To Love a Lord

by Michelle Pennington

  “What do you want?” Aston asked as he scrubbed his hands over his bleary face.

  Stanton walked over to the desk and picked up the note as he said, “I thought it was time you and I had a talk.”

  Looking down at the note and unfolding it, he noticed that the creases were new, not worn as the original note had been. What had the paper looked like on the note he had thrown in the fire? He cursed himself for not being more observant.

  Lord Aston laughed and pulled it out of his hands. “As it turns out, the wrong Miss Wendover received this little tribute of my undying love. And I must say, the possibilities are interesting enough to make me glad of it. She’s such a ripe little beauty. I wonder…”

  “You may leave off wondering if you desire to keep your body and soul together.”

  Stanton had not meant to be so blunt, but the anger that shot through him at the obvious and lascivious direction of Aston’s thoughts had been impossible to contain.

  “Oh, ho. So it is like that, is it? But she will be wasted on you. You are far too straight-laced to enjoy her properly.”

  Stanton took a step toward him, and Lord Aston froze like an animal sensing danger. His instincts were not amiss. If he but knew the narrow the edge upon which Stanton’s temper balanced...

  Taking the note back and holding it in front of Lord Aston’s petrified face, Stanton said, “I came to discover if you might be the one who had made a copy of this note. But you are too half-witted to even notice that it isn’t the original.”

  Lord Aston pulled it from his light grip and studied it. It took him only a moment of closer inspection to see that it was indeed a fake. “Someone is very good at forgery. Even I wouldn’t have noticed that this is not my writing if I hadn’t known to look.”

  Stanton watched as Lord Aston paced about the room, rubbing his forehead. Something about the note had clearly disturbed the man, so Stanton asked, “If you had done it, I could easily have guessed at your motives. Since it was not you, what possible reason could someone have for doing this?”

  Lord Aston threw the note down on his bed. “I don’t know. To cause further speculation. For their own amusement. To discredit me.”

  Stanton leaned against the wall and studied him. “But no one besides you, Miss Patience, and myself know that you penned the original. Correct?”

  “How should I know? Until this morning, I would have sworn only Amelia knew, and I thought she dropped the letter to force me to the point.”

  “Isn’t that your whole intention?”

  Aston scrubbed his fingers through his hair and paced around the room. “Yes, but it sticks in a man’s gullet, you know? Would you want to greet that face at the breakfast table the rest of your life? Especially when her cousin is—” Stanton took a step toward him, fists clenched, but Aston threw up his hands defensively. “I’ll say no more!”

  “You know, you could just retrench and live frugally. With some economy, you could likely recover and marry to please yourself instead of your debtors.”

  Aston looked at him in shock. “That’s grim advice. Anyway, I daresay I’m being melodramatic. I can take my pleasure elsewhere after all. A man doesn’t even need to be under the same roof as his wife more than a few times a year I daresay.”

  Thoroughly despising the man, Stanton couldn’t resist galling him further. “There’s an heir to be thought of.”

  Aston visibly shuddered. “Well, I’ve managed to court her so far. If you close your eyes, kissing her ain’t so bad. I daresay I’ll manage it. And it’s better than debtor’s prison.”

  “Now that’s an ideal comparison, isn’t it.”

  Stanton turned to go, unable to abide anymore, but Aston called him back. “Why are you so worried about the note anyway? It’s not like anyone can prove it’s hers.”

  “It bothers me that someone thinks it’s worthwhile to not only take it, but copy it and keep the original.”

  “That is odd. Why, without names on it, what could anyone do with it? And why would they care to?”

  “I have no more idea than you. I’m afraid we may have to wait and see.”

  “I could always claim it myself,” Aston said.

  Stanton studied him. “Just be sure that you do not breath a word that tarnishes Patience Wendover’s name. I trust there is no need to elucidate upon the consequences should you do so.”

  “Not at all, Stanton. You’ve claimed your territory, never fear. If there is one thing I understand, it’s self-preservation.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Patience stood next to Dora in her shift and dressing gown, looking over the contents of her wardrobe. It was a disheartening sight.

  “There’s just no way ‘round it, miss. You’ll have to wear the yellow one again.”

  When Dora had packed for the house party upon leaving London, Patience had been quite sure that she could make do with only four evening dresses and her ball gown. After a whole season of wearing her cousin’s castoffs multiple times over, she’d thought she was inured to the humiliation of being seen twice in the same dress. But now, when she so much wanted to look her best, it was certainly dispiriting.

  “Well, perhaps if I wear different gloves or a shawl or something—” A knock on her door made her pause. “It’s probably Harriet coming to chat. She spends so much time with Lord Adlington that we’ve barely spoken this whole time.”

  But when Dora opened the door, Patience’s stomach sank when she saw who it was.

  Aunt Wendover came in, her cane thumping lightly across the floor. “Leave us, Dora.”

  Dora, ever in awe of Aunt Wendover, bobbed a curtsey and flew out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  “What are you wearing tonight, Patience? I want you to look your best.”

  Since this was the first time Aunt Wendover had ever cared for her appearance beyond ensuring that she looked respectable enough to be associated with the family, it took her a moment before she could think well enough to answer.

  “I’m, uh, wearing the yellow one again.”

  Aunt Wendover frowned. “Nonsense. I’ll have one of Amelia’s gowns sent over. You should look lovely in the new rose-satin gown we got from the modiste before leaving London. The one with the spangled net overdress.”

  With her brows pinched tight, Patience watched her aunt, trying to determine what was going on. Her aunt moved over to her dressing table and opened her trinket box. With a cold, determined expression, she sifted through the few pieces of jewelry there and pulled out her mother’s pearl necklace.

  “Wear these. It will remind Sir George of your innocence and youth.”

  She’d been afraid it was that.

  Remembering Stanton’s assurances, she gathered up her courage. “I’m sorry, Aunt Wendover, but I cannot marry Sir George.”

  Aunt Wendover dropped the pearls on the dressing table and turned to glare at Patience. “You cannot deny him either, not if you wish to continue under my roof.”

  “He is three times my age.”

  “And he’s wealthy enough to buy an abbey. It may not seem like what you want when you’re young and hopeful with your eyes full of stars, but you will thank me when you are a wealthy widow with the means to keep you and your mother in luxury for the rest of your days. Trust your uncle to make sure to attend to that in the settlements.”

  “I have no doubt that my uncle would do what is best for me.” She let her meaning settle into the tense air of the room. “But I am sorry, I would rather spend the rest of my life in a one-room hovel then spend it married to Sir George.”

  Aunt Wendover’s bosom heaved, and her face grew crimson with suppressed rage. “You ungrateful wretch. And have you thought at all of your mother? No doubt you have thought of other means to support you both? I don’t doubt you think Stanton will set you up quite nicely as a mistress. But your beauty will fade, and make no mistake that as enamored of you as he may be now, there will come a day when he looks to make an advantageous marriage.”
<
br />   Patience was beyond caring if she exposed her feelings and hopes. “And what makes you so sure that Stanton does not mean to marry me? He does not need a rich bride.”

  “No rich man ever got that way or stayed that way by not using every opportunity to his advantage. Why would he marry you when he won’t even glance twice at Amelia? No, it’s clear to me that he wants you. Oh yes. There is no mistaking that look in a man’s eyes when it rests on a girl like you.”

  Patience knew, with serene clarity, that her aunt was wrong. No doubt she would be right when speaking of most men, but she was completely ignorant of Stanton’s character or sincerity. True, Stanton had said nothing to her about marriage, but she trusted implicitly that he did not mean anything improper by her.

  “Aunt, I appreciate that you and Uncle Wendover have given me opportunities that I would otherwise never have had. I am grateful for it. But my gratitude does not lead me to make myself miserable. I will not accept Sir George, should he propose, so I beg you will not encourage him to do so. And I will not wear the rose-satin gown to parade myself before him.”

  Their gazes held and clashed. The friction of a lightening storm danced between them, her aunt’s eyes turning colder by the moment.

  “Very well. You will not obey me. Certainly, you are a grown woman and may make your own choices. And certainly, you will not wear Amelia’s gown or any other I have given you.”

  With those words, Aunt Wendover tugged on the bell pull and went to the wardrobe, pushing the doors open wider. Leaning her cane against the side, she methodically began pulling every gown out of the wardrobe and dropping them on the floor. Patience watched in simmering rage but said nothing. If her aunt chose to be so petty, she would not stop her.

  A moment later, a maid entered and betrayed her surprise by a gasp.

  “Take these gowns to my room and be quick about it. Bring my maid back with you to help.”

  Not saying a word, Patience moved to the window and stared out into the darkening twilight. She would not let her aunt know how upset she was nor plead with her in any way.

  “I will inform Lady Blakemore and the other guests that you are indisposed. If you change your mind, I will send a gown back for you. Regardless, you will see Sir George tomorrow before the ball and you will accept him, or we will leave from here and deposit you on your mother’s doorstep where you will never have dealings with my family again.”

  Even after the door shut, Patience did not turn from the window, but she let her head drop. The pride that had strengthened her was now exhausted, leaving her with nothing but fear and self-pity.

  She cried as she had not cried in years, with the tears running hot down her face like a coursing river, her breath coming in great, wracking gasps. Angry with herself for giving into such weakness, she turned and went to look for a clean handkerchief. As she did so, there was a slight knock before Dora slipped into the room. Their eyes met, and then Dora was across the room, taking her in a comforting embrace.

  “There now, miss. Don’t worry. She’s a monster and no mistake, but you’ll come about. Just see if you don’t.”

  Patience shuddered in her arms. “I don’t know what to do, Dora. She’s left me nothing but the shift and robe I’m standing in. I have no clothes and no shoes and no money. I’m completely and utterly in her power.”

  “Mayhap you would be if you were friendless. But just you mind me, miss, you’re not. And so she’ll learn before she’s much older.” Dora stepped back and went to the wash stand. She came back with a cool, damp handkerchief. “Bathe your face and neck. You’ve gone all blotchy. I’ll be back soon.”

  Dora was indeed back quickly and not alone. Harriet burst into the room, a pillar of fiery indignation. Patience felt an immense relief sweep over her as soon as she saw her friend. Her aunt had seemed to cast a shadow of hate and jealousy and tyranny over the whole world, but Harriet’s presence was a warm reminder that there was love in it also.

  “That woman,” Harriet said, looking toward the empty wardrobe. “I never would have dreamed someone could be so evil if I hadn’t seen it myself. But don’t worry a moment. You’re going to stay with me and Mama. And you’ll wear one of my gowns to dinner this evening, and we’re going to throw her meanness in her ugly face.”

  “Oh Harriet, you are a treasure. But I don’t dare go down to dinner. Not with her there.”

  “I’ll be there, and so will Stanton.”

  When she said his name, Patience felt a calm come over her. He wouldn’t let anything dreadful happen to her. And she did so want to see him.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, her voice hushed at her own temerity.

  Harriet hugged her. “Let me finish dressing, and I’ll come back. Oh, just wait. I’ve been dying to see you in something better than Amelia’s castoffs all season.”

  While Harriet was gone, Dora put up her hair, taking longer than usual with the pins and crimping iron. Patience dabbed a bit of scent at her wrists and décolletage and wondered what her friend would bring her to wear.

  Harriet’s taste did not disappoint.

  When the two young ladies went down to the drawing room behind Harriet’s mother, their arms linked together for courage, Patience knew that she looked her best in a white silk gown with a fine gauze overlay embroidered with floral sprays in silver thread and a deep border of palm leaves and scrolls at the hem. With her mother’s pearls around her neck and Harriet beside her, she entered the dragon’s den.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stanton could barely restrain himself from pacing about Lady Blakemore’s drawing room as he waited for Patience to enter. It had been a long, restless day knowing she was so close at hand but completely unavailable to him. His worry over her situation made it difficult to keep his usual calm demeanor in place.

  He had seated himself next to the Countess, knowing she would not require conversation from him when he was not in the mood for it, and indeed she sat placidly next to him, watching the interactions of the other guests with an amused expression, as if enjoying a farce.

  It would have amused him too, had he not been so caught up in other matters, to see Mr. Stanley blushing from the flirtations of the Emery ladies. Besides that tableau, he noticed the steady, possessive gaze Mr. Viceroy had fixed on Amelia while she flirted with Lord Aston and Lord Fortescue, just as if she’d been a diamond of the first water. There was trouble brewing there, no doubt of it.

  “Let me see,” Lady Blakemore said. “Who is not yet with us?”

  Her husband cleared his throat. “The Percys, my dear. And Miss Wendover.”

  “Is your niece joining us this evening?” Lady Blakemore asked, turning to Mrs. Wendover.

  Patience’s aunt smiled. “She’s not feeling well, so I have induced her to stay in her room this evening.”

  Stanton’s eyebrows rose. Patience had looked well enough earlier that afternoon when she’d been playing for the other ladies. And he’d seen her recover from a heat-induced headache easily enough to be suspicious now of Mrs. Wendover’s excuse. He was on the point of pressing the lady further when he felt a light pat on his arm. The Countess shook her head at him, so he held his peace.

  “That is really too bad,” Lady Blakemore said. “I have been looking forward to more of her enlivening music this evening. Such a treat. We must hope she will be better for the ball tomorrow night.”

  “I worry that she will not be. She is sadly run down, the poor child,” Aunt Wendover said. “Indeed, I intend to take her home to recover her strength the next morning.”

  Stanton could take no more. He stood, determined to discover the truth. But just as he did, Mrs. Percy came in, followed by Patience and Harriet. The rest of the gentlemen stood as well, so no doubt they thought his hasty movement no more than good manners.

  As he feasted his eyes upon her, longing to go to her side, he tried to puzzle out how she came to be there after all. Glancing quickly toward Mrs. Wendover, he caught an expression on her face so full of c
oncentrated hostility that he knew at once Patience had a dangerous enemy in her aunt.

  Well, and so her aunt would find one in him.

  “My dear girl,” Lady Blakemore said. “I am not sure I should let you disobey your aunt. She is very concerned for you, and indeed, you are quite pale. Are you sure you are well enough to join us?”

  Stanton saw the effort it took her to smile, but she did so quite convincingly. “I am well, Lady Blakemore, thank you.”

  Harriet seemed to pull her further into the room. “I gave her one of my mother’s famous headache powders, and it has restored her.”

  “What?” Mrs. Percy asked. “Oh yes, one of my famous headache powders.”

  “How lovely,” Lady Blakemore said. “You shall have to let me try them. I suffer from the headache incessantly.” The butler came in at that moment to give his mistress the cue that dinner was ready to be served, and Lady Blakemore stood. “Shall we go?” she asked to the room at large.

  Stanton turned his eyes from his beloved to assist the Countess. She took his offered hand, and when she was standing, leaned toward him to murmur. “It would seem that your beauty is in difficulties.”

  “I’m afraid so. But for no longer than I can manage, I promise you.”

  “Bring her to me if need be. Eliza Wendover knows better than to take me on as an adversary.”

  “You are a treasure, Lady Du’Breven.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied. “I am a managing busybody. And I love being in the middle of a scandal.”

  Stanton frowned. “There will not be a scandal if I can stop it.”

  Lady Du’Breven smiled knowingly. “My lord, this party is ripe for scandal. It simmers at the edges even now, and soon it will be spewing like a pot boiling over.”

  Stanton somehow survived the eternal dinner, course after course. He was seated nowhere near Patience at the dinner table and could only see the top of her head. If he’d at least been seated by Mrs. Percy, whom he suspected knew at least in part what was going on, he would have been content. Instead he was forced to make polite conversation with Mrs. Emery and Lady Wyndham.