, it felt such a gaping chasm, he thought.
She drew in a long breath. “I’ve been a dreadful coward.”
Coward? He sat up straighter. “I can’t imagine y
ou ever being such a thing.”
She laughed nervously. “Oh, I have. A terrible one.”
“What cowardly secret could you have?” He couldn’t believe it. Patience? A coward? And the moon was made of cheese.
“I have been. . . I’ve been avoiding you since right after our marriage.”
“On purpose?” he questioned.
She nodded then took a large swallow of the deep red-colored wine. “I confess it.”
“Am I such unpleasant company?” he teased, though he felt dread. “I can change, if it pleases you. I can try.”
For just an instant, he could have sworn tears sparkled in her eyes.
“Oh Charles, you mustn’t change. Not in essentials. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”
The best people? “Then why have you been avoiding me? I was beginning to think you found me boring.”
A laugh, warm and rich, rolled from her. “Boring? Oh my. What we have been secretly fearing, the two of us. Charles, I have been avoiding you because I like you.”
His brow furrowed. “That makes no sense at all.”
“Perverse,” she agreed. “And it’s worse still.”
“Why?” he asked, genuinely shocked by her confession.
“Because. . . Because, I don’t just like you.”
“No?” He found himself almost holding his breath as he waited for her imminent revelation.
She studied her glass of wine for several moments then lifted her stunning gaze to his. “Charles, I love you.”
The whole world seemed to expand and contract around him as she said those incredible words. “Patience, you can’t possibly mean it.”
“Did you mean it when you called me divine?” she challenged softly. “Or insisted I’m riveting?”
“I did.”
She leaned forward. “Then you must believe that I love you.”
He blinked. Stunned. Trying to take it in. He’d been feeling so low and now? Now, it was as if he’d been drowning and gotten a good breath of air. He still felt lost but it was as if a lifeline had suddenly been thrown his way. “When?”
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I didn’t even know myself until last night. I’ve been such a fool. I was so afraid of losing you. Of you growing tired of me that I determined to sparkle and attend every gathering I could. I refused to be a burden to you. . . Or someone who liked to stay at home and sit by the fire.”