by Emily Bryan
He had to remind himself of that fact after a quarter of an hour had passed without any word of her, and then again after half an hour. After three quarters of an hour, he was ready to seek out and assist the stubborn woman whether she liked it or not.
He was nearly to the door when it opened and Patience stepped into the room. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she looked even more distraught than she had been in the hall. Her face was drawn and tired, her green eyes glassy. It broke his heart.
“Patience, what is it? What’s happened?”
In a move too subtle to be an intentional insult, she turned away to softly close the door behind her. “Mrs. Meldrin said you were in here. It wasn’t necessary for you to wait.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I…” She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Thank you.”
He took a small, careful step back from her. If she wanted space, he could give her that. At the moment, if she wanted the moon in her hands, he’d find a way to give her that, too. “How is your father?”
“He’s asleep.”
That didn’t quite answer his question, but he decided not to press the matter. Not if it was going to prolong the sadness in her eyes.
“Would you like me to escort you back to the parlor?”
She shook her head. “I can’t…I need to pack.”
“Pack,” he repeated dully.
“Yes. I’m leaving. First thing in the morning.”
“Leaving? For where? How long?”
“Hertfordshire. Indefinitely.”
He couldn’t have heard her properly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to Hertfordshire. To the country.”
“The Little Season isn’t over yet.”
“It is for me, I’m afraid.”
He leaned down in an effort to catch her eyes, but she kept her gaze studiously on the floor. “What is this about, Patience? Is it your father? Has his illness taken a turn for the worse?”
“No, he is the same.”
“Is it…Patience…it’s not catching, is it?” Surely it wasn’t something she could have caught. He’d never once considered the possibility. The Meldrins had more sense than that, didn’t they? “You’re not…”
She glanced up at him for the first time. “No. No, I’m quite well.”
The rush of relief nearly made him dizzy. “Then what is it? Have you had a falling-out with Caroline or Mrs. Meldrin?”
She shook her head, but still couldn’t meet his eyes. “No. Leaving is entirely my decision.”
“I see.” He scowled at her. “No, I don’t. Tell me why.”
“I…I’ve reasons.”
“What are they?”
“They’re complicated.”
His mouth hooked up in a humorless smile. “That’s a very uncreative way of saying you’ll not tell me.”
She tossed her hands up in frustration. “We…we’re a burden to them here. We’ll be a burden to them in the country as well, but less so than in London.”
“The Meldrins can well afford the burden of keeping you and your father in London for another fortnight.”
“What burdens Mr. Meldrin can afford and what burdens he should have to carry are two separate matters.”
He hated that she made a sound point. Hated more that he could think of nothing to say that might change her mind…except perhaps an offer of marriage. She couldn’t leave him if they were bound by an engagement. And he bloody well didn’t want her leaving.
The words “marry me” hovered on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back.
Only a rash fool would propose marriage to a woman after such a brief courtship. These sorts of things took time, and thought, and planning.
He had a plan, damn it.
Another fortnight of coming to know each other, a visit to the Meldrin estate after the holidays, a conversation with Mr. Meldrin, or her father if he were well enough. And if those steps in his plan went well, then, and only then, would it be appropriate to extend an offer of marriage.
“Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay?”
She shook her head.
“Then there is nothing left to be said.” He stared at her for several long moments, and though he wasn’t aware of it at the time, later he would realize he used those moments to memorize every detail of her face.
She dropped her gaze again and turned away. “I have to go.”
“Safe journey, Patience.”
He watched her move quickly to the door. And then she was gone. A tickle of something that felt uncomfortably like panic skittered along his spine. Just like that, the woman had walked out of his life. She hadn’t even offered a proper good-bye. Then again, neither had he. “Bloody hell.”
They should have a proper good-bye, damn it. He headed for the door, determined to remedy the oversight. He knew it was irrational, perhaps even a little desperate. But he bloody well didn’t care.
He’d taken no more than a step when the door swung open again, admitting Mr. Meldrin. The older man took one look at William and shook his head. “It won’t do you any good to go after her right now.”
“I’m not…” William swore under his breath and fisted his hands at his sides. “You’re certain?”
Mr. Meldrin nodded as he closed the door behind him. “Girl’s as stubborn as they come.”
“Stubborn,” William repeated. The panic had begun to dull into a sick empty feeling.
“As her father.”
He wouldn’t have guessed it until that night. “I’d have learned that for myself, with a little more time.”
“And she’ll learn to trust you, with a little more time.”
“Time we no longer have.” He turned and looked at Mr. Meldrin. “Trust me with what? What is she hiding?”
“Nothing so terrible, in my opinion.” Mr. Meldrin shook his head. “But then, our own troubles always seem more consequential than they do to those around us.” He walked to a sideboard and poured a finger of brandy. “Just last week, Mrs. Meldrin refused to attend a dinner party because of a facial blemish. Damned if Caroline or I could see a single thing wrong with her, not so much as a bit of red. But she refused to budge, absolutely refused to believe she had anything but a mountain perched on the end of her nose.”
“Are you…are you telling me Patience left because of a pimple?”
Mr. Meldrin handed him the drink and poured one for himself. “You’re not much for riddles, are you?”
“I’m a bit distracted.” William swallowed the liquid down, not caring that he generally avoided spirits. He was already working on a plan that would allow him to be completely foxed before the night was out.
“The pimple is something of a metaphor,” Mr. Meldrin said. “Patience’s blemish is not quite so imaginary as my wife’s, but neither is it quite the mountain she believes it to be. Or perhaps, more importantly, the mountain she is certain others believe it to be.”
“Mountains out of molehills. Yes, I get it.” He couldn’t quite grasp the fact that, on top of everything else, he was having a conversation about pimples. “The difference here is that your wife told you about her blemish.”
“At length.”
“I can’t tell Patience she’s overreacting if I don’t know what she’s reacting to.”
“As I said, she needs time. Time,” Mr. Meldrin emphasized before William could interrupt with an argument, “you could make at Lord Hartwell’s Christmas ball next month.”
“The Christmas ball.”
“Indeed. My wife and daughter were able to gain a promise of attendance from Patience. Our estate is but a half-day’s ride from London. She’ll be returning on the eighteenth, the day before the ball, and leaving again the day after.”
“May I ask how they managed that?”
“Patience is remarkably susceptible to guilt, and my wife and daughter entirely too accomplished at providing it. They made something of a fuss at Caroline being left without her friend for th
e remainder of the Little Season.” Mr. Meldrin ran the back of his hand across his jaw. “It’s not a method I normally condone, but in this instance, I allowed it.”
Because he appreciated the result more than he disapproved of the method, William chose not to comment.
Mr. Meldrin swirled the liquid in his glass. “Do you know the odd thing about pimples, Lord Casslebury?”
“I…” They were back to pimples? He ran a tired hand down his face. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“The odd thing is that there’s no telling who will make mountains out of them. Nor is there any way of knowing who will point those mountains out to all and sundry.” He looked at William over his glass. “Mr. Seager saw something tonight. Something Patience would have preferred he had not.”
Bloody hell, Mr. Seager knew her secret, but not him? “I see. Any idea where I might find Mr. Seager?”
“His home, I imagine.”
“Right.” William set his drink down. “You’ll excuse me?”
“By all means, but a final piece of advice before you go? When Patience does confide in you, you might wish to avoid using the word ’overreacting.’ It seems to have an adverse effect on women.”
William did indeed find Mr. Seager at home—a slightly less than fashionable town house on the very edge of fashionable Mayfair, where he was seated at a very small table, in his very small study, with a very large decanter of brandy within grasping distance.
William took a seat across from him and said a quick prayer of thanks that the decanter retained most of its contents. Mr. Seager was a trifle thick even when sober. Though William had never seen the man in his cups, he’d wager a considerable sum the condition wouldn’t enhance the man’s powers of perception.
Mr. Seager tipped his glass at him. “Thought you’d be at the dinner yet, my lord. Or were you run off as well?”
William decided to ignore the question in favor of one of his own. “You’ve had an interesting night, I’m told.”
Mr. Seager made some sort of scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Nothing interesting about it. Horrifying, that’s what it was. To think of the attention I’ve devoted to Miss Meldrin, only to find her family hasn’t the sense to toss Miss Byerly’s father in an asylum where he belongs. Wager you weren’t aware they kept a madman in the house, either.”
While Mr. Seager slurped at his drink, William let that bit of information sink in. There it was, then—the reason Patience had left him. Her father hadn’t been in his cups the night of Lord Welsing’s ball, and he wasn’t suffering from a physical ailment now. He was mad.
The revelation prompted several emotions at once—sorrow for Patience, hurt that she hadn’t trusted him enough to share her burden, and most prevalent at present, anger at the man who would so carelessly spill Pa-tience’s most guarded secret.
Realizing his hands were curling into fists, William made a conscious effort to relax them. “It’s bad form to gossip about a family whose table you’ve only just come from, don’t you think? Bad form to gossip about a lady at all, really.”
Mr. Seager blinked slowly, as if trying to wrap his mind around a rather complicated puzzle. “Beg pardon?”
William resisted the urge to take hold of the man and shake some sense into him. Instead, he tried a more direct approach. “I believe you’re expecting a living from Viscount Wentwise in the near future?”
“Er, yes.” The man frowned and lifted his glass again.
William reached out, snatched it out of his hand, and set it out of reach. “Do I have your full attention, Mr. Seager? Because I should like to make myself absolutely clear on a particular matter.”
“I’m listening.” Mr. Seager’s voice came out perilously close to a whine. It was just irritating enough that when he reached out to reclaim his glass, William took some pleasure in slapping back his hand.
“Ouch! What the devil—?”
“If I hear a word,” William said slowly and, lest the oaf try to claim a misunderstanding, very clearly, “a single whispered word of what you witnessed tonight, from anyone, you will lose your living. In fact, I’ll make it my life’s work to see there is not a vicarage available to you in all of Britain. Do you understand?”
Mr. Seager gaped at him. “You can’t do that.”
“Really? Shall we put it to the test?”
“You…I…my grandfather is the Marquess of Bruckhaven.”
“I imagine if the marquess had the inclination to support the third son of his second daughter, you wouldn’t be in search of a living. But I could be mistaken.”
“This is an outrage.”
“I prefer to think of it as coming to an understanding.” He held Mr. Seager’s gaze for a moment. “Do we have an understanding?”
The younger man dropped his eyes and nodded miserably.
“Excellent.”
With that ugly bit of business concluded, William returned Mr. Seager’s glass and took his leave. He walked out the front door feeling both grimly satisfied by the visit, and still painfully deflated by Patience’s news of an early departure.
It was the latter that prompted him to follow through with his idea of becoming foxed. Well, that and for the satisfaction of knowing he was still capable, if he really put his mind to it, of seeing at least one of his plans come to fruition.
His attempt was met with great success, much to his regret the following morning. He woke and dressed, battling a tremendous headache, and lurched his way to the breakfast room determined to conquer the rebellion in his stomach with a proper meal. He fought his way through his first cup of coffee while contemplating the notion that his problem was not so much a recent inability to follow through with his plans, but the far more worrisome inability to devise a plan that did not lead to disaster.
Had he really expressed a desire for less order in his life? How did people stand it? Never knowing what to expect, what to do, what to feel? The uncertainty of it all was so damn…aggravating. The disorder was maddening. The disappointment was heartbreaking.
He paused in the act of reaching for his cup again.
Was he heartbroken? That seemed a trifle melodramatic. He rubbed the heel of his hand against the hollow ache in his chest. Bruised, he decided, perhaps a bit scuffed up, but surely not broken.
Which led to the question—did he plan for his usual, peaceful holiday at his estate in Staffordshire, where the heart Patience had managed to bruise, but not break, could heal in peace…or did he plan for a Christmas in London and hand her the opportunity to finish the job?
Chapter Nine
One month later.
Lord and Lady Hartwell’s Christmas ball was, by all appearances, a tremendous success. The house was filled with beautiful music, savory refreshments, and best of all, the laughter of a hundred delighted guests. Patience did not number among them. She was in attendance, certainly; she just wasn’t delighted.
What she was, was weary from the trip, still heartbroken from when she’d last been in London, and now worried about her father. She shouldn’t have come to town without him. He’d overheard her discussing her trip to Hartwell House for the Christmas ball, and he’d been agitated before she’d gone—arguing with the staff, complaining bitterly of being left out of the holiday festivities.
What if something happened while she was away? What if she was needed and couldn’t be reached in time?
What if Mr. Seager appeared at the ball and made a fuss about her father? The Meldrins had assured her that he’d left town without saying a word to anyone, but what if—
“This isn’t at all like you—to be so resolute not to enjoy yourself.” Caroline handed her a glass of lemonade. “It’s really more like me. Have we decided I’m fashionable?”
“I’m not miserable. I’m concerned.”
“Well, you look miserable.”
Patience turned and blinked at her friend. “Was that comment meant to improve my mood?”
“It was meant to alter it, at the very least
.” Caroline scrutinized her face. “It worked as well. Your lips are twitching.”
For the first time in too long, Patience felt the beginnings of a real smile. “I missed you, Caroline.”
“And I you. So much, in fact, that after your departure, I danced at every ball I attended, simply because I knew you’d want me to.”
“Did you really?”
Caroline nodded. “At least twice at each.”
“That’s wonderful. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“No. I was quite miserable.” Caroline shrugged and took a sip of her drink. “But I did dance.”
Patience laughed and winced simultaneously. “I do wish you could find a gentleman who appealed to you.”
“As it happens, I did. Just not while dancing.”
The sound of Virginia Higgs’s cheerful voice kept Patience from responding. “Miss Meldrin, Miss Byerly, how lovely to see you both again.”
Patience turned, swallowing past a dry lump in her throat. She hadn’t expected to see Mrs. Higgs at Hartwell House. She’d hoped, very much, not to see anyone or anything that reminded her of William, which was a hopeless wish, really. Everything reminded her of William. Even the trees outside the house made her think of the day she’d spent with him in the park.
But the appearance of his sister was more than she could have prepared for, as was the realization of just how much the woman resembled her brother. They had the same shaped eyes. Patience couldn’t stop herself from staring as Caroline and Mrs. Higgs exchanged polite greetings.
She’d thought of William’s eyes for weeks, along with his smile, his laugh, the sound of his voice, the way he rocked on his heels when he was thoughtful, and the way his jaw tensed just a hair when she’d upset one of his plans. She thought of the way his gaze so often dipped to her mouth, the feel of his strong hands as they gently pulled her close, and the heat of his body pressed against hers as they kissed.
Oh, how she missed him. She’d never known it was possible to actually hurt with missing someone, and hurt even more knowing she had only herself to blame. What a hypocrite she’d been, pushing herself and Caroline to enjoy everything life had to offer, and then cowering away when life offered the greatest experience of all: the chance to love.