by Lauren Smith
Visitors were few and far between at Marsh Manor. Any friends she’d thought to possess had long been married and now had their own families to care for and were, therefore, not concerned with the grave injustices around the world nor continuing a friendship with a woman who now verged on being a social outcast. At twenty years of age, Patience had danced her way through three Seasons before setting her sights on other activities to fill the endless days—far more noteworthy and pressing matters than what color was fashionable during the current Season or what lord every marriage-minded mum desired to set their caps on for their unattached daughters.
Not that she verbally admonished those who filled their every waking moment with such drivel—regularly, at least.
Her only reprieve from her causes was her rakehell brothers—and the mischief they found, even though they were both past the age of childish games. Her sisters, bless them, had both turned into tedious shells of their former selves, preferring to spend their time on the trivial matters of societal life, the exact things that Patience had, for lack of a better word, no patience for.
Patience took a few steps toward Merit’s door before glancing across the hall to Valor’s bedchambers. No light could be seen in the space between the bottom of the wood and the polished floor. Odd, her brothers never went anywhere without one another. They were joined at the hip, as her father liked to jest—thought Patience sometimes called the pair joined at the brain, as they seldom had any original thoughts between them.
But, as her sisters were always eager to remind her, it only mattered that a gentleman was pleasing to the eye—and heavy in the pockets.
Merit and Valor were most assuredly dashing young men with ample funds provided by Patience’s father. She supposed a handsome exterior, large, deep pockets, and sense to use both wisely would be a rare combination indeed.
Patience grasped the latch to Merit’s door and pushed it open, her smile still wide.
The alarming speed with which her grin faded, and the swift awareness of her scantily clad appearance gripping her would have caused all her siblings to fall upon one another in unrestrained merriment.
Her skin flushed warmer than a late August afternoon spent rowing on the clear, placid waters of the lake at her father’s country seat—and, at the same time, a tremor caused her grasp to slip from the latch.
Perhaps she should have knocked.
Or, preferably, remained safely abed.
Before her stood a man, not one of her brothers that she still pictured as boys even though they were two and four years her senior, but instead a true man—stripped to the waist, his back to her.
Thank the heavens above for small miracles.
But to deny that her heart skipped a beat—or ten—would be preposterous. In fact, as Patience stood, unnoticed, studying the man now looking out Merit’s open window, she wondered if her heart would ever beat a normal, steady rhythm again or if her skin would ever cool enough to need an overcoat or shawl. It was only when her lungs began to burn that she realized she’d held her breath since opening the door, a call of greeting stuck in her throat.
One utterly forgotten.
So intent on the window, the man failed to notice he was no longer alone.
There was no denying the stranger’s presence—an unfamiliar masculine air filled the room. It was both intriguing and frightening. Certainly, she’d witnessed men in various stages of undress, but this goliath was different. Never had Patience been so utterly aware of her own body, while distracted by the sight of another’s chiseled form. Her hands itched to reach out at the same time they should be raising to cover her exposed flesh, veiled only by her thin nightshift.
Patience was commonly overcome with indignation, rage, and resentment for those gentlemen who ignored the troubling aspects of society. Emotions she knew well, and how to hide and suppress them. Never had she been attracted to a man, or filled with such…euphoric pleasure at the mere sight of a bare back. Her nipples puckered…if that were even something possible for her womanly buds to do. Her knees trembled, though not with outrage and anger but…titillation.
Voyeurism.
It was what her father had explained drew the large crowds to prized pugilist matches all over the world—and to a certain extent, every ton gathering in the country.
Any other day, Patience would have adamantly and vehemently denied that she possessed any amount of voyeuristic impulses. Perhaps she could still claim this to be true if she stepped back over the threshold and silently closed the door, putting an end to the stark, raw nature of the sight before her.
The raw, stark emotion coursing through her.
The sensible thing would be to return to her room and never speak of this moment. Deny that it ever occurred.
That was the rational thing to do, and Patience always prided herself on her intellect, even though many in the ton considered a female with a mind something to be avoided at all costs.
The man raised his arms high above his head and stretched until he nearly touched the thick wooden beams overhead. He must be at least a foot taller than Patience and stand a head above both her brothers. Damnation, but the width of his shoulders seemed wider than she was tall. Heat pooled at the apex of her thighs as the muscles along his back tensed before relaxing when he put his hands on the windowsill and leaned slightly out to look down the two stories to the garden below.
She knew the view he took in well, though the cover of night with its cloud-covered January moon would mask the thicket of overgrown rosebushes below. It was the same scene she beheld when she gazed out her window in the bedchamber bordering this one. The roses were the only things daring to grow in such a wayward manner. The lawn was perfectly manicured and awaiting a garden party that would never take place. The small hedge maze, truly just five intersecting pathways at the back of their property, was only as high as it was to block the sight of the mews beyond. One side of the lawn, farthest from the stables, was lined with neatly pruned fruit trees that were dormant this time of year, while the other side had been converted to a long-unused sparring area for either fencing or boxing.
Shaking her head, she cast aside all her thoughts about voyeurism and the sights to be beheld outside her window.
There was a man—a stranger—half naked, in her brother’s room.
“Sir”—Patience swallowed as the man turned to face her and the heat that had overtaken her face and neck—“please announce yourself and the reason for your presence in my home.”
Patience immediately regretted calling the man’s attention as his eyes narrowed on her and she took in his battered face: split lip caked with dried blood, knot on his forehead, and the bridge of his nose slightly rounded, betraying the swelling that would be present come morning.
Thankfully, none of the injuries had blemished his chest, or at least, Patience could not see any bruises through the light dusting of hair that covered his flesh. However, she did note the muscles that had rippled across his back and shoulders were also present on his front. In that moment, she’d almost convinced herself that she was scrutinizing nothing more than a prized horse or a champion hunting dog—not the alluring form of a fierce, red-blooded man.
He stared at her, his lips pressed into a grim frown. For the first time, Patience fretted that the man was in her home with dastardly devious and threatening intent. He did not appear a common thief, the likenesses of which were prominently displayed in the Post nearly every day. Nor was he outfitted as most burglars would be, with a shirt or tunic or something to cover his tanned chest and board shoulders, and likely something covering at least a portion of his face. He also did not take an aggressive stance or look about with frantic, piercing glances for a weapon or path of escape.
If anything, when his eyes latched on to her, his confidence filled her with an unbelievable sense of rightness.
Yet, it was not right for a stranger to be in her home at such a late hour clothed as he was, nor was it acceptable for Patience to be frozen
before him wearing nothing but her nightgown.
Absolutely nothing about her current situation should feel fitting.
It was only when his eyes went from narrowed and assessing to wide-eyed before he turned and averted his stare that Patience regretted her less than suitable attire. Her night shift, while warm, was still white, and she had no corset or other modern device to hide the evidence of her perking nipples through the fine fabric. Could he see that she hadn’t so much as donned a pair of the knickers that were becoming so popular in society?
Heavens, her face flamed with heat once more. This was her home, and she need give no explanation for her nightly attire.
“S—s—s—ir.” Patience loathed the way her voice broke and stuttered over the single word. Taking a deep breath, she began once more. “I asked that you announce your name and purpose in my home.”
While she spoke the words without stumbling, they did not hold the warning she’d hoped. They came out as a plea, not the demand she’d intended.
He refused to glance back in her direction, and Patience took the opportunity to take in her brother’s room; everything was in its place except for the shirt tossed over a chair near the bed. Red stained the otherwise pristine white linen.
Were his injuries graver than first noted?
“Are you hurt?” She despised the empathy in her tone.
“I was preparing to leave.” The deep lilt to his voice sent another wave of pleasure through her as his eyes finally met hers.
“You cannot leave in such a condition,” she chastised. How many stories had her mother shared with her about the destitute in Seven Dials perishing due to the cold weather? “You will surely freeze before arriving at your intended destination—although, the frigid temperature will most likely slow the swelling in your nose.”
Why in heavens was she giving advice, all but offering to tend the man’s wounds, when he was an interloper in her home? He’d still not given his name or his reason for being in Merit’s chambers in the middle of the night—not to mention his careless action of opening the window and allowing the coveted warmth to escape into the cold outside.
Oddly still, while he didn’t appear scared that he’d been discovered, he was nervous and uneasy. She saw it in the way he took quick, shallow breaths and how he leaned forward, tightening his grip on the windowsill, turning his knuckles white.
Patience wasn’t as frightened as she should be, though, again, common sense told her that she would be wise to flee the room and seek out the butler—or sound the alarm to wake her father. However, something held her in place and kept her mouth shut as she watched him. Pushing his hair back from his face, he leaned back in and turned to face her.
His hair, sun-kissed—that peculiar color between brown and blond—was long and hanging free like that of a man better suited for the high seas as opposed to civilized London society. On any other man, it would have appeared unkempt, and Patience would have recommended a cut; however, on this man, it would be a sin to do away with his long, shiny locks. Hair such as his certainly guaranteed envious looks from every female who passed.
The stranger moved with such swiftness that Patience hadn’t a moment to speak before he snatched his soiled, blood-stained shirt and crawled out the window.
She’d been ever so taken by the broadness of his shoulders, the glossiness of his hair, and the expanse of muscle across his bare chest and back that she’d allowed him to escape.
Escape? That wasn’t the correct word at all.
Patience hurried across the room and tilted forward out the window. He’d likely misjudged the distance to the ground and was now lying stuck, or worse, injured in the overgrown rosebushes. However, there was no one below. Placing her hands firmly on the window ledge, Patience stood on tiptoes and leaned farther out, looking from side to side down the wall of their townhouse. She spotted the man where he balanced himself on a small strip of wood above the parlor window below. As she stared, he leapt over the tangled, thorny bushes and landed in a crouch on the lawn before looking around and taking off in a sprint toward the drive that led to the front of Marsh Manor.
Not once did he glance over his shoulder—or up at her above.
There was no reason that should hurt her, but it did.
Who was the man, and what had he been doing in Merit’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?
Just as quickly as she’d found him, he disappeared.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and Patience swung away from the window in time to see her father and their family physician, Dr. Durpentine, enter the room. The tall, thin man wore round glasses that were forever slipping down his nose as he worked. Patience knew the doctor better than most of the ton she was acquainted with as he’d been the sole physician who cared for her mother during her final years as the headaches increased and the memory loss and confusion set in.
“Lady Patience,” the physician greeted, his sleep-tousled hair the only indication that he’d been deep in slumber before being summoned to Marsh Manor. “I did not expect to see you on this trip.”
“Good da—evening, doctor.” Patience crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling exposed. “Father.”
Her father turned sharply toward her. “Sweet pea? What in heavens are you doing awake at this time of night?”
Could it be that he hadn’t noticed her when he entered the room behind the physician? She was well aware of his distracted nature over the last several years—truly, since they’d lost her mother—however, this was extreme, even for him. Perhaps Patience should speak with Dr. Durpentine about the situation.
“I heard a noise, and it startled me awake,” Patience explained. “I thought mayhap Merit and Valor had returned home earlier than expected. Who was that man, Father?”
She tried to keep her words unbothered and light, as if the man didn’t actually interest her beyond knowing who was responsible for disturbing her rest. Her father knew better than to believe her disinterest as his mouth pressed into a firm line and he silently debated whether or not to give her any information. She’d seen the look all her life. When her mother began to worsen, he’d anguished over how much to tell his children. Each time she asked him how it had gone distributing her pamphlets, he wrestled with how to answer. When she’d asked why no gentlemen ever asked her to dance during her final Season, he’d silently deliberated how to respond. Patience was always saddened to be the cause of his constant inner turmoil, yet she couldn’t help but love him all the most for his fierce protectiveness.
Finally, he sighed. “On my way back from Delforte’s Hell”—he never shied away from naming the establishments he visited with her pamphlets—“I happened upon a scuffle in an alley. The man…what happened to him, by the way?”
“He leapt out the window.” Patience gestured toward the open bank of windows at her back. “Crawled down the side of the house and fled.”
“Oh, interesting.” The earl shook his head. “Well, I happened upon him and another man, a true n’er-do-well, in an alley. It appeared the thief had set upon him, and I stepped in to assist. Brought him here so Dr. Durpentine could see to his injuries.”
The physician chuckled, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “It appears I am no longer needed.”
Her father clapped the man on his back with a laugh. “Appears not. I’m confident he’ll find a way back to the Albany. We can’t help those who do not want our help, now can we?”
“We cannot, my lord.”
“Please close the window and run along back to bed, sweet pea.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and ushered the doctor from the room. “May I offer you a drink for your troubles?”
Patience stared at her father’s retreating back as he and the physician crossed the threshold and their footsteps retreated to the stairs.
Nothing about her father’s detached attitude shocked or concerned her—it was his way of things. However, bringing a stranger—a man, no less—into their home in the
middle of the night was very concerning.
Belatedly, she realized she’d forgotten to ask her father for the man’s name.
About the Author
USA TODAY Bestselling Author Lauren Smith is an Oklahoma attorney by day, who pens adventurous and edgy romance stories by the light of her smart phone flashlight app. She knew she was destined to be a romance writer when she attempted to re-write the entire Titanic movie just to save Jack from drowning. Connecting with readers by writing emotionally moving, realistic and sexy romances no matter what time period is her passion. She’s won multiple awards in several romance subgenres including: New England Reader’s Choice Awards, Greater Detroit BookSeller’s Best Awards, and a Semi-Finalist award for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award.
To connect with Lauren, visit her at:
www.laurensmithbooks.com
[email protected]
Other Titles By Lauren Smith
Historical
The League of Rogues Series
Wicked Designs
His Wicked Seduction
Her Wicked Proposal
Wicked Rivals
Her Wicked Longing
His Wicked Embrace (coming March 2018)
The Earl of Pembroke (coming March 2018)
His Wicked Secret (coming soon)
The Seduction Series
The Duelist’s Seduction
The Rakehell’s Seduction
The Rogue’s Seduction (coming March 2018)
Standalone Stories
Tempted by A Rogue
Sins and Scandals
An Earl By Any Other Name
A Gentleman Never Surrenders
A Scottish Lord for Christmas
