Prudence winced.
Mother picked her gaze up from the embroidery frame upon her lap and frowned at her daughters. “Do behave, Prudence.”
The girl bristled at the reprimand. “I’m merely being truthful, Mother.”
“And you do remember Juliet’s lesson on being truthful?” Penelope called from her seat alongside Mother. She pulled the needle through her own frame and then gave her sister a pointed look.
Properly chastised, Prudence settled back in her seat with a flourish. “I didn’t intend to be mean,” she said solemnly to Patrina and Poppy.
Patrina took one hand off the keyboard and waved it about. “Do not worry about it, dear.”
The girls fell quiet as Patrina and Poppy resumed their song.
Give ye heed to what we say…
Prudence dropped her chin into her hand and propped her elbow onto the arm of her seat. “I merely thought if we weren’t singing then we could, should,” she corrected, “at least consider the very important, the essential chore of finding you a suitable wedding dress.”
Four pairs of eyes swiveled to Patrina. Her fingers stumbled over the keys and she quickly dropped her stare to the pianoforte, continuing to play. Her sisters had fairly oozed girlish excitement at the prospect of purchasing a bridal trousseau. With their youthful innocence and naiveté, they didn’t realize the terror in wedding a gentleman only to be thrust back into polite Society as the scandalous woman who’d had the poor judgment to elope.
“Yes. Though it does pain me to have to visit a modiste, I’d venture it is a sacrifice I must make,” Penelope said and threw a hand over her brow in a flourishing manner. “Er, a sacrifice we all must make,” she said. “That is, for the good of Patrina.”
All three sisters nodded.
“I don’t need a new gown.” And she didn’t. She only needed him. Until yesterday, when Weston had let her into the pain he’d known, she’d believed their marriage was merely a matter of convenience. Some subtle shift had occurred and she knew that just like the necklace signified more, so too did the sharing of his past. Silence met her somber pronouncement. She ceased playing and looked up at her family. “There is no need for fancy gowns and any kind of fanfare.”
Poppy’s eyebrows drew into a single line. “You make it sound so perfunctory.” The words exploded from her lips. “Do you not care for him?” She began to pace. “What of affection? What of laughter?” She slammed her fist into her palm with each word. “What of love?”
Patrina blinked. She cocked her head, considering Poppy’s words. What of love? “I’ve only just met the marquess a handful,” eight “of days ago.” And yet, the mere thought of him stirred excitement in her heart. He and his children had taught her to smile once again.
“Oh, time has nothing to do with matters of the heart,” Penelope called from across the room. She shifted in her seat when everyone’s gazes swung in her direction. “Well, it doesn’t. Or it shouldn’t.”
Patrina folded her hands. She dropped her gaze to the interlocked digits. She’d fancied herself in love with Albert Marshville. After she discovered his perfidy she’d viewed her mistake with a woman’s eyes; knowing with a maturity which could only come from betrayal, that she’d loved the idea of him. She, with her suitor-less Seasons, and longing for some element of romance, had been enamored with the idea of being in love. It had blinded her to Albert’s true character and that would always be her pain to bear. In this way, she was more alike than different to Weston who’d loved the ideal of his late wife.
“You needn’t marry him, Patrina,” Poppy said with more seriousness than she’d come to expect of her youngest sister. “Jonathan would never require you to marry a gentleman just so you’ll be wed.”
“Of course she must marry him,” Mother cried. At the uncharacteristic explosion of emotion, the daughters looked to her. She gave her head a shake. “That is, they are indeed correct, Jonathan would never require you to marry.”
Mother, on the other hand would likely drag each one of the Tidemore sisters by their troublesome heels, to the proverbial altar if need be.
Patrina returned her attention to her sisters. “No. No, I know that,” she hurried to assure Poppy. She drew in a breath. “I know Jonathan wants me to be happy.” Not because he felt guilt over failing to note Marshville’s vile intentions, but truly because he loved her. She didn’t doubt that for a moment. “I want to marry Weston,” she said simply. And she did.
“Why?” Penelope asked with a world-weary edge she’d never detected in her sister’s words before.
Why, indeed?
Because he has a love for his children that filled her heart with warmth. Because he’d not peered down his nose at her with a look of scorn when she’d revealed her truth. Because he reminded her that she deserved to smile and laugh again.
Because I care for him.
The whisper of truth danced around her mind and her palms grew damp at the implication of such a revelation. She’d come to care for him. And all manner of dangerous things could come in caring for a man who’d never see her as anything more than a mother for his children. Especially a man whose embrace she burned for.
“It doesn’t matter why,” Mother cut into the silence. “It only matters that Patrina does want to wed the marquess.”
Yes, to Mother, that much was true. To Patrina, however, the reasons she wanted to marry Weston mattered very much.
“Patrina?” Penelope prodded, gently, disregarding their mother’s pronouncement.
A knock sounded at the door, saving Patrina from responding. Their gazes flew to the door in unison.
The butler coughed loudly. “My ladies, the Viscountess Merewether to see Lady Patrina.”
Patrina stared blankly at the unfamiliar woman in the doorway, and then the name registered. Weston’s sister.
The Viscountess Merewether peered about the room and then fixed her gaze on Patrina. The other woman’s blue eyes did a momentary, up and down path over her, and from the slight sneer on her lips, Weston’s sister had found her lacking.
Smith made his pronouncement again. “That is, the Viscountess Merewether to see—”
Mother jumped to her feet. She set the embroidery down on the table beside her. A wide smile wreathed her face. “That will be all, Smith,” Mother shouted to the butler. She rushed over to greet the woman.
He scratched his brow. “No, er I don’t believe she fell, my lady.”
“What? I didn’t say…” her words trailed off and she waved a hand. “Thank you,” she called after him.
The viscountess glanced back at the unconventional butler and then around at the wide-eyed girls scattered about the room. “It is an absolute…pleasure.” That last word sounded dragged from the woman’s lips.
Patrina’s stomach flipped over at the underlying disapproval in the woman’s pretty eyes. Something in the firm set to her shoulders and the hard, flat line of her lips indicated this visit was no mere social call. She slowly took her feet. “My lady.” She sank into a deferential curtsy.
Her sisters, reminded of their proper deportment, fell into suit.
Mother spread her arms wide. “What an absolute pleasure to see you, my lady. May I ring for—?”
“I’d hoped I might speak with…” She glanced back to Patrina. Her lips tightened. “Your daughter.”
Mother’s eyes flew wide and she looked from the viscountess to Patrina and back to the viscountess. “Er, why, yes, of course,” she said on a rush. “Of course!” She clapped her hands once and the other girls fell into a neat line. They shuffled from the room with more ladylike decorum than Patrina ever remembered. Mother walked over to the door. She hesitated at the entrance and then took her exit.
The viscountess glanced over her shoulder until the door clicked shut. Then she returned her attention to Patrina. She said nothing for a long while, just continued to study her with that reproachful, condescending glint in her pale, blue eyes. “You are Lady Patrina Tidemore,”
she said at last. As though speaking of the infamous woman who’d eloped would forever ruin her own reputation.
Patrina bowed her head, battling back a frown. “I am,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my—”
“May I speak plainly, Lady Patrina?”
She went still. “My lady?”
“Plainly?” the woman said with a wave of a hand. “I’d like to speak with you on a matter of the gravest importance. You see, mine is not a social call.”
“Oh.” Because really what more was there to say? Patrina wandered over to the ivory sofa. Praying the woman didn’t detect the faint tremble to her hands, she motioned to the seat. “Would you care to sit?”
The woman hesitated and then took the seat directly across from Patrina. She folded her hands primly on her lap. “My brother means a good deal to me, as do his children. I’d not see them hurt.”
She wet her lips. “Nor would I do anything to hurt them—”
“Ah, but you would. With your very decision to wed my brother, you’ve placed your own happiness, your own well-being, over the welfare of two innocent, wonderful children.”
Patrina’s heart skipped an odd beat. Her mouth went dry and she searched for appropriate words. Assurances that she’d be good to Weston and his children. But she could not force the words out. She fell quiet.
The woman carried on. “I’m sure you are a perfectly lovely lady.” Her tone indicated anything but. “But my brother had his heart was broken by his wife. And you…well, he would be making another grave mistake if he were to wed you.”
If he wed her. Not when.
For all the shame she’d visited upon her family, Patrina had felt the needles of shame thrust into her heart by the ton. Even as her world had crumpled around her feet, they’d looked at her as nothing more than the latest on-dit. Their ill-opinion, their rejection; however, was so very paltry when compared with the truthful words of Weston’s sister. The woman who would be her sister-in-law.
“You can’t marry him,” the woman said with an almost achingly sweet scolding. “Surely you know that?”
“I…” She caught the flesh of her lower lip between her teeth. She did know that. Only, she’d convinced herself that if her past didn’t matter to Weston, well then perhaps it didn’t really matter at all. She’d convinced herself she could be happy in this formal arrangement.
“If you care for my brother. If even at all, then do not do this thing, Lady Patrina. I implore you.”
That this lofty noblewoman should come here and do something as common as beg her to break off the arrangement with Weston, spoke to her ill-opinion of Patrina.
Fury stirred in Patrina’s belly. She fed the simmering rage, embraced the indignation for it dulled her to this woman’s scathing attack. “He asked to wed me.” She firmed her shoulders. “And I intend to marry him.”
The viscountess narrowed her gaze. The blue of her eyes lost to the thick, impenetrable slits. “Tsk, tsk. Never tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with Weston?”
Heat burned Patrina’s cheeks. She ticked her chin up a notch, refusing to be cowed by this vile woman. “I’ll not discuss my feelings for Weston with you, my lady.”
A muscle ticked at the right corner of Lady Merewether’s lips and then she tossed her head back, a cool, mirthless laugh bubbled past her lips. “Oh, Lady Patrina. You’ve fallen in love with a man who could never have real feelings for you.”
Patrina curled her fists along the edge of her seat and gripped hard, filled with an insatiable urge to toss the other woman out on her ear. “I believe you are wrong, my lady.” She prided herself on the steady deliverance of those handful of words.
Weston’s sister shook her head, pityingly. Pity. That bloody awful emotion Patrina detested above all others. “You aren’t very smart, are you, showing feelings for inappropriate men? First that Marshville fellow and now, my brother who could never love again after his Cordelia.”
The truth of the woman’s words sank into Patrina with an agonizing slowness, gripping her with the numbing truth. Agony tugged at her belly.
“No, Lady Patrina,” she pressed, as relentless as Boney’s forces marching through the barren wilderness of Russia. “We can’t have you wedding Weston. You’re wildly inappropriate for him and…” She paused. “You will damage his children’s reputations.” The hard glint faded from the viscountess’ eyes, replaced by a hint of softness. She leaned over and touched her hand to Patrina’s. “If you’ll not think of Weston, then think of his children. Think of young Charlotte. The day will come when she makes her entrance into Society and all will remember the horrid tale of…” The viscountess’ words trailed off and she cleared her throat. “I really needn’t continue. I imagine you can very well supply the details.”
Patrina could. She’d not for this woman. But she could. She knew the details so very well they haunted her waking and sleeping thoughts, robbed her of the ability to sleep.
Lady Merewether’s visit had forced her to confront the selfishness in the decision to wed Weston. If only she and Weston were involved, then she’d jump to her feet and jab her finger toward the doorway, and order the viscountess gone.
But there was more to consider.
There was Charlotte and Daniel.
Her eyes slid closed a moment. She could not wed the marquess. Not because she didn’t care about him. She couldn’t marry him because she loved him and he didn’t deserve to know any more misery than he’d already known at his first wife’s hands. He deserved far more; he and his children.
She stared at her lap, swallowing past the blasted lump in her throat. With the lamentable mistake made, Patrina had already brought pain upon others. She could not so hurt Charlotte and Daniel. With their mother’s infidelity, they’d already known too much of life’s harsh cruelty.
“You must end it,” the viscountess urged. “You know Weston would never rescind his offer.”
Patrina glanced away, the meaning clear. She must release him from his obligation. Her lips pulled with bitterness. First a scandalous flirt who’d elope, and now a jilt. My, the papers would relish every last shameful bit of this great tale. She touched the snowflake at her neck.
“Thank you, Lady Patrina,” the viscountess said, with the most warmth and sincerity she’d evinced this whole curt, perfunctory meeting. Perhaps because she saw the decision in Patrina’s stare. And knew.
She gritted her teeth so hard pain radiated down her jawline. “I’m not doing this for you, my lady.” Patrina’s hand fell back to her side. The tension seeped down her body and to her toes as the fight went out of her. How could she give him up? How when he’d filled her life with such happiness these eight days, fleeting moments which, would never be enough? “I don’t know what to say to him,” she whispered more to herself.
“Oh, merely pen him a note,” she said so breezily Patrina’s head shot up with disbelief. “Thank him for his very generous offer, but tell him…” She tapped the tip of her finger to her lip. “Perhaps tell him you still love the gentleman who—”
“No,” Patrina bit out. The fury and outrage laced in that one-word utterance seemed to penetrate the flighty woman’s ramblings. She smoothed her palms over her skirts. When she’d manage to reign in her temper she began again. “No, my lady. I’ll not tell a lie even to set your brother free. The gentleman who ruined my reputation isn’t even deserving of false words of pretend love uttered even to protect your brother.”
“Very well.” The viscountess’ lips tightened so that Patrina wondered if she’d merely imagined any earlier softness from the cold woman. “Allow me to be perfectly honest with you.”
Patrina quirked an eyebrow, tired of the role of wounded woe-is-me-young-lady, pitied by young ladies throughout the ton and scorned by nobles across the whole blasted English isle. “You haven’t already?”
The other woman pressed on. “I do not care if you profess to love another, claim tedium drove your acceptance of Weston’s offer, or sim
ply offer no explanation at all. My only concern is my niece and nephew’s future happiness and that happiness cannot, will not, ever be tied to you.” Her chest rose and full with the passionate fury of her deliverance. “Have I been clear?”
Patrina stood in a flurry of skirts. “Perfectly,” she said coldly.
The viscountess gave a toss of her golden curls. “Thank you for speaking with me. I wish you a very Happy Christmas, my lady.”
Patrina did what she’d been longing to do since the harridan had stolen the small vestige of happiness she’d grabbed for herself in these nine months. She pointed to the door. “If you will. I’d like you gone.”
The Viscountess Merewether stood. Her mouth opened and closed several times and then on a huff she swept across the floor and pulled the door open. Mother and the three Tidemore sisters spilled into the room. Weston’s sister snapped her skirts and all but shoved past the array of black-haired girls.
“Well, I never!” Mother exclaimed, striding into the room. “Of all the outrageous, heinous, impolite things to do.” By her heavy emphasis on impolite Mother clearly indicated what charge she found to be the most egregious.
“That shrew!” Prudence chimed in.
“She is horrid!” Poppy said on a cry. “Er, horrible,” she amended when everyone looked to her. “This isn’t a time to scold me on my use of horrid,” she said quickly. “This is about—”
“That woman,” Penelope seethed.
And just like that, the viscountess became that woman, joining the ranks of the Albert Marshvilles of the world.
Her sisters’ loyalty tugged at her heart. Even Mother, who’d moved with an impersonal politeness around Patrina since the failed elopement, staunchly defended her eldest daughter. Her family’s unwavering love made the pain of regret somewhat less aching.
Mother began to pace. “Well, it is no matter. She can demand whatever she wants a million times to Sunday. The decision is not hers. The decision is yours, Patrina.”
Yes. And sadly, she’d already made it. She’d made her decision when she’d run off recklessly with Albert Marshville, and that act could never be undone. “I require paper and a pen.”
A Marquess for Christmas (Scandalous Seasons Book 5) Page 12
