Patience (40 page)

Patience frowned.

But it wasn’t Matthew.

At least, not the Matthew she knew.

Where was Matthew?

“Wherever is dear Matt?” Aunt Matty asked loudly.

The footman who was assisting them bowed. “The Master has been delayed, ladies. He bids you welcome, but sends his regrets. He is expected tomorrow.”

Disappointment coursed through Patience’s veins.

“Oh,” Aunt Matty pouted, “we had so hoped that Mr. Hawkmore would be here to meet us. I don’t know how we shall do without him for another day.”

Patience sighed. For once, she felt in complete accord with her aunt.

“Oh, well. I suppose we shall just have to be patient. If only I had any patience left . . .” Aunt Matty shrugged then shielded her eyes from the sun as she gazed up at the house. “Well, my dear, one thing’s certain. Once married to Matthew, you shall never want for room.”

Mortified, Patience glanced at the footman who was assisting them, but he demonstrated no reaction to her aunt’s words. Patience leaned close and spoke softly. “Aunt Matty, you
must
stop being so presumptuous.”

Aunt Matty raised her brows imperiously. “I am
not
presuming. I am merely stating a fact,” she said in her regular volume.

Patience leveled a warning glare at her aunt before turning to Lord Fitz Roy, who was assisting Lord Rivers to their side of the carriage. In Matthew’s absence, the two lords had accompanied them to Angel’s Manor and had proven excellent escorts and traveling companions. Farnsby and Asher rounded out their party. They were exiting the carriage behind.

“Well, here we are at last, ladies.” Lord Rivers stepped forward and offered Aunt Matty his frail arm. “And before tea—just as you had hoped, Mistress Dare.”

Though he was taller than she, Aunt Matty looked far more capable of supporting him than he did her. But she smiled and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Yes, my lord,” she agreed as they moved toward the house. “And how fortunate, for it so happens that I am terribly prone to swooning when forced to do without tea.”

Fitz Roy lifted one brow as he gave Patience his arm. “Is she really?”

Patience looked into his pale eyes. “So far as I know, my lord, my aunt has never swooned in her life.”

Fitz Roy’s mouth lifted at the corners as they turned to wait for Farnsby and Asher. The cousins were engaged in their usual banter.

“I told you it wouldn’t rain today,” Farnsby was saying. “I’ll collect my five pounds later. You know, if you don’t win a bet soon, I shall have to record your losing streak in my Journal of Extraordinary Events.”

Asher rolled his eyes as they approached. “Why don’t you record the fact that you cracked your knuckles no less than two dozen times between the station and here? That, surely, must be some sort of record—and a supremely annoying one, at that. I warn you, do it one more time and I shall rap them soundly.”

Farnsby held his hand up before Asher and, drawing his finger down with his thumb, cracked it.

A scuffle ensued as Asher grabbed for his portly cousin and, despite Farnsby’s laughing resistance, managed to rap the back of his hand several times. Farnsby retaliated by delivering several pokes into Asher’s sides. The two were still pushing and prodding each other as they drew up to Patience and Fitz Roy.

Fitz Roy looked down his nose at them. “Infants.” Then he turned and drew her up the wide walk to the house.

The cousins followed. “I say, Asher, Fitz Roy just called us infants. What are we going to do about it?”

“
I’m
not going to do anything. He was referring to you, not me.”

“No, I most definitely heard an
s
at the end of the word.” Short pause. “Would you care to bet on it?”

Patience’s smile deepened, but as she stepped over the threshold of Angel’s Manor, the house stole her attention. The entry hall was huge, and the voices of their party, especially Aunt Matty’s, echoed off the stone floor and up the heavy stair to the vaulted ceiling. There, large iron light fixtures were suspended, and beneath each lamp, a spearlike shard pointed downward. Though they were meant to enhance the shape and line of the chandeliers, Patience’s first thought was of being impaled should one fall.

Pushing the gory image aside, she chided herself for her attitude. Whatever was the matter with her? This was Matthew’s home—and, really, it was decorated perfectly. A giant tapestry depicting a joust hung on one wall. Landscapes filled the other. Splendid furniture and objets d’art drew the eye around the expansive space, and tall plate-glass windows let sunlight stream in from the rear of the house. Yes, Angel’s Manor was impressive and magnificent.

What was there not to like about it?

Besides Matthew’s absence.

Before leaving Hawkmore House, he’d told her he intended to be home in time for her arrival. Clearly, important business had kept him at Gwenellyn.

She missed him.

Fitz Roy introduced Mr. Simms, the butler. Then they were all led upstairs, Aunt Matty waxing lyrical on the virtues of tea the whole way.

“I’ve ordered that tea be served in the main parlor in half an hour,” Fitz Roy said as they all paused on the landing.

“My lord, you are a saint,” Aunt Matty said.

“Really?” Fitz Roy raised his brows. “Had I known sainthood came so easily, I would have aspired to it long ago.”

Patience smiled as the gentlemen set off toward a different wing of the house. She and her aunt followed the footmen to their rooms, which were just across the wide hall from each other.

“Remember, my dear, tea in half an hour,” Aunt Matty said before disappearing into her chamber.

Patience nodded as she crossed to her room. Like the entry below, it was huge—and beautiful. Decorated in shades of mauve, violet, and taupe, it had exceedingly high ceilings and a row of large windows. A young maid bobbed a curtsy and introduced herself as Annie while the four footmen carrying Patience’s trunks placed them in an adjoining dressing room.

“May I unpack yer things, miss?” the maid asked.

Patience watched another footman carry in her cello case and valise. He placed both in the sitting area that was arranged by the windows. “Yes, Annie. Thank you.”

While the girl went to work in the dressing room, Patience moved to her instrument. Matthew had told her to bring it with her so that he could begin tutoring her.

She stared at the case. Why had she been so obedient?

She ought to have left it behind. It didn’t belong with her for now.

She turned away from it.

But Matthew did.

Would he come home tomorrow?

She’d endured ten days without his attentions, but now she was becoming peevish. She needed a spanking—and an orgasm. But more than either of those, she just needed him. She needed to smell him and touch him.

She sighed forlornly as she looked around the giant room.

God, but she missed him.

 

God, but he missed her.

Matthew hurried down the stairs after having rushed through washing, shaving, and dressing for dinner.

He hadn’t seen Patience in ten days, but it felt like forever. He’d missed her smile and her intelligent, assessing eyes. He’d missed the smell of her gardenia-scented skin. He’d missed her voice, her company, and her conversation. He’d missed her passionate kisses, her soft body and sweet submission. But perhaps most of all, he’d missed the warmth of her presence—her simple proximity—the delicious awareness that she was near him, rather than far from him.

In fact, he’d felt her the moment he’d entered Angel’s Manor. He felt her now. She hung in the air, calling to him.

She dimmed his bitter anger over Benchley’s treachery, hypocrisy, and malice. She balanced darkness with light—rage with joy. She made him feel clean and renewed. She was his Persephone—his love.

As he neared the dining room, he forced himself to slow. He heard low, male voices, and then he heard Aunt Matty.

“You know, my lord, it’s very dangerous for a man to do without marriage.”

“Is it, Mistress Dare?” It was Lord Rivers’ gentle voice.

“Why, yes. All sorts of maladies may be attributed to marital deficiency. Boils, hangnails, the plague.”

“Oh really, Aunt Matty—the plague.” There it was—the tender and slightly annoyed voice of his love.

“Yes, the plague.” Matthew could almost see Aunt Matty glaring at Patience. “Which is why certain young women, most especially those with exceptional beauty . . . ahem . . . have an obligation to marry.”

“Whatever does beauty have to do with preventing the plague?” His love again, sounding slightly more annoyed.

“Really, Patience. Have you ever seen a beautiful plague victim?”

“I haven’t seen a plague victim at all.”

“Well neither have I, because here in England, thank the Lord, we support the healthy institution of marriage. But, I assure you, they don’t call it the plague for nothing. I’m certain the disease comes with all sorts of plague-ish type bumps, lumps, and spots.”

“Aunt Matty, the plague has nothing whatsoever to do with a marital deficiency. It is understood that plague comes from filth and rats.”

“Exactly. And as everyone knows—forgive me, my lords—men are naturally messy creatures. Whereas women are naturally tidy. So when a man marries a woman, he brings into his home one who will see to it that it is kept neat, and clean. And there you have it, prevention of the plague.” Short, silent pause. “I mean it’s so simple, really.”

Long, silent pause.

Smiling, Matthew turned into the room. “Good evening, ladies—my lords.”

He slowed, and the greetings of his guests jumbled together as he drank up the vision of his love. Her red curls were pulled back but for one thick tendril that lay against the gentle rise of her breast. Her lips moved in a breathy exclamation of his name. A flush touched her cheeks. And as he held her gaze, her eyes—her beautiful, intelligent eyes—glistened with a tender and urgent yearning.

“Patience.”

He stepped forward, his heart pounding. Had he said her name aloud? Taking her hand, he inhaled gardenias as he bent and pressed his lips to the soft kid of her glove. Still holding her hand, he met her moist gaze. “Miss Dare, whenever I have the misfortune to be out of your presence, I never seem able to envision you as beautiful as you truly are.”

Patience’s lips parted and her fine nostrils flared.

Matthew’s cock throbbed as he imagined kissing her and . . .

“I say, Asher,” Farnsby said quietly, but still loud enough for all to hear, “that’s a bloody good line, isn’t it? We’ll have to remember that one.”

Matthew smiled into Patience’s shining eyes, and then she coughed a giggle that turned into a laugh, which made everyone else laugh. Even Fitz Roy smiled.

With a gentle squeeze, and a passionate glance, Matthew released her hand. He saw it tremble before she tucked it into her lap.

“You’d best write it down,” Asher said to his cousin. “Otherwise you’re sure to say it all wrong.”

“Good idea,” Farnsby replied, and actually pulled a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket.

Making his way to Aunt Matty’s side of the table, Matthew bent over her hand. “Mistress Dare, you are looking particularly lovely this evening.”

“Thank you, my dear. But how dare you be so formal.” She clasped his hand in hers. “I am, after all, your—your”—she looked to Patience—“what? Aunt-in-law?” She frowned. “Is there such a thing as an aunt-in-law, Patience?”

Matthew expected Patience to refute her aunt. But, instead, she just smiled. “I don’t know, Aunt Matty. But if there isn’t such a thing, there surely should be.” Patience lifted one beautiful brow. “Perhaps you’ve just invented the term.”

“Have I?” Aunt Matty released Matthew’s hand and positively beamed. “Well, who would have thought that
I
would invent a term? I mean, now that I’ve done it, I can see how easily it comes to me. Why, I could likely invent a hundred terms.”

“Or a thousand,” Fitz Roy said wryly.

Aunt Matty nodded. “Or a thousand.”

Matthew smiled and took his seat at the head of the table. Fitz Roy, Aunt Matty, and Farnsby sat to his right, Lord Rivers, Patience, and Asher to his left. As Aunt Matty went on about her new term, and as a footman ladled soup into his bowl, Matthew stared at Patience. His beauty was wearing a peach-colored gown that was arranged in small pleats around her shoulders and across her décolleté. Tortoise shell combs were nestled in her red curls, and a cameo hung from a brown satin ribbon around her neck.

She looked like autumn.

SONG OF SOLOMON 8:6

 

 

 

 

Matthew looked at Patience. Sitting relaxed in her lawn chair she watched Farnsby and Asher’s tennis game. She wore a wide-brimmed black straw hat and a ciel blue gown. A bib of pleated white organdy filled the square neck and was tied with a black ribbon at her throat. White organdy cuffs turned back at her wrists. Her long curls were pulled back from her face, but left to cascade from beneath her hat. The sunlight filled them with red and gold glints.

Matthew sighed. In the week since his arrival at Angel’s Manor, his nights had been blissful. Spending them almost entirely with her, he was able, for a few hours, to forget his troubles. Unfortunately, there were no secret passages in Angel’s Manor, so he was forced to come to her room late and depart early. But he would tolerate anything to be with her—anything, even just to sleep at her side.

His days were less peaceful. He worked to strengthen the position of GWR whilst organizing a production, loading, and shipment schedule for Gwenellyn—which was proving logistically challenging. Further, no matter how he’d shifted the figures, he’d been unable to avoid giving GWR another infusion of his own money. He couldn’t do it again—not a sum that large. And word was circulating that Benchley was preparing to contest his ownership of the mine.