by Eva Devon
The set that Hyacinth belonged to? They didn’t give a whit, which was tragic considering how important most of them were.
As Patience tapped her toe to the energetic orchestra and tried to remind herself to enjoy this, she caught a murmur of excitement wash over the crowd.
She lifted her eyes to the wide, ornate door. Three names were announced in quick succession. Names she didn’t quite catch as the excited titter grew to a roar.
There stood her husband and two other men. One was the young son of the Duke of Aston who looked remarkably like his father. The other fellow was striking but she had no idea who he was.
Charles sauntered into the ball and the crowd parted.
He wasn’t a duke like his brother but from the reactions of the important people about him, that didn’t matter.
They all seemed to be one step away from bowing and scraping.
Charles seemed not to notice which only made him seem grander.
What was that like, she suddenly wondered. To be so admired that one didn’t even notice the adoration or reaction to one’s presence?
It was something Patience would never be able to fathom but the crowd in which she now traveled all seemed to be like that. . . But her husband had something else. Her husband wasn’t just popular.
He was notorious.
She’d known she was marrying a man with a reputation but it hadn’t been until they were married that she’d seen the sycophantic way in which lords and ladies bowed to him or backed away in fear.
After all, this was the man who’d accidentally shot his father. He was also the man who’d fought duels with the ease that other men changed their shirts. And he was the man who laid waste to others’ fortunes at the gaming tables.
It was impossible to resist him, or that’s what it seemed. For the eyes of every woman, eligible or no, turned to him with hunger.
This was exceptionally annoying.
Over the last weeks, she’d been determined not to cling to Charles. Not to be like all the other women who had, no doubt, frightened him off marriage.
She’d been certain she could show him that she didn’t need him. That she was entirely capable. That she wasn’t a burden.
The idea she could ever be a burden to him made her feel sick.
She loved her independence and she would never, ever be one of those women that were disgustingly jealous of their husbands.
It had been hard, so very hard, because, in truth, she found him fascinating and longed to spend every moment with him.
He crossed the room slowly, methodically, and with each step of his powerful legs, his friends in tow, she realized he was seeking her out.
A thrill raced through Patience. For all that she’d thought him a rake and a bounder, she was drawn to him in a way that was impossible to describe. She desired his touch and his attention like nothing else.
And there was the fact that he was so much more than a rake and a bounder. He was an intelligent and fascinating man.
As soon as he stood before her, he swept a beautiful bow, his dark hair brushing his forehead in a positively roguish manner.
“Hello wife,” he said, his voice a soft growl.
She could scarce catch her breath at the sight of him and the feel of his eyes which seemed to devour her. And it felt as if the entire room were watching them, listening in.
She gave a slight curtsy. “How do you do, husband?”
“How do I do?” he queried. “Damned better for seeing you.”
Then, he held his hand out.
He didn’t even bother to introduce her to his companions. Just stretched out that broad hand that transported her to other worlds when he touched her.
Quickly, she handed her glass to a conveniently passing servant then placed her gloved hand in his.
Charles led her to the floor and the disgraceful and delicious tones of a waltz began.
He pulled her to him, his palm encompassing her back.
With no thought for decorum, he left no room between his chest and her breasts.
She bit back a moan of pleasure at his intimate touch and seeming declaration to all that she was his.
Rocking back and forth for the first counts, they easily found the measure of the music, and he led her in great, sweeping circles about the room, barely letting her toes touch the ground.
“You look divine, Patience,” he said softly.
“I’m still getting used to it.”
“What? Looking divine?” he teased.
She scowled. “These clothes.”
He eyed her exposed bosom. “You’re wearing far too few of them and your gown is transparent.”
“Fashionably so,” she pointed out.
“You’re fashionably naked.”
She laughed.
“Oh,” he said softly, “and Patience. . .”
“Yes?” she asked, always stunned that he could make her sound like a breathless school girl.
“You’ve always looked divine.”
At that moment, her heart simultaneously broke and soared.
How could he say such things?
Practice, she supposed. They were far too grand for him to mean them especially amidst this group of women. “I am a raven amongst swans.”
“Bugger swans,” he said with a derisive snort. “They haven’t an ounce of sense. A raven, dear wife? A raven is brilliant beyond compare.”
She shook her head. “A raven is still a raven.”
“And beautiful to boot.”
She sighed. “Charles, you’re incorrigible.”
“Only in the best possible way.” He turned them and led an intricate pattern as if it were the easiest of things. “Are you being suitably admired this evening?”
“Before you arrived, you mean?”
His smile froze a little. “You don’t count my admiration the same as the other fools, do you?”
“You’d never be thought a fool,” she said, thinking that very obvious but apparently not. “But admiration should never be taken too seriously.”
Especially since it was impossible to believe he could mean such things. His words were as flowery as the fools’.
Even so, she wished to believe her husband. Something had happened over the weeks. She’d grown to realize that Charles was no ordinary rake.
Oh, she’d always known he wasn’t ordinary in any way, but Charles was so much more than a rake. He wasn’t merely a seducer.
He was a knower. It was the only way she could put it.
He wanted to know things and he knew people and places.
It was why, despite the darker side of him, that people so often fell at his feet.
When Charles wanted to seduce a person, he did so by getting to know them. For one certain thing, he was getting to know her and she found it disconcerting. When Charles looked at her, he didn’t see the carefully constructed woman she’d created over the years. Oh no. She had the distinct impression that with each day, he was looking deeper into her soul and soon he would have her mapped out from the top of her head to the tips of her toes with no mystery left.
Infuriatingly, he was still terra incognito to her in many ways.
Somehow, he could look at a person and take their measure without letting said person in to his soul. She knew for a fact that she knew little of what truly haunted him. Of what gave him that sardonic air she was growing to care for.
Soon, she would be without interest to him and. . . Well, their marriage had never been about love and constancy. Surely, when bored, he would move on to the next unknown land, so to speak.
“Patience, you’ve grown quite pale.”
“Have I?” She blinked, pushing away the unease that had begun to overtake her.
“Should I escort you home?” He leaned down slightly, his gaze growing hot. “I’d love to take you home. I think we should lie down. Very good for our health and all that.”
The playful words dashed away any of the desire to accompany him. To Charles, sh
e was almost certainly just another conquest and it was galling to admit that was painful. She refused to be a fool herself.
“Your mother has arranged for me to meet a German philosopher after midnight,” she said as if unaffected. “He is coming from another engagement. He wishes to discuss my books.”
“Has she by God?” Charles asked, his voice deep with some unknowable emotion.
“Yes.”
“You know,” he said after traversing half the ballroom to the lilting music, “I’d like to discuss your books.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Why?”
“Because they are you.”
Her heart, dratted thing that it was, pounded very hard. “That’s very perceptive.”
“Not really. Anyone with sense should see it. You and your work are intertwined.”
“Husband, I think you give people too much credit,” she said, determined to keep things very light. “A good portion of the world is without sense.”
He laughed but it was brittle. “Too true. And if you wish to meet this German fellow, who am I to stand in your way?”
She smiled, but it felt false. The whole interchange suddenly did.
“I’ll go home then,” he said.
“You needn’t,” she replied with forced cheer. “Go out with your friends. Have a delightful time.”
Some shadow crossed over his face. “Of course. I must stay busy.”
As the music came to a close and he bowed over her hand and led her to the side of the room and left her with his mother and sister, her whole body turned to ice.
Was this to be their marriage? Polite interchanges with fiery exchanges in the bedroom. . . Until that grew cold as well. . .
Patience winced. Why hadn’t she demanded he take her home the moment he’d asked? How many times would she have such a time with him? For how long would it last?
With pain her heart, she watched her husband head towards the arched door to the ballroom and slip out. He’d seemed different as he’d departed. . . Sad. Could he be or was it something she had simply imagined? Charles didn’t let her in. He let no one in.
“Do you think he’s gone?” she asked, hating the wistful tone in her voice.
Hyacinth turned to her, fan waving. “Who dear?”
“Charles. Do you think he’s left?”
“Oh, I dare say,” piped Lady Gemma.
Hyacinth closed her emerald fan. “These really aren’t his favored parties. Never fear. Amusements await you, to be sure.”
Patience nodded. More amusements. How. . . Disappointing. She was growing tired of amusements.
After several moments, she turned and quietly slipped away from her mother-in-law who was animatedly engaged in conversation with Lady Gemma.
Though it wasn’t the done thing, she found herself heading towards the dimly lit hallway. She needed air. She needed time away from all these sycophantic, jewel-encrusted children masquerading as very important lords and ladies.
She turned down another dark hallway and spotted a doorway. She slipped through and, to her relief, discovered a small library. She had a knack for finding them.
The familiar and comforting scent of books hit her.
And she was about to make herself comfortable and hide for the rest of the party when she spotted a shadow by the window. A man sat in the sill, one boot propped on the open casement.
A diamond winked in his ear and his slightly too-long hair played in the breeze coming in from the garden.
She caught her breath.
“Good evening, my lady,” the man said in jovial tones.
The Duke of Aston! He was a pleasant sight, for she knew she had no worries in his presence. In fact, he was one of the only nobility she enjoyed.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” she replied.
The sound of flint on tinder filled the room as he commenced lighting a cheroot.
The end sparked ruby in the blue glow of night and moonlight coming through the open window.
“You’ve come to find your husband?” he queried. “Charles is no longer interested in quiet corners, you know.”
“But you are?” she teased.
“My wife is persuading a member of parliament to yank his boney head from his overly padded posterior and support her cause in the East End. I must wait for her to finish and find I prefer my own company. Though yours is welcome.”
“Thank you.” She was pleased that he found her to be sensible company. “And no, I’m not looking for Charles. He already left.”
“You didn’t go with him?” Aston asked carefully.
“Must a wife depart with her husband?”
“Certainly not,” Aston said, leaning back against the open window. “But I find my wife and I like to. We have formed a small army against the unfriendly world, don’t you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” How very pleasant that sounded. And rare.
“You should do the same,” Aston said brightly. “No one for an ally like Charles. Good fellow.”
She couldn’t hide her smile. “I’m sure. But. . .”
“You’re afraid he’ll go wandering soon?”
My goodness, he was direct. She swallowed her reticence and said, “We didn’t marry for love.”
“Didn’t you now?”
“No.”
Aston nodded then took a long pull on his cheroot. As he spoke, blue smoke wafted from his lips. “Do forgive me, but I find I must ask, what the devil are you doing here, Lady Patience?”
She arched a brow. “I’m a guest of my mother-in-law.”
“Let’s not prevaricate. Why are you attending all these mad-capped events?” Aston asked. “I read of you every morning and shudder. You must be running yourself positively ragged.”
There was something about Aston. Something kind and deep and honest even if he did appear to be masking about half the time. In this moment, she felt he truly did wish to know. And for some strange reason, she suddenly wished to tell someone.
“I’m here to find myself,” said.
Aston’s sensual lips twitched. “I had no idea you’d gone missing.”
She scowled. “I’ve had one foot in two worlds and Hyacinth, the dowager duchess, said she could help me find myself.”
“Two worlds?” he prompted.
“Yes. Lady Patience’s world and the one I use to research my books.”
“Dear girl. It’s all very well trying to find oneself but, quite frankly, from what I saw of the woman I met that night on the way to the docks? She knows herself utterly.”
“That’s the one world that I mentioned. The one in which I research my books.”
“Is it? Truly? I remember you at a different event, with your mask on, researching. I remember you seemed out of place. That’s why I remembered you and couldn’t help teasing you mercilessly the other night.”
“You knew I wasn’t a doxie!”
“Of course I knew,” he said jovially. “I am a connoisseur of character and you haven’t a loose bone in your body. I quite like loose bones. Or did. I like you, too, but you’re different. You’re not one of these gilded lilies prancing about the ballroom. Nor are you some brow beaten spinster. You’re something else entirely.”
“What is that?”
“You’re P. Auden, greatest writer alive and someone who goes after what she wants with aplomb.”
“I do?”
He nodded. “It seems to me, dear girl, that rather than finding yourself in these last weeks, you’ve been losing yourself. Why have you been running from Charles?”
“I haven’t been running,” she huffed.
“You’re seldom together.”
“You’ve noticed?”
“Yes.” Aston scowled. “Because he keeps pounding on my door when you’re gadding about. I do adore him, but I’d rather be with the wife just now. Newlyweds, you know.”
“I—I suppose I am running from him,” she finally admitted.
“Why? It’s clear as day you love him.�
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Sheer terror at those words raced through her. Could it be? She’d certainly never even let the thought cross her mind. “That’s—”
“Absolutely true,” Aston declared grandly. “I’ll never forget the way you told that barmaid to push off. Lady Patience, be still any man’s heart! What an act of possessiveness that was.”
“Your Grace, this is all very well but—”
“You’re afraid.” Aston’s bombastic humor eased, replaced by sincerity.
Her spine stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
Aston shrugged then twirled his hand, the smoke dancing about his wrist. “You’re afraid. Pure and simple.”
She felt her whole body tense at the accusation. “If I was a man I’d have to call you out for that.”
“If you did, you’d be a fool.”
“Because you’d best me so easily?”
“Because firstly, it’s true,” he said as though they were discussing the benefits of long walks, “and secondly, no one should be willing to die so easily over such a simple comment.”
It struck her then that she was rather disappointed in herself because, clearly, she was afraid and worse still, she’d been letting fear rule her actions. “You’re a surprise, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” He bowed his head slightly then winked. “People are always saying so.”
“You think I should stop running?” she asked, still feeling said fear run through her veins. Was this why she’d been gadding about every moment? Because she was in love with Charles and afraid to embrace it? Almost certainly.
“I do.”
“Because he loves me?” she hated the questioning noise in her own voice.
“Ah. That?” Aston gave a wary shake of his head. “With Charles, I can promise nothing but all I can say is you’re wasting the precious life you have protecting your heart so thoroughly. P. Auden would be ashamed.”
“Why do you think so much of Mr. Auden?”
“Because Miss Auden, you write the greatest stories I have ever read.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” He puffed again carelessly on his cheroot as if he had such conversations every day. “Now stop this nonsense and go enjoy your life. Go be with the man you want to be with.”
