Patience (3 page)

She groaned and shuddered. Tearing his mouth from hers, Matthew gazed down at her as he drew ragged breaths. He’d rolled her beneath him. Christ, her half-closed eyes glittered with passion and soft pants escaped her kiss-swollen lips. Though her hands gripped the sleeves of his shirt, she lay limp and breathless beneath him, her bright curls spilling everywhere. His cock throbbed hungrily against her thigh. She drew a deep breath and her eyelids fluttered.

He could take her now. Right on the couch.

A dark lust moved in him.

With a groan, he bent close and threaded his fingers into her hair. But the moment he did, a sharp sting cut across his knuckle. He froze as the nasty little pain sliced through his desire. Pushing aside Patience’s heavy curls, he stared at Rosalind’s crumpled letter and the sharp corner that had cut him. Just above it, he could see her tight, perfect signature.

His anger boiled. He crushed his hand over the thing as he returned his gaze to Patience. Looking at her, his lust flared immediately. But that only served to anger him more. He wasn’t in control. He was completely
out
of control. How the hell could he be so damned weak—so pathetically desperate for a woman’s arms? His fist tightened around the letter. He’d learned nothing!

“I told you”—Patience’s soft voice was almost a whisper—“we shouldn’t have done it.”

Matthew frowned into her gaze. He saw tension in her beautiful eyes, but no censure. His cock throbbed and he hated himself for wanting her so badly.

Her hands fell away from him. “Go.”

Why wasn’t he?

Patience’s eyes never left him as he forced his muscles to move, forced himself to pull away. Had his body a voice, it would have groaned in protest and resentment as he peeled himself slowly apart from her. And the more he withdrew, the more those feelings escalated. Until, by the time he got to his feet, he was stiff with a bitter fury.

Turning slowly, he faced the portrait of his mother—the beautiful, deceitful woman who had always claimed to love him. She was the source of all his pain. He wanted to rip the picture off the wall. He wanted to tear it to shreds and throw the remnants out the window.

He hated her. And he’d
despised
being “loved” by her. For even before the scandal, her character had been well known. What had it said of
him
to be loved by such a woman?

Christ, he’d spent his whole fucking life trying to make up for the fact that he was loved by her. He’d been honest and honorable—gracious and good- humored. In school, he’d tended to his studies. Once out, he’d built a fortune. He’d moved in the highest of social circles. And, all the while, he’d searched for a love he never need apologize for—a decent love, a noble love. A loyal and unconditional love.

Lifting his fist, he squeezed Rosalind’s crumpled letter into a tight airless lump. His entire bloody existence had been either a reaction against the love he’d had, or a search for the love he’d wanted. He’d allowed himself to be governed by love—to be controlled by his desire for it. How little that had served him.

He dropped his hand. Never again!

Drawing a deep breath, he caught the barest note of gardenia.

His heart paused and his body trembled with want.

Squaring his shoulders, he put one foot in front of the other until the gallery—and Patience—were far behind him.

 

Patience stared at the high ceiling. Her limbs were trembling and her quim was aching. Her nipples felt tight and her skin tingled. The feelings were familiar in their tenor, but completely unfamiliar in their intensity. She closed her eyes and lay completely still.

She clenched her hands into fists.

But no matter how she tried to reason with her racing heart, it would not slow. Her body seemed strangely unresponsive to her mind’s commands.

Forcing herself to sit up, she pressed her shaking legs together as she rubbed her temples. She tried to delineate her feelings—to break them into understandable and recognizable parts—to separate the physical from the emotional.

But she couldn’t.

With a frustrated gasp, she got to her feet and walked purposefully from the gallery. She registered that her thighs were wet and her stomach was quivering, but she forced herself to ignore the sensations. Passing the balconies that overlooked the silent ballroom, she strode to the stairs and descended two flights at an even pace. Once on the main floor, she walked down the hall and didn’t pause until she had turned into the wide double doors that opened upon the music room.

Large Palladian windows allowed the moonlight to stream into the expansive chamber. She saw her cello clearly. Resting in the pearly light, its maple-wood shoulder gleamed. Just beside it sat her cello case.

Keeping her eyes diverted from the large portrait over the mantel, she crossed the room. Her slippers tapped softly against the parquet floor. Her dressing gown billowed as she dropped down and settled onto her heels. She opened the lid of her case. Inside, the buff-colored silk lining was old, but she had mended all the small tears that had come with age.

All but one.

Slipping her fingers behind the section of loose lining, she pulled out the folded paper that she had first put there seven years ago. She paused only briefly before unfolding the well- worn creases and lifting the letter to the light.

Her eyes fell over the words she’d read a thousand times.

Patience stared at the scrawling script. Over the years, the pain of the letter had faded into nothingness. But tonight, she felt a brief stab of the old agony. And though it came and went in an instant, it worked upon her like a douse of cold water, dampening the heated emotions Matthew’s kiss had inspired.

She drew a deep, calming breath, and slowly refolded the paper. As she returned it to its hiding place, she thought how similar Henri’s letter was to Lady Benchley’s. Matthew would hurt for some time.

She closed the lid of her case.

But eventually he would recover—just as she had.

And perhaps he would find love again. An image of Matthew embracing a faceless, dark- haired woman suddenly appeared in her mind. She frowned at the sour feeling the vision gave her. Pushing it from her thoughts, she looked at her cello.

Her instrument was her love. Getting to her feet, she stared at it for a moment. It was her comfort. Sitting, she placed it between her knees. It was late, but if she played quietly . . .

Drawing and releasing another deep breath, she banished Matthew from her mind and pictured the opening notes of Beethoven’s
Emperor Concerto
. Carefully—exactly—she pressed the proper strings against the fingerboard, then drew her bow. Faultlessly executed, the first notes filled the empty room with sound. Patience proceeded from one note to the next—playing each in pure and perfect succession. She heard the music with her ear, but she also saw it in her head, almost as she would a series of mathematical equations—each to be solved with unerring exactness and, of course, in proper order.

As she played, Patience prevented any error, any miscalculation that might disturb the perfection of the piece. It gave her immense pleasure to play precisely. Indeed, every moment that she sat with her cello, her goal was to get closer to the perfection Henri had claimed her incapable of.

Letting the final notes fade into the still air, Patience sighed with satisfaction.
This
was what she loved—her music and the pursuit of perfection.

She gazed at her instrument. Romantic love wasn’t for her.

Again, Matthew’s beautiful, penetrating eyes flashed in her mind.

She shivered.

But what of desire?

Getting to her feet, she returned her cello to its stand. Desire served a physical need that she would not be able to avoid forever. And she desired Matthew more powerfully than she’d desired any man. There was something between them—something strong and inevitable.

Turning, she raised her eyes slowly to the life-sized portrait that she’d avoided looking at earlier. Matthew, seated with his cello, stared back at her. Her sister had told her that he played the instrument brilliantly. A warm flush heated Patience’s skin as she looked at him.

His pose was open, with his right arm falling indolently over the back of the chair. His bow hung from lax fingers, and his other hand rested on the shoulder of his cello, which was tipped between his widely spread legs.

Patience moistened her lips as her blood quickened. Matthew stared directly out from the painting, his expression idle and sensual. The full curve of his mouth had been depicted well, but nothing could surpass the incredible beauty and intensity of his dark eyes. Tonight, they stared at her with a knowing regard. Tonight, they seemed to say,
you’re mine
.

Patience drew in her breath as her lips tingled. She touched them lightly.

No. Their breathless embrace had been a prelude . . .

. . . a prelude to something more.

SONG OF SOLOMON 2:10

 

 

 

 

 

They never left her alone. Like proud bucks pursuing a lone doe, her admirers pranced around her. Following wherever she went, they jostled and vied for her attention, each hoping to be the one to win her regard—however briefly. And all the while, though she smiled and nodded, and indulged them, he could sense her disinterest.

Matthew crossed his arms over his chest. Leaning into a shadowed corner of the upper gallery, he kept his eyes trained on her. Though her beautiful face was half covered by a demi-mask, her magnificent red hair made her identity unmistakable. Falling down her back in thick curls, it was like a flaming lure in a mottled sea of dimmer shades. A crown of flowers rested atop her bright head, and more blooms decorated her costume of delicate white layers that swept low across her shoulders and belled out from her slim waist.

She was an incomparable beauty.

In the three months since their kiss, he’d been unable to keep her from his thoughts. Despite his troubles, images of her had filled his mind. He’d tried to resist them at first. But as the weeks had passed, he had resisted less and less, until it seemed that every morning and night, his first and last thoughts were of her. His dreams and fantasies were of her. And the more he had thought of her, the more he had wanted her. And the more he had wanted her, the more worthwhile it had seemed to defeat the scandal that was rushing to ruin him both socially and financially. The scandal that was being maliciously driven and escalated by Rosalind’s father.

Fucking Benchley.
Archibald Philip Benchley, The Right Honorable Earl of Benchley, whose line was so old that his title and his surname were still the same. Lord Benchley, whose earldom was too illustrious and pure to be besmirched by bastard blood.

Matthew narrowed his eyes upon the milling throng below. Though dressed in silks and satins, they were like a pack of wild animals. For the last three months, they had watched Benchley claw and tear at him. But he wasn’t dead. And he was through licking his wounds. He would take back his place amongst them—not by fighting them all, but by tearing the throat from just one.

Yes. While the pack looked on, he would take Benchley down. And the more blood he drew doing it, the better it would be. For after the dust settled, no one would dare cut him again.

Matthew almost smiled. His spy had already been in the Benchley household for two weeks. He should be reporting in soon.

He let his gaze fall back upon Patience. Tonight,
she
was his primary goal. His gut tightened with anticipation. He and she had unfinished business—and he was hungry for her.

“By God, it really is you. You’ve risen.”

Matthew looked into the sardonically arranged features of Roark Fitz Roy, youngest son of the Marquess of Waverley. Speaking of bastards—the marquess’s ancestral branch sprouted from one of Charles II’s bastard sons. “Fitz Roy.”