Love for all Seasons

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  “Why are we here again?” Patience crossed her arms over her chest, not caring if she seemed unladylike. There wasn’t anyone important to see her here, anyway.

  Pippa sighed. “I’m not entirely certain.”

  “I’m sure it will get better,” Georgie put in optimistically.

  But Patience wasn’t feeling very optimistic about the evening. And furthermore, her corset was tied far too tightly. Thank heaven it wasn’t a crush or she’d be swooning into a heap in the middle of the ballroom.

  She spotted Moira on the other side of the ballroom, who had been summoned by her mother just minutes earlier. The poor dear looked miserable, and Patience wondered what cruel and unusual beauty treatment the dowager countess was planning for her daughter.

  Patience turned her head toward the open doors at the back of the ballroom that led to the terrace. A slight breeze blew the wispy, blonde curls of a woman who stood near the doors. Blast, but a bit of air would be nice.

  Patience swayed side-to-side, contemplating whether or not she should make a run for it. Rowan had gone to fetch her a glass of lemonade, but perhaps she could go quickly and be back before he noticed.

  Making up her mind, she turned to her friends. “I’ll be right back,” she said quietly. “Will you tell Rowan I’ve gone to the ladies’ retiring room if he returns before I do?”

  “But where are you going?” Georgie asked, her brown eyes flashing with curiosity.

  “For a bit of air, but I’ll only be a moment, I promise.”

  She darted toward the doors before her friends could stop her, weaving around the debutantes and their mamas. She emerged onto the terrace and took a deep breath of the damp, spring air. The rain had stopped and left a glorious, balmy night in its wake.

  Daring a few more steps, she moved toward the stone wall that overlooked the gardens. She couldn’t see much past the few lanterns that had been lit around the perimeter of the wall, but she could tell the Davenports kept a lovely garden.

  “A young lady ought not to be caught on the balcony alone,” came a deep voice from the shadows.

  Patience stated a bit and then whirled around to see who had spoken to her. “Isn’t it better she be caught alone rather than in the company of a man?” she returned, squinting to make out the figure that remained in the shadows.

  “Touché.”

  The gentleman finally stepped into the light, and Patience’s breath caught. He was like a golden statue—the kind that, when worshipped, got you smote by God. Patience took an instinctive step backwards.

  “Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed to her and then straightened again. “I am Baron Swaffham.”

  Coming to her senses, Patience eked out a startled, “Oh!” and then curtsied as deeply as she could without getting speared by her too-tight corset. “Forgive me, my lord.” Blast, she wasn’t prepared for this, and she absolutely despised being taken off guard.

  “Nothing to forgive. Might I have the pleasure of your name, Miss…?”

  “Findley,” she said, straightening up and shoving her nose in the air.

  “Findley, Findley.” Lord Swaffham tapped his cheek thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t that very afternoon made a bet on her virtue. “Any relation to Rowan Findley?”

  “My cousin,” she clarified, even though it wasn’t necessary.

  “Of course. My condolences on the loss of your mother.”

  Patience forgot herself momentarily, taken by surprise at the sincerity in his voice and at the thought of what might have been. How different this night would have been if her mother had been here. For one, she wouldn’t have had to dress to the sounds of an infant screaming from down the corridor.

  “Thank you,” she finally managed. “But I don’t think I should be out here with you. We could be caught.”

  “May I claim a dance, at least?”

  Patience fought the smile that threatened to give her away. He was like putty in her hands. “I suppose I cannot say no, can I?” she replied in her most frigid of tones.

  Swaffham was clearly enjoying the challenge already, if his wide grin was any indication. “Hand me your wrist.”

  Patience raised her arm. Lord Swaffham moved closer, opened her little book and scribbled his name down.

  “There,” he said. “I’ll see you for our waltz.”

  “Our what?”

  Swaffham blinked at her. “Have you never waltzed before?”

  “Not with a man,” she returned, and then realized how awkward that sounded. “I mean, only in lessons, at school.”

  “Well, we shall test your skill tonight. Now go, before you are discovered here with me.”

  Tristan chuckled as Miss Findley—Patience—scampered back to the ballroom. She was charming, despite the fact she was clearly a bit prudish. But that would all change soon. One dance with him would begin the melting process. A carriage ride, another dance, a trip to Vauxhall…he’d easily have her compromised by the end of the week, and then he’d be two hundred guineas richer. Which would be a great help to him, actually.

  He lit up a cheroot as he thought of his inheritance. He’d made a few too many bets at the Faro tables lately when he should have been repairing Hamlin Abbey. His idea that he’d use his winnings to make the extensive repairs was clearly misguided, since he’d lost more than he’d won. Now he’d have to pay back his debts before he could do a damn thing about the estate.

  “Oh, here he is, Mama!” came a shrill from the doors to the balcony.

  Damn. Why had he agreed to come to this blasted ball? The eligible misses were out in droves. He made a mental note never again to be indebted to a man with five daughters of marriageable age.

  He desperately wanted to flee now, but he’d already been spotted by one of his more recent conquests. There was nothing to do now but lie through his teeth about his relationship—if one could even call it that—with Miss Lara Banfield.

  “Lord Swaffham!” The eager young woman bounded towards him, her mother—who was actually quite an appealing woman—close on her heels. “I was hoping to find you out here. I know how much you wish to avoid the matchmakers in the ballroom.”

  Clearly, the irony was lost on the green girl.

  Tristan said nothing, but simply nodded his head in acknowledgement as he awaited the introduction.

  “My lord, this is my mother, Mrs. Banfield. I was just telling her how…accommodating you were at the Simpson’s dinner last week.”

  Dear God. What had she told her mother? Enough that should he admit to any of it, he’d find himself leg shackled to the foolish girl, he guessed.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said nonchalantly. “I was just acting as a gentleman should in a social setting.”

  Both women giggled and exchanged what he perceived to be devious looks.

  “Lord Swaffham, might we have the pleasure of seeing you tomorrow for tea?” Mrs. Banfield gave him a smile that sent a chill up his spine. She was certainly a plotter, that one. If he had known that, he never would have dallied with her daughter.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, though I thank you for the invitation just the same.” He nodded his head and began to walk past them. “A pleasant evening to you both.”

  “You don’t mean to compromise my daughter and then just walk away, do you, my lord?”

  Tristan stopped in his tracks and then took a moment to collect himself before turning around to face the women once again. “I don’t know what your daughter told you, but I can see she must have an active imagination.”

  He could see the hurt in the girl’s dark eyes. Clearly, she thought their tryst had meant something more. Didn’t she know him at all? Hadn’t his reputation preceded him? Nevertheless, something sliced through his gut. Or was it his heart? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like the feeling. He thought it might be something akin to guilt, and Tristan Wallford had never felt guilty for anything in his life.

  “You can’t be serious,” Miss Banfield finally said, he
r voice slightly choked. “I thought…I mean…”

  Her mother put a staying hand on her arm to stop her from saying something inappropriate. “That’s enough, darling. And don’t worry…” She flashed a piercing glare at Tristan. “The evil shall see their day of reckoning.”

  Mrs. Banfield took hold of her daughter’s arm and brushed past him back into the ballroom.

  “That may be true,” he said to no one in particular, “but today is not that day, thank the good Lord.”

  Patience was trying to be cold and standoffish as she’d been instructed to be for the sake of the bet, but she was finding it rather difficult in the face of the dashing Lord Swaffham. Perhaps he was more devil than god, for his touch was searing and there was most certainly fire behind his eyes. She could see why so many women fell prey to him, and it was up to her to pretend to do the same. It wouldn’t be hard, to be completely honest. The hard part would be holding out so that he wouldn’t suspect she was in on the bet her cousin had made with him.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have the most lovely eyes?” he said to her as his hand pressed firmly against her back.

  Patience found this amusing, since she didn’t have very interesting eyes at all. Small and unremarkably blue, they could hardly compare to the bright emerald eyes, lined with thick, black lashes that stared back at her.

  She gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Ah, no. I can’t say that anyone ever has.” There. That wasn’t so hard. It was easy to be cold in the face of mere flattery. Sincerity would be another matter altogether, but Patience didn’t expect to get any of that from the reprobate.

  “Well, it’s a shame that no one ever has.” He pierced her with what might have been a sincere gaze, but Patience was starting to lose her sense of reality in all the spinning. “They truly are quite lovely.”

  Before Patience lost her resolve altogether, she pasted on her most haughty expression and said, “Flattery will get you nowhere, my lord.”

  Swaffham smiled. “Ah, my reputation precedes me, I see. You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the gossip sheets, Miss Findley. I’m not all bad, you know.”

  “No, but you’re certainly not all good, and therefore, I feel our association should end with the conclusion of this waltz.”

  He sucked in his breath and wore a pained expression. “You cut me deep, Miss Findley. And here I had hoped to call on you tomorrow afternoon. I’ve a new phaeton I wish to try out, and I thought to invite you to join me for a drive in Hyde Park.”

  “Where would my chaperone sit?”

  “So you agree, then?”

  “I didn’t say that. It was a hypothetical question. I won’t go driving with you without a chaperone.”

  Swaffham nodded thoughtfully. “Of course not, Miss Findley,” he said as he bowed with the end of the music. “Then I shall bring the landau instead so there’s plenty of room.”

  And with that, he dipped his head and disappeared into the crowd. Patience stood at the edge of the dance floor slightly dumbfounded. Goodness, he was clever.

  “Did I overhear you correctly?” Rowan’s voice came from somewhere behind her and she whirled around to face him.

  “That depends on what you heard,” she replied.

  “A drive in the park tomorrow? You move quickly, cousin.”

  She took Rowan’s proffered arm and began walking with him towards the connecting room where the refreshments were set out. “Yes, well…I haven’t much time. I detest living under my father’s roof, especially now that Mother’s gone.” Speaking of her mother twisted her gut, but she went on. “It’s just too painful.”

  “Life with someone like Swaffham won’t be a picnic, Patience.”

  “Yes, I know.” Though Patience dreamed of a romantic and fanciful marriage, she knew that wasn’t realistic. At least she’d have an attractive husband, if nothing else. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Was that Lady Habersham I saw signaling at you earlier with her fan?”

  “Just because they signal doesn’t mean I oblige.”

  Patience smirked. “Oh, really? So you’re not going home with Lady Habersham this evening?”

  Rowan shrugged. “I didn’t say that, either. But her husband is away on business—”

  “You are the worst kind of rogue there is,” Patience said with a laugh. “At any rate, I need for you to arrange for us to be caught in a compromising position—”

  “Ho, there!” Rowan held up a hand to quiet her. “I can’t be the one to do that, Patience. How will that look? He’ll know I’ve manipulated the bet.”

  Patience hadn’t thought about that. “All right then…I’ll figure something else out, I suppose. It shouldn’t be all that hard.”

  “You underestimate your prey.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I do.”

  “Look.” Rowan pointed to the other side of the room. “Aren’t those your school friends?”

  “Yes, there they are.”

  “Lady Philipa is quite a beauty.”

  Patience turned on her cousin. “Don’t even think about it, Rowan. She is a good and kind person, and I won’t have you attempting to debauch her.”

  Rowan gave a snort. “I think she’s done a fine job of that on her own.”

  “Of course you would know about her recent situation, but I don’t think it’s at all her fault.” Patience leveled her cousin with a final glare. “Leave. Her. Alone.”

  Tristan arrived on Miss Findley’s doorstep at exactly four o’clock the next afternoon. It was blessedly sunny out—perfect for a ride through the park. But first, Tristan hoped to be invited in for tea. He’d heard plenty of rumors of the exotic beauty Mr. Findley had brought back from India, and his curiosity was starting to get the better of him.

  The butler received him within mere moments and ushered him into the front parlor. Tristan looked about. Heiress indeed. If the finely-appointed home was any indication, Miss Findley probably came with a rather hefty dowry. She would probably have an apoplexy if she ever saw Hamlin Abbey, with its ancient décor and sad state of disrepair. Thankfully he didn’t have to worry about that, though.

  “Lord Swaffham.”

  Tristan turned from the mirror where he’d been straightening his cravat to find Miss Findley standing in the doorway. She looked quite different from last night when her hair had been coiled intricately and she’d worn a gown of bold, shiny jonquil. Today, however, she wore a simple dress of pale blue that matched her eyes, and her thick, black hair hung loosely around her face. Tristan marveled at the fact that he preferred the daytime version of Miss Findley to the nighttime version, since he rarely preferred the daytime anything.

  He bowed to her and softly uttered her name. He’d learned that women quite liked it when a man spoke their names with a touch of reverence, almost as if it were a prayer. “I trust you’ve had a pleasant day thus far?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Shall we go?”

  “Go? But I’ve only just arrived.”

  She stepped back slightly to glance down the corridor, then turned back to him. “I thought you meant to take me for a ride, my lord.”

  “I do, but it’s still early yet. There won’t be anyone to see, or be seen by, for another hour or so. Not to mention, I’m awfully parched.”

  Clearly, this was not what Miss Findley wanted to hear. She seemed a bit flustered at the idea of having tea, but Tristan would not back down. He wanted to meet the woman known as Flower. The one who was causing such a scandal for poor Miss Findley.

  “Certainly,” she said at last, smoothing her skirts with what Tristan assumed were sweaty hands. “I’ll just ring for tea then.”

  “I hope it’s not too much trouble.” Tristan gave her a winning smile.

  “Of course not,” she said, though clearly it was a great deal of trouble.

  She walked to the bell pull and gave it a little tug. Tristan liked the way her lithe muscles flexed in her arm as she did so. Quite attractive, that. Almost as attractive as her ample breasts
that rounded above the bodice of her dress.

  A maid appeared almost instantly and bobbed a curtsey.

  “Cora, will you bring tea up, please? And tell Marcie to come down at once.”

  Cora disappeared again, and Tristan took a seat in the chair opposite Miss Findley. “Marcie is your chaperone, I take it?”

  “She is. I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t think it’s proper, us having tea alone and all.”

  “Of course not. What about your stepmother? Will she join us too?”

  Miss Findley’s head shot up. Obviously, he’d struck a nerve.

  “I certainly hope not,” she said and then turned her attention to Marcie, whom he recognized from last night’s ball.

  It appeared that was all she was going to say on the matter. So be it, then. He had more important matters to attend to, like getting Miss Findley into bed. And if her guardians were going to be absent it would make his task all that much easier.

  Patience couldn’t say that tea with Lord Swaffham was all bad. As a matter of fact, other than the awkward moment when he asked after her stepmother, it was quite pleasant. Conversation was much easier with him than she’d expected—he had quite a lot to say, and seemed to know when he was talking too much, at which point he would shift the conversation and ask Patience’s opinion on the matter. It was quite unexpected. All this time, she thought he’d been using charm and flattery to get those girls to fall in love with him. Was it really wit and intelligence he was using instead?

  “Well,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m about drowning in tea now. Shall we go for that drive?”

  “Certainly.” She turned to Marcie, but her maid was already on the task of retrieving Patience’s pelisse and reticule. Patience led the way to the front hall and once fully dressed, they departed from the house.

  A well-appointed landau sat on the street outside. As they approached, Lord Swaffham took her hand and helped her and Marcie into the seat before following behind them.

  “Hyde Park, Elliot,” he called to the driver, and then they were off.