Love for all Seasons

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  It was a perfectly sunny day, if not a bit chilly. Patience wished she could divest herself of her bonnet to get a bit of sun on her cheeks. Mama had always insisted that pale skin made one look more aristocratic, but Patience much preferred a healthy, sunny complexion.

  She sighed, wishing she could argue with her mother again. An odd thing to wish for, she knew, but she wished it nonetheless.

  The park was busy today; Rotten Row was bustling with members of the ton both on foot and in carriages. Parasols and top hats dotted the scenery—all the black and white in stark contrast to the bright green trees.

  “Do you care to walk a bit, Miss Findley?”

  Patience looked up at Swaffham. His smile was radiant and made her heart skip a beat. She wasn’t sure if she should fight it or give in to it. After all, she planned to trap him into marriage soon, why not actually allow herself to fall in love with him too?

  “I would be happy to.”

  Swaffham instructed his driver to let them out, and once he was on the ground, he turned back to help Patience and Marcie down as well. As he went to shut the door, he let out an, “Oh,” and then went quiet as he retrieved something from the seat.

  “Is everything all right?” Patience asked him.

  “Oh, fine,” he said, offering his arm. “I just dropped something.”

  They began their walk, and Marcie very kindly stayed a good twenty paces behind them.

  “Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” Swaffham asked, and Patience nodded in agreement.

  Silence fell between them for the first time that afternoon, and Patience suddenly had the distinct feeling that Swaffham was hiding something from her. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

  “Yes. I find it very problematic that you continue to call me ‘my lord.’”

  “Oh.” Patience turned to him. “Then what shall I call you? Swaffham?”

  His brow was crinkled in a scowl, though he could have simply been squinting at the sun.

  “You’re not one of my old school chums, Miss Findley. I would very much like it if you would refer to me as Tristan…in private, of course.”

  “Tristan.” She smiled, and then asked, “Tell me, did you ever find the Holy Grail?”

  Tristan turned surprised eyes on her. “You are familiar with the legend.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Patience shrugged. “My father has a copy of Prose Tristan in our library. I found it quite intriguing.”

  “I wish I could say that I was named after the heroic lover, but the original Tristan in my family, my great-great-grandfather, had that particular honor. I was simply named after my own father, which I can promise is no honor.”

  “Well, it seems we have something in common,” she said, and then to clarify added, “in that we have less-than-honorable fathers.”

  “And what shall I call you?”

  Patience wanted to give him leave to use her Christian name, but she worried that allowing too much familiarity so soon would be bad for the sake of the bet. “You may call me Miss Findley.”

  Tristan laughed at that. “That’s just fine, Miss Findley. One at a time, so as not to offend your female sensibilities.”

  It grated on every one of Patience’s nerves that he thought she was doing it out of some sense of propriety. She didn’t give a fig for propriety—that had always been her mother’s obsession. But what could she say now?

  Tristan looked back at Marcie and then quickly faced forward again. “I have something else I wish to discuss with you, Miss Findley.”

  Patience’s stomach turned a bit. What did he want to discuss that had him sounding so very serious all of a sudden? Surely, he couldn’t know that she was the instigator of the bet, could he?

  “Go on,” she said, though she was praying for an interruption so they might avoid any awkward conversation about the bet.

  “Would you care to tell me what this was doing on your person?”

  Tristan procured a small, red leather book. On the cover was engraved lettering in an unfamiliar language and below that, a depiction of what looked to be an Indian god…or goddess, perhaps. It was hard to make out, no matter which way she cocked her head.

  “I’ve never seen that book in my life,” she told him truthfully. Then she snatched it from his hands and opened it up, only to snap it shut again immediately. “Oh, good heavens!”

  Tristan let out a hearty laugh, but Patience didn’t think it was funny at all. Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment at what she’d just seen.

  “You blackguard!” she hissed under her breath, even though she would have loved to shout at him. “You knew what was in there, didn’t you? And you let me open it anyway?”

  “I thought it was your book, Miss Findley,” he replied, his laughter finally dying away a bit.

  “Well, it’s not. I can assure you of that.”

  “Then to whom does it belong?”

  They both stopped walking long enough to glance back at Marcie and then resumed their walk.

  “What would Marcie be doing with a book like this?” she wondered.

  “Miss Findley,” Tristan said, and she could tell he was trying to choose his words carefully. “Have you any idea where that book comes from?”

  She shook her head, confused.

  Tristan sighed, as if he didn’t want to tell her. “It’s…it’s a Hindu text. From India.”

  It took every ounce of Patience’s willpower to remain calm, but truly, she shook with her fury. How dare that woman bring something so scandalous into her home, after already causing such a scandal for her in Society?

  Well, Rangana would certainly get a piece of her mind when she got home, that much was for certain.

  Tristan wasn’t prepared for the rage that Miss Findley exhibited. He’d actually never seen someone turn quite such a bright shade of red. In truth, he’d hoped that showing her the book might ignite passion of a different sort, but it seemed her only passion was to wring her stepmother’s neck now. Blast, but she really was a prude, wasn’t she? Findley had not been joking on that account.

  “Now, now, Miss Findley,” he said, hoping to assuage her anger. “You needn’t get so up in arms over this little book. I’m sure she meant no harm by it.”

  “Poor Marcie,” she wailed, as if she hadn’t heard a word he said. “So innocent. She shouldn’t be exposed to such material.”

  “I’m not sure ‘Poor Marcie’ feels the same way.”

  Miss Findley turned sharp eyes on him. “Lord Swaffham, I will ask you to hold your tongue on this matter. You are the last person I wish to discuss…this with.”

  Tristan tried not to laugh—really, he did. But her fury was more comical than anything, and his lips twitched upward despite his best efforts.

  Miss Findley huffed, clearly not amused at his amusement. “You think this is funny? You think to laugh at me when I’ve been presented with this…this…sex book,” she hissed, scandalized.

  Now Tristan was really laughing. “Miss Findley, forgive me, but I do think you’re making far too much of this. Why don’t you slip it into your reticule? Then once you’re home you can unleash your fury on your stepmother, if you wish. But for now, why not enjoy this lovely spring day with me?” He waited, trying to gauge her expressions. Her fury died a bit, leaving a crinkled brow on a face of a more normal color.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, giving in. “I’m sorry to have lost control like that. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I can just imagine what my mother would say about this.”

  “What was she like?”

  Miss Findley looked up at him. Was she surprised he asked such a question? He was. He didn’t normally take an interest in people’s private lives, especially when the person in question was simply the subject of a bet, but for some reason he genuinely wanted to know about Miss Findley’s mother.

  “She was perfect, really,” she began as they continued their walk. “Sometimes her perfection�
�or her desire for perfection from others—could be exhausting. She wasn’t highborn, and with Papa being in trade, she felt she had something to prove. She learned everything she needed to know about Society and etiquette, and she tried her best to pass it down to me. We lived by the rules, always. Scandal was not an option.”

  Tristan nodded his head to Lord and Lady Tinsley as they passed by before continuing the conversation. “So I suppose this is all rather upsetting for you—the situation with your father and your stepmother?”

  Miss Findley’s eyes snapped up to look at him. “You know about our…situation?”

  He shrugged. “Word gets around, Miss Findley.”

  At her look of pure mortification, he sought to comfort her. “But I think you see it as being worse than it is.”

  “Thank you for trying to make me feel better, but I think it is just as bad as I think it is.”

  “You’ve a large dowry to make up for it, though, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” And then she laughed a bit, out of embarrassment. “Goodness, we shouldn’t speak of such things, Lord Swaffham.”

  “We’re back to that, are we?”

  “Tristan,” she amended with a half smile. “I just…why is it so easy to talk to you?”

  He shrugged again. “I must admit, I find you easier to talk to than most women, Miss Findley. It’s not something I can explain.” Much to his surprise, he realized he spoke the truth. He wanted to win the bet, but something churned in his gut, warning him of something deeper, something more…permanent. Damn.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t cause any harm for you to call me by my Christian name.” She took his arm again, and Tristan tried his damndest to ignore the plummeting of his heart. What the devil was she doing to him?

  “I would be honored,” he replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound as choked as it felt.

  “Patience. You may call me Patience.”

  Ironic. Tristan was feeling anything but patient just now. If they weren’t in the middle of Hyde Park during the most fashionable hour, he might lay her down and collect on his bet right then and there.

  “There is a concert, Patience, in Vauxhall this weekend. Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Oh!” She seemed genuinely surprised at the invitation. “Well, yes, that would be lovely.”

  Tristan smiled. Vauxhall would be the perfect place to win his bet, and then, with any luck, he could forget about Patience Findley. Men like him didn’t settle down, no matter how many butterflies fluttered around in their stomachs, over one particular lady.

  Patience was so excited about the invitation to Vauxhall that she nearly forgot all about the little red book in her reticule. Almost. But not quite. Rangana was due for an earful from her when she got home. Still, it didn’t take away from the fact that she was going to Vauxhall with Tristan on Saturday evening. Her friends would be there too, along with at least half the ton. Surely Tristan would try to lure her into a compromising position, and surely she could alert someone to their assignation. Marriage was within her reach, and she’d be able to put her father and Rangana and the sad scandal behind her at last.

  “Well, thank you for the drive, Tristan,” she said as he helped her from the carriage and walked her to the door.

  “My pleasure, Patience. I will see you on Saturday.”

  Tristan walked away and mounted his landau once again. Patience watched him until he was out of sight and then turned to face her front door. She didn’t relish going in there—a sure fight awaited her with Rangana—but she just couldn’t let something like this go unnoticed.

  “Are ya going inside, miss?” Marcie asked from behind her.

  She’d forgotten all about Marcie.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Marcie,” she said, glancing backward over her shoulder. “Let’s get inside.”

  Patience tried to remain calm as she handed off her outer clothes to Marcie, but truly, her blood was boiling. As soon as she could, she darted off in search of her stepmother. She finally found her sitting quietly in an upstairs parlor—her mother’s parlor.

  “How could you?” Patience said, not bothering with any pleasantries.

  Rangana looked appropriately shocked at the abrupt intrusion, her exotic black eyes wide and curious. “Patience, is everything all right?”

  Was she so daft that she had to ask that question? “No, everything is not all right,” Patience said, refusing to sit down when Rangana gestured to a chair. “I found this with my maid today.”

  Rangana looked at the book and then looked up at Patience with a smile on her face. A smile. “This is no laughing matter, Rangana!”

  “You must forgive me. I do not understand why you are so angry about your maid possessing the Kama Sutra.”

  Patience stared at her wide-eyed. Yes, she was most assuredly a daft woman. “Marcie is a young, innocent woman. Not only that, but you dare to bring this scandalous book into my house. Does my father know about this?”

  “Patience,” Rangana said, her voice annoyingly quiet and placating, “please sit down. We can talk about this like adults.”

  Patience hated the insinuation that she was a child. She stared at her stepmother a moment, her nostrils flaring at the dark-skinned imposter, and then finally plopped into a chair. “Fine. But you have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Rangana poured a cup of tea and handed it to Patience, who took it but didn’t drink from it. Instead, she set it promptly onto the small side table.

  “There is little to explain. In my culture, we view the Kama Sutra as a guide book of sorts, not just for love making, but for life.”

  Patience couldn’t stop the snort.

  “You are so young, Patience,” Rangana said, which was rather ironic since Patience was only a couple years younger than her stepmother. “But you are not so young that you should remain naïve about such things. You will marry soon, and you should not go into your marriage thinking that this—” she held up the book— “is inappropriate.”

  “B-but…the pictures,” she stammered. “You can’t deny that those are…scandalous.”

  “They are beautiful, not scandalous in any way. You may not think so now, but you will.” She passed the book to Patience, who held it between her thumb and forefinger like she might hold the tail of a dead mouse. “Take it. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. But take it just in case.”

  An infant wail came from down the hall, and Rangana stood to go. “I will see you at dinner, Patience.”

  She watched her stepmother leave the room, baffled by the conversation they’d just had. Baffled and scandalized, really.

  And, blast it all, now she was intrigued. Desperately curious, if she were telling the truth.

  She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest as she slumped against the back of her chair. The little red book sat on the table before her, taunting her, daring her to open it up and look inside. Could she look at it in a new light? Could she gaze at those images and try to see the beauty that Rangana claimed was there? She doubted it, but blast if she wasn’t going to at least try.

  Patience leaned forward and picked up the book. Her hands trembled as if she were about to perform an operation as she cracked it open and turned to the first illustration.

  Good heavens! She blushed from head to toe—even her feet burned with embarrassment to see such an intimate pose. But she couldn’t deny what it was doing to her inside. The heat she felt wasn’t merely from embarrassment. It stemmed from something so scandalous she could hardly think of it. How could a simple drawing make her feel so…wanton? And why was her brain replacing the faces of these people with those of Tristan and herself?

  She slammed the book shut. While she planned to trap Tristan into marriage quite soon, she wasn’t sure she was ready for…that.

  As if the room itself were tainted, Patience bolted out the door and headed to her room. She had a trap to plan, and she was going to need help from her friends.

  Tristan didn’
t feel much like sitting in the bow window that Friday morning. It was already full to the brim with dandies, anyhow, so he decided to take his breakfast in the main dining room. He was just about to dip into his kedgeree when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up to find his old friend Damien Lockwell standing there with a wide grin on his face.

  “Well, well, well,” Tristan said, returning the grin and gesturing to the opposite chair. “I see you’ve returned from the country at last. How is it being leg-shackled and all?”

  Lockwell plopped into the seat. “Bloody magnificent. You should try it sometime.”

  Tristan erupted into laughter. Lockwell had been just as debauched as Tristan had been, until he found Isabel Whitton, of course. They’d been quite the pair in their younger years. “Do you know me at all, old friend?”

  “Better than you know yourself, probably.” Lockwell leaned forward. “You must be getting tired, old man.”

  “I’m not even thirty yet. I’ve got a good many more years of debauchery left in me.”

  “Ah, well…I can’t say that I wish I could join you. Mrs. Lockwell keeps me rather busy.” Lockwell gave him a wink.

  “I’m certain she does. All those tedious balls and garden parties—they can really wear a man out.”

  “Speaking of which, my wife is in a tizzy lately over the wayward debutantes who are apparently making spectacles of themselves already.” Lockwell narrowed his eyes at Tristan. “I think you might be somewhat acquainted with one of these notorious girls.”

  Tristan shifted in his seat, and then shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that so? I seem to recall coming across your name in the betting book recently. Something about a Miss Findley?”

  “And? The bets I make are my business.”

  Lockwell shrugged and sat back against his chair. “I just thought it was odd that Rowan Findley would make a bet that involved his cousin getting compromised, especially when her very best friends had found themselves in the book first.”