by Eva Devon
That last sentence struck him. Because, in truth, he spent a great deal of time by himself. “And do you?”
“What?”
“Like to stay at home and sit by the fire?” he repeated for her.
She cradled her wine glass, her face paling before she squared her shoulders. “I must admit I do. Oh, I shouldn’t like to gather dust, but I find the great round of ton parties to be. . . Uninspiring. I’d like to go to some of them and to continue my research and work with the Duchess of Roth but, frankly, I love the quiet, too, and the sound of my pen scratching along paper. And I should like to spend more time with you.”
She paused then said, “Just you, if you’re amenable.”
Just him? She wanted to be with just him? Those two simple words filled him with such hope he could barely comprehend it.
She loved him? It seemed impossible. How could he be worthy of her love? And that last thought sent his hope falling.
Love couldn’t save him. He knew that. Love hadn’t saved his father, but lies would condemn him to hell. Of that, he felt certain. His father had kept secrets. He had not talked of his pain and that had led to pure tragedy.
He wouldn’t let that tragedy befall him.
So, in that moment, he resigned himself to the truth. No matter how hard it was, he had to tell her. “Before you commit yourself so fully—”
“Charles, I cannot take back what I’ve said,” she pointed out.
“No, but. . . You’re not the only one who has been a coward.”
A look of acceptance crossed her face and it pained him but there was no helping it.
“You know about my black moods,” he began.
“I do.”
“They only started after my father’s death,” he said flatly, desperate to keep the pain somewhat at bay. “My father suffered from them, too.”
She nodded her head, encouraging him to continue.
He’d never said these words and he found that they were gathering in his throat like a great deluge finally freed by a dam that had broken. “I didn’t shoot my father. I didn’t accidentally take his life. I couldn’t tell Mother. I couldn’t tell any of them. I couldn’t tell.”
He swallowed in a great gasp of air. He had to get this out. He had to tell someone. No, not just someone. Patience. His Patience. “You see, that day I knew something was amiss. He’d been in as black a spell as any, talking much of my brother that drowned. I followed him from the house, out to the forest. I thought, perhaps, he just wished to be alone, but he walked with such purpose. Purpose he hadn’t had in weeks. And just that morning he had taken my hand and told me I was a fine fellow and that he loved me.”
The words rushed out, uncontrollable, unstoppable now. “I followed him deep into the woods. I followed him but not fast enough. I couldn’t stop him as he stopped beneath a great oak tree, pulled a primed pistol from his pocket and shot himself. He took his own life. I didn’t understand why right there. Why under the oak tree? I quietly approached, unable to believe he’d blown his brains out and then there, on the tree, I saw it. The name of my eldest brother carved into the bark. He must have done it as a boy, as boys so often do.”
His voice broke then. “I-I don’t know why I didn’t call out to my father. Why didn’t I shout, Father! And ever since. . .” Charles gasped for air. Good God, he was drowning in the memory. In the grief he had swallowed.
But then, Patience’s arms were around him, rocking him. Her lips pressed to his temple and she crooned softly. “I love you, Charles, I love you. I’m here,” she said in an unending litany while he wept.
Wept for his eldest brother and the father he couldn’t save. He wept for the man who had never been able to recover from his heir’s death and chosen death over his family. . . Over him.
And at long last, he gazed up into her hazel eyes and realized that his goddess was a woman. His woman. And she was there for him. And accepted him. “I love you, too, Patience,” he whispered.
She caressed his face, tilted it up, then brushed his hair back from his face. “I’ve never met a man as strong as you. As kind as you. For all your sardonic surface, you are the wounded one, Charles. You’ve carried this burden on your own and I’m so glad you’re letting me help you carry it now.”
“Is that what I’ve done?” he whispered, unable to believe the words she was uttering. Kind. Wounded. Strong. Was that him? As he gazed into her eyes, he could believe it.
“How did I deserve to meet you, Patience?”
“We met each other out of sorrow. And now, we’re healing each other. Now, we can choose love not pain. Now, we can choose new paths.”
He pulled her down against him, slid his hand into her soft curls and took her mouth in the slowest, most loving kiss. Exchanging soft breaths and the touch of their lips, their tongues tangled.
As if two separate halves had finally come together and found wholeness, Charles slid her skirts up her legs and brought her down to straddle his lap. For long moments, they kissed in the firelight. Doing nothing but drinking each other in, their bodies melding as their hearts and souls found freedom from fear.
His heart completely exposed now, he leaned back and asked, “But what if. . . What if the darkness doesn’t go away?”
At that, she locked gazes with him, her hair falling about her face. She cupped his face in her hands “Then we shine a light on it, we wait for it to pass, but we know that it will pass because we have each other. Because now we’ve both been brave enough to bare our souls to each other, we will always be there for each other. I will hold your hand through the dark times, Charles, and you will hold mine. And we will trust each other because we know each other as no one else ever could.”
“I do know you, Patience,” he replied, full of wonder. “I’ve seen your heart and your soul and I still can’t believe you love me.”
“Then believe it, you silly, wonderful man,” she said, a smile warming her countenance. “I love you. I love you for seeing me that day we met, for knowing I was more. You saw beneath my disguise and you admired me.”
“Admired you? I thought you a goddess,” he countered, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Well, I am just a woman, Charles.”
“Just?” he scoffed before he gently stroked his hands up her back and brought her lips close to his.
“Never just, my darling, Patience,” he whispered. “You are the sun, the moon, the stars. You are my world.”
“I am yours. . . And you are mine.”
“Yes, my love, oh yes,” he replied before he sealed his words with a perfect kiss.
Epilogue
2 Years Later
Full summer sunshine shone down on the terrace just outside the beautiful manor house near the river Avon. Swans floated by majestically.
The scent of wisteria wafted through the air, the purple blooms climbed the bower over Charles and Patience’s head.
She smiled a contented smile, her head in Charles’ lap as she gazed up at the amethyst-colored flowers.
They’d purchased the house almost two years ago, when she and Charles had decided they needed a nook for themselves, a place to go away from the world.
Oh, it didn’t mean that his family and The Duchesses and their husbands didn’t pop over for long visits with their children. She adored the sound of little babies laughing as they toddled over the groomed lawn.
But for the most part, Ashdown House was just for them. It was filled with books. Charles had become her first editor. The first person to read her work. And the first person she told her stories to every day.
He listened to her breathlessly every lunchtime as she read him the pages she’d written that morning. And when it was time to go into the city for research, he was her guide. In many ways, facilitating her work had become his purpose in life. And she loved that.
They both still went to parties for they both adored dancing, music, and good conversation. When Charles went to his club, she snuck away into his private
library, sipped brandy and read the ancient, beautiful tomes to her heart’s content.
But here, she could write and Charles could putter away in the garden.
In fact, Charles was staring out to the spot of tilled earth just by the river.
“What will you plant?” she asked.
He blinked, then smiled down at her. “Dahlias. Don’t you think? They are the happiest of flowers.”
“Very cheerful.”
“Would you like anything?” He reached to the small table positioned by the cushions and blankets the servants had set outside. “A strawberry perhaps?”
He waggled his brows devilishly as he picked a small, ripe, red berry and dangled it over her mouth.
In the summer, they delighted in cold salmon, berries, cream cake, and cold cucumbers for their lunch paired with crisp, cold, white wine.
Some days they chattered away to each other like two magpies over literature, the arts, or who was doing what in London Town. Some days they ate in companionable silence, merely enjoying each other’s conversation, like today. With fingers intertwined.
She opened her mouth then playfully nipped at the berry.
Just as soon as she crushed the sweet strawberry between her teeth, he leaned down and took her mouth in a long, slow kiss.
As he lingered, he whispered, “You, my dear, were always the answer.”
She crinkled her nose. “To what?”
“My happiness,” he replied softly.
“And you’re mine, my darling,” she replied, wondering how she had ever been so lucky to leave solitude behind in exchange for a partner that matched her in every way. It never would have occurred to her two years ago that the rake who came to Barring House would steal her heart. . . Then keep it safer and more protected than it had ever been. But whatever had drawn him into her sphere, she was immensely grateful. For since, she had known happiness. So much happiness. It didn’t matter if there were occasional dark days. For their light, lit by the fire of their love, managed to make the darkness more than bearable.
With that, she drew his mouth back down to hers, savoring the sweetness of their embrace and the knowledge that no matter what came, their love was there to guide them.
The End
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