To Love a Lord

by Michelle Pennington

  Her annoyance growing, Patience picked up her scent bottle and dabbed on the rose-and-lavender perfume. “And of what importance is that to me?” she asked.

  “Oh, miss, as if I didn’t know.” Dora grinned and fastened a string of pearls around her mistress’s neck.

  Patience stood and glanced at herself in the mirror, unable to help wondering what Stanton would think of her tonight. As for Lord Aston, well, after all, what had he ever done for her but give her compliments and a love note that she now regretted ever setting eyes on?

  She never would have guessed that Stanton, of all men, might have the power to stir her emotions like this, and with seemingly so little effort on his part.

  How was it possible that steadiness and strength and sincerity could prove more intoxicating than charm of manner and easy smiles?

  But she was determined not to examine her feelings too closely, no matter how significant Stanton’s words had seemed, no matter how his soft kiss on her fingers had made her feel.

  As she went downstairs, she determined to keep her distance from him—just because he had such an unfortunate effect on her control. Every time she was around him, her emotions ran wild. She could not risk her aunt learning of her growing interest.

  She also could not possibly play for company tonight. Not the way he wanted her to. She dared not think what the consequences would be.

  But by the time the company had gathered in the drawing room after supper, Patience felt strange new storms of emotion that she was afraid might be jealousy. Truly, could the Emery sisters be any more obvious in their flirtations with Lord Stanton? And their mother! The woman sat smiling on them as if they were behaving just as they ought. When Eleanor Emery reached out, laughing, and rested her hand on Lord Stanton’s arm, Patience’s anger bubbled to the surface and she looked away, afraid she might betray her feelings.

  All out of patience with herself, she looked to where Amelia and Lord Aston sat close together in a corner near the window. Why didn’t she feel jealous about that? And why did she not care that Amelia intended to claim a kiss from the man she had been so sure she loved just two days ago? Well, she did care, but only enough that it would soothe her sore pride to have Amelia proven wrong.

  Just then, Amelia leaned close to murmur something in Aston’s ear. With a slight nod, he stood and slipped out the double French doors that opened onto the balcony outside. Amelia sat still, primly looking around the room. Then she met Patience’s eyes and sent her a smug look before standing and slipping outside behind Aston.

  Shocked at her normally reserved cousin’s effrontery, she stared at the doors. She had actually done it!

  Then Harriet was beside her, tugging on her arm. “Did you see that?”

  “Yes, I saw,” Patience answered, whispering. Hopefully, Harriet would quiet her voice before they made a scene.

  “You know what I think?” Harriet asked.

  “Do I dare ask?”

  “I think Aston sent that love note to Amelia.”

  Patience opened her eyes wide. “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s just the sort of ramshackle thing he would do, and that’s why she’s so sure of him.”

  There was no way she could argue without revealing that he had sent the letter to her and not Amelia.

  Then a spark of anger lit inside her. What was Aston about to be sending her love notes but sneaking off to a rendezvous with Amelia? Surely her cousin had misled him in some way to lure him out onto the balcony. And when he didn’t kiss her, Patience intended to be there to see it.

  “Come along, Harriet, dear. I’m feeling faint. I believe some cool night air would revive me.”

  Harriet giggled and stood with her. “I believe I am feeling the heat myself.”

  They went outside, and Patience found that it was, actually, a relief to be outside with a cool breeze fanning her heated cheeks. But Lord Aston and Harriet were nowhere to be found.

  “Where do you think they’ve gone?” Harriet asked in a whisper.

  “Perhaps they’ve gone down those steps and into the garden.”

  They walked to the steps, their slippers making no noise on the smooth stones. They reached the bottom, turned toward the garden, and came to an abrupt halt, grabbing each other in surprise. There in front of them, Aston had Amelia pressed to the stone wall, and he looked to be feasting on her neck as she tipped her head back to give him better access. His hands seemed to be everywhere, and then he was kissing her full on the mouth. No delicate kisses either—the man looked as if he might be trying to swallow her whole.

  “Oh my,” Harriet said, shrieking.

  Patience could have slapped her, for upon hearing the sound, Aston turned around and saw them there. His expression grew hard but oddly triumphant.

  “There are rats in the garden,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk but horribly mocking.

  Shocked beyond belief and horribly confused, Patience turned and ran. She didn’t look back to see if Harriet had followed her, thinking only of getting away from the scene.

  She ran into the drawing room, heedless of discretion, and the whole company turned her direction with shocked expressions as the door banged open. She looked around wildly, cursing herself, but frozen in place.

  Then Harriet came in, put an arm around her waist, and pulled her into the room. “Poor Patience saw a rat just now as we were refreshing ourselves in the garden. It was horribly ugly and frightening.”

  “You poor dear,” Lady Blakemore said, motioning to her to sit down. “The tea tray has just arrived. Come and have some.”

  Patience moved to the offered seat and sat woodenly, taking the tea cup offered her with trembling hands.

  “There now,” Lady Blakemore said. “You’ll feel better in a moment. And I’ll have the gardener out in the morning with the dogs to root it out.”

  But Patience couldn’t respond. She managed a slight nod and returned to staring down at her tea.

  A deep, calming voice spoke near her. “Perhaps Miss Wendover would like to play something for us on the pianoforte. I’ve heard that it is calming for musical people to let their minds focus on their performance.”

  Patience did not respond, afraid that if she spoke, a flood of words might come out that would shock everyone. But Stanton was precisely right. She needed to play. Setting her tea down on a nearby table, untouched and still steaming, she moved to the pianoforte.

  “Oh, well,” her Aunt Wendover sputtered. “I suppose she may play something light. And short.” The last was a command.

  But Patience paid her no mind. She began to play—not the delicate, mournful nocturne she had played earlier, but a dark, brooding piece by Mozart. As her fingers worked the keys and the notes rose to her ears, sinking deep into her soul, it did anything but calm her. Indeed, it unleashed the torrent inside her. It spilled out into her performance, and she felt powerless to control it, as if she was clinging to a runaway horse.

  As she played the last note, the silence became deafening. There was no polite applause to fill the void. At last, she looked up, appalled at the expressions of those around her. They all looked more stunned than if she had raised her skirt and tied her garters. But then her eyes met Lord Stanton’s, and the expression on his face was so different. It was as if he had been moved, enthralled even, instead of shocked.

  “Brilliant,” he murmured. And then he began to clap, and soon, the room filled with the sound of applause.

  When it died away, Countess Du’Breven said forcefully, “Well, it’s about time someone livened this party up a bit.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soul-stirring as Patience’s performance was, as lovely as she looked in the candlelight with her chest rising and falling in agitation and her eyes flashing fire, Stanton couldn’t help but wonder at the source for her turbulent emotions. Something had happened outside with Harriet. But what could it be? It had not been a rat.

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Wendover, “now that you
are done making a spectacle of yourself, you would be good enough to play for Amelia.”

  “But where is Miss Wendover?” Lady Blakemore asked, looking around the room.

  “I am here,” came a soft, breathless voice from the doorway.

  Stanton looked at her in surprise, his eyes taking note of her windswept hair and pale skin that contrasted sharply with the pink on her cheekbones. Her thin face looked more pinched than usual, but her expression held a note of…triumph? Victory? Why did she suddenly hold her chin in the air as she passed Patience at the pianoforte?

  Lady Blakemore eyed her with a confused expression. “Did you go out with your cousin and Miss Percy? I didn’t see you.”

  Miss Wendover looked down at the sheet music on a nearby table, shuffling through it carefully. As she held one sheet closer for inspection, Stanton could have sworn her hand trembled. But her voice was steady enough when she replied.

  “I was overheated and stepped out before them. But we met in the garden.”

  Stanton watched as Miss Wendover turned then, directing a very pointed look at Patience, who sat calmly watching her. It was only his intense study that allowed him to see the very slight upward twitch to Patience’s eyebrow.

  As Miss Wendover carried a piece of sheet music to her, Patience answered. “Yes indeed. And then, of course, I saw the rat and ran back inside. I am afraid I am shocked more easily than you are, cousin.”

  “Surprising,” Amelia said, looking down her narrow nose at Patience. “Considering you were practically raised in the stables.”

  Stanton saw color infuse Patience’s neck and rise to her cheeks—a burning, angry color matched by the flame in her tea-brown eyes. What had occurred in the garden to put them at outs with each other?

  He was left to speculate as Patience played a jaunty introduction and Miss Wendover gave a very painful rendition of “A Rose in the Thorns.”

  But near the end of the song, a movement caught Stanton’s eye. He looked up sharply, just in time to see Lord Aston slip in through the French doors in a manner that could be called nothing less than stealthy. Stanton carefully lowered his head, tipping it slightly sideways to see what the man would do. After glancing around to see if anyone had noticed him, Aston smirked and turned to carefully close the door so that it wouldn’t be heard over the music. He sauntered over to a chair in the corner and sank down into it.

  “Ah, how delightful,” murmured the Countess Du’Breven next to Stanton.

  He turned, surprised. “Pardon?”

  “The rat in the garden.”

  He had come to this same conclusion himself, but did not understand her amusement. Perhaps because the jealousy and anger churning within him precluded all other emotions.

  “I have often wondered,” Stanton said curtly, barely keeping his voice quiet enough to not draw attention to them, “why ladies are at once repulsed and enamored of such creatures.”

  The Countess adjusted the fine lace of her shawl. “Naturally. Men are so prosaic. Women are much more romantic, and because of that, very forgiving. We long for the same surge of emotion men find in gambling or racing or boxing—or whatever other idiotic pursuits you engage in. But we look for it in love. Unfortunately, it is a rare man who understands how to give it to us.”

  “But surely not an innocent, who has no knowledge of such things.”

  “Oh, but there are books—lovely romances––and veiled warnings from careful mamas, and confidences from married friends. But do not worry, sir. I believe your ladylove’s lips to be pure as yet.”

  Stanton raised his eyebrows, wondering what the lady knew. “It is not her lips I am concerned with at the moment but her heart.”

  “You’d best change your tactics. You are fighting the battle without your best weapons.” Her eyes swept over him boldly. “And, dear sir, I suspect your arsenal would be…impressive.”

  Torn between shock and laughter, Stanton was struck speechless.

  The Countess reached over and patted his arm. “You came here to woo her, Stanton, so get on with it. She is not looking for kindness and propriety. She wants romance.”

  Dark emotions were clawing at his mind—jealousy, anger, and the sting of betrayal. Could she still want Aston? He had thought they had developed an understanding at least, if not more. “I will not be a rat in the garden. And if that is what she desires, perhaps I should step back and let her have it.”

  “Bah.” The Countess scowled. “I had thought you wiser than that.” She made use of her cane to stand and moved to sit next to her hostess.

  Stanton was left to look across the room to Patience as she stood from the pianoforte. Moving stiffly, she went to sit beside her friend, Miss Percy. But away from the pianoforte, the color and vibrancy that had shimmered around her faded. She looked lost and broken, her brows drawn together as if the pattern of the carpet displeased her.

  That was all it took to shift his emotions again. His heart ached. For her. For his own hopes, which had begun to grow, only to be dashed again. For if she could still be hurt by Lord Aston, whatever had happened out there, surely it must mean her heart was still loyal to him.

  The butler and a footman came in to clear away the tea service, and another servant followed in their wake, approaching Mr. Viceroy, who stood and stepped away with him. He listened impassively to the servant and then dismissed him with a flick of his hand. Stanton’s faint curiosity was replaced with chagrin when Madeline Emery began warbling “Cherry Ripe” with dramatic enthusiasm.

  Stanton applauded politely when she was done but carefully avoided meeting her eyes, lest she think him enthralled by her performance. Blast Lady Blakemore for inviting them. He needed to be careful not to do anything that might be perceived as encouragement. For once in his life, he was prepared to be rude, if need be, to keep them at arms-length.

  The whole evening had gone to muck.

  With the indispensable musical portion of the evening completed, the guests settled into conversation. Stanton picked up a book that sat on a nearby table, not wanting to converse with anyone. It was a book of sermons, unfortunately. He wondered how such a thing came to be in Lady Blakemore’s drawing room, but shrugged and opened the cover.

  He was not long left to the improving passages of How to Behave: A Pocket Manual of Etiquette. Mr. Viceroy sat down beside him after a few minutes. Stanton’s eyes flicked his way, but the gentleman’s attention seemed wholly focused on Miss Wendover and Lord Fortescue, whose heads were bent close together over a piece of paper. As Stanton looked closer, he realized it was the love note. How he wished that scrap of sewage at the devil.

  “One must wonder,” Mr. Viceroy said coolly, “if Lord Aston is at all cognizant that half the men in this room would happily throw him off a cliff.”

  A corner of Stanton’s mouth quirked up. “A right cross to his arrogant face would be more satisfactory.”

  “Perhaps that would satisfy your bloodlust, but not mine.”

  At this surprising statement, Stanton raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

  Mr. Viceroy lowered his voice. “It was not your Miss Wendover being savagely kissed against the garden wall.” His voice was stoic, but when he was done speaking, his jaw clenched in agitation.

  Stanton looked hard at the unassuming man. “You saw what occurred?”

  “My servant did. One of his duties, shall we say, is to be where I cannot.”

  “The more I learn of you, Viceroy, the more certain I become that you are a man of dangerous competency.”

  “But not ruthlessness.”

  Stanton bowed his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “No need. Let me prove it.” Viceroy’s gaze bored into Stanton’s, his eyes bright and hard. “It would further my interests for Lord Aston to transfer his attentions from one cousin to the other. I know, however, that such would not suit you. You might say our objectives are at odds, and yet, I will tell you a piece of information that may aid your cause. Lord Aston mocked Patien
ce harshly in the garden. Added to the scene she witnessed, she would have been much shocked. Her heart will be like a bird with a broken wing—easily caught.”

  Stanton drew away from Mr. Viceroy. “Ah, but I credit her with more mettle than that. And I confess, I wish her to come freely and fully.”

  “Such is my passion that I will not be so particular about how I achieve my aim.”

  Stanton raised an eyebrow. “The difference in our desire lies not in strength but in quality.”

  At this same moment, the ladies in the room, taking their cue from Lady Blakemore, rose to retire for the evening. Stanton and Viceroy each stood and separated.

  With his long stride, Stanton was able to reach Patience before she left the room. There was nothing he could say to her here—not that he knew what he would say. Indeed, he cursed himself for being so fully under her spell. But there was no resisting her; she drew him like the moon pulled on the tides, and he couldn’t let her go without saying something.

  “Until tomorrow, Miss Wendover,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

  She tilted her head, laying her hand in his. As he raised it to his lips, her eyes shimmered with some hidden emotion and the corners of her lips tugged down. “I look forward to it, Lord Stanton. Will the morning be fair, do you think?”

  “On the contrary. I believe a tempest will be racing across the park.”

  To his great delight, his reference to their morning ride brought a warm, secretive smile to her face. “That would be lovely. I always enjoy a storm. Good night.”

  She pulled her hand from his as she turned away, but the feel of her slender fingers resting in his stayed with him, haunting him. He turned and strode to the French doors which had been opened so often through the evening and went outside to collect his disordered thoughts.

  The moon was full and the sky clear. The rose bushes and ornamental shrubs were washed in silver light, and all was quiet and still, at odds with his beating heart. He leaned against the wall of the mansion, which was still warm from the heat of the day, and crossed his arms.