Patience (21 page)

Matthew’s demand had been clear. Undress and wait for him.

But what of his request?

And what of
her
words, words that had snuck up on her so stealthily. Turning to face the fire, she stared into the flames. Were they true? Was her dedication to her instrument based on some desperate, pathetic need? The thought was repugnant.

Other than the fulfillment of her physical passions, which Matthew was now tending to, she’d felt she had everything she needed in life. She was not some weak woman who bemoaned her lot or pined for love. She was strong and her days were full.

Pacing before the fire, she twisted one of her long curls around her finger. Yes, she’d experienced a broken heart, but she’d repaired it beautifully. She felt no scars, no tortured need. Indeed, there was very little she needed. That had been one of her discoveries during her quest for love—that she didn’t really
need
anyone. She could take care of herself. And since love evaded her, why marry?

So, she had turned fully to her instrument, which she did love.

Besides—she continued pacing—everyone should have some passion, some pursuit. And why pursue anything if one were not going to work toward perfection? Of course, the pursuit of perfection required focus and discipline, which romantic love invariably robbed a person of.

Releasing her twisted curl, she nodded. Yes, all her decisions seemed perfectly sound.

Turning from the fire, she frowned and bit her lip. Then why did she feel that something was amiss? Why had she felt such sorrow at the moment her surprising words had escaped her? She had no reason to feel sorry for herself.

Her frown deepened. She wished she could take the words back.

With a frustrated sigh, she rubbed her hands on her thighs and glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. Where was Matthew? Her nipples tightened and her stomach fluttered as she poured a brandy from the decanter he had left.

His request that she give up her opportunity with Cavalli had both pleased and distressed her. She couldn’t deny that she was glad he didn’t want her to go. But she couldn’t possibly give up the prospect. Cellists from all over Europe vied for the chance to study with Cavalli. She and Matthew could continue their relationship later.

Her muscles tensed as she thought of the alternative he had offered—to teach her himself. Shivering, she took a sip from the brandy. She couldn’t possibly allow that. Studying with Cavalli was one thing. She felt nothing for him but a detached admiration for his expertise as a cello master. Matthew, on the other hand, inspired her passions and made her feel . . . things . . .

. . . things that might infect her playing were she to allow him too close.

And yet, she couldn’t help thinking of how he’d played—easily, fluidly. She frowned. Better than she.

What if he could make her better?

She shuddered.

No. He may touch her body, but he may
not
touch her music. Besides, what if he weren’t really recovered from the loss of Rosalind? Her stomach tightened. Taking another sip from the brandy, she began pacing again. It was a thought that had been plaguing her off and on since her encounter with the horrid Lady Humphreys.

What if Matthew still ached for Rosalind? Rosalind who was “a woman of elegant beauty and impeccable breeding.” Rosalind, who, “everyone knows,” Matthew had been “completely in love” with.

Was he thinking of Rosalind when he was with her? Was he comparing her to Rosalind? Just how intimate had he been with Rosalind?

God . . . Patience halted her pacing. She had to stop this nonsense. She had no claim upon Matthew, therefore no right to jealousy. And why was she allowing some vile woman’s words to infect her? Matthew had conveyed his desire—his desire for
her
.
Never question that I value you above all others, Patience.
That’s what he had said. And she believed him.

She would not allow the vile Lady Humphreys’s words to supersede Matthew’s. Matthew had done nothing to deserve her distrust. So he hadn’t told her of the fight with Lord Danforth—so what? He was trying to survive the scandal with nobility and honor, and, clearly, many people were against him. He didn’t need her faithlessness as well. “ ‘A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country, and in his own house,’ ” Patience quoted the words quietly as a rebuke to herself.

Taking a last sip from the brandy, she placed the snifter on the hearth to warm. As she bent, she felt the weight of her breasts. They swayed and tingled with the gentle pull of gravity.

She straightened slowly. She had never noticed the pleasant weightiness of her own breasts before.

But now the feeling made her think of other, more delicious sensations—like the sharp slap of Matthew’s fingers upon her nipples, the firm press of Matthew’s hand against her quim, and the swollen shaft of Matthew’s cock in her mouth.

Slowly, she walked to the long cheval mirror by the window. She knew her body well. But tonight, she saw it with fresh eyes. Tonight, she saw a body whose secret cravings had been revealed to her—a body that suddenly knew itself.

She saw long limbs that yearned for restraint. She saw pale skin that blushed for firm pinches and strong words. Her nipples, thick and rosy, showed no sign of the sharp slaps they had endured the night before. But as she gently touched the dark bruise at her inner thigh, she almost wished they did. Maybe then, she might still feel some remnant of that splendid sensation. Oh, to feel that hot heaviness again would be heaven.

Her clitoris, tender with want, throbbed in eager agreement. She pressed her fingers to her pulsing, needy flesh. She could bring her own release now. But she had no desire to do so. She let her hand fall away.

She wanted Matthew.

With a sigh, Patience moved back to the hearth. Though her clitoris was aching, a comfortable calm suffused her. It was similar to the feeling she’d had the night before, when she’d lain alone, tied to his bed. Only tonight it was stronger and deeper. Tonight, she had some understanding, some experience. Tonight, she knew her proper place.

She dropped to her knees before the fire.

Her sex felt bloated.

Where was Matthew?

 

 

Matthew leaned back in his desk chair and read the letter he’d just composed.

Matthew stared at the letter a moment more. It was wrong. He shouldn’t send it. But neither could he tolerate the thought of Patience leaving him. Fitz Roy had been right when he’d called Rosalind’s missive an act of desperation. So was this.

Shoving his conscience out of the way, he quickly folded the letter and the cheque into an envelope and addressed the front to Maestro Fernando Cavalli. Tomorrow, he would give it to Mickey Wilkes to deliver. Then the reformed thief, con artist, and knave could return to Benchley Manor—but only after he delivered a message to Rosalind.

Placing the letter to Cavalli in his top desk drawer, his eye landed upon the note from his former fiancée. Pointing at it, almost like an arrow, was the corner of another letter protruding from the stack of mail he’d dropped there that morning. On that protruding corner was a bit of large, curling script that he recognized immediately.

A bitter feeling moved through him as he pulled his mother’s letter from the stack. Since the scandal, he’d received only three letters from her. They had gone from cajoling, to indifferent, to angry. And each one had been entirely taken up with her—
her
reasons,
her
woes,
her
needs—her, her, her. She’d barely spared two lines at the end of each letter in reference to how he might be faring. Once she’d even put it in the postscript. What more could she possibly have to say to him? And why should he care?

He loathed her. He turned over the letter as boyhood memories of her fawning attention flashed through his mind. She had seemed to favor him so much, but the truth was that, despite the lavish shows she had made over him, her attentions had actually been shallow and inconsistent.

He remembered all too well how she would disappear for days, weeks, or even months, whenever she acquired a new lover. And then she would reappear bearing expensive gifts for him that often bore no relation to his childhood interests. And how often had she seemed to overindulge him in front of others, especially before Mark and her husband, while treating him with only mild affection when they were alone? There had been times when he’d hated her, even then. But, though he had periodically spent his rage upon her, he’d let everything happen.

He’d let it happen because she had told him, over and over and always, that she loved him.

And she was his mother . . .

. . . so he’d believed her.

He stared into the flames flickering in the fireplace then, rising, he crossed to the hearth and tossed the letter in the fire. He watched it curl into ash. That passage of his life was over.

As the last bit of his mother’s letter burned to dust, he returned to his desk. His ledger still lay open. He stared down at the balance. In three months, the figure had been reduced by almost two thirds. Though his outside investments continued to earn, the huge payments he’d made to keep GWR afloat had far surpassed his monthly income. But he hadn’t built Grand West Railway by being conservative. As dangerous as it might be, now was not the time to tighten his purse strings. Perception was even more important than reality. To win his war with Benchley, he needed to inspire confidence. He needed to give the impression that his pockets were bottomless. He needed to spend.

And he needed to move forward with his life. As he closed his ledger and put it in the drawer, the letter to Cavalli stared up at him. He drew a deep breath. He wasn’t going to stand by, ever again, and let life just happen to him. He would collar it and drive it down the path of his choosing.

And Patience was no exception. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow her to wander from him. She was his hope and his desire.

His eye shifted to Rosalind’s note. So different from
her
. He picked up the pink paper and flipped it open.

But all just as blind.

I thank God every day for our parting.

On a cold day in hell.

He stared at that last line. If the truth of his parentage had never been revealed, he would have married her. Then, one day, she may very well have sent a note, bearing the same line, to some other man. Maybe even to one of the footmen or underbutlers of his own household. On that day, he would have become a cuckold, just like the man he had always called “Father.” Perhaps, like the late earl, he would even have raised a child not of his seed. And just like that, his life would have come full circle.

God, why hadn’t he seen before just how much like his mother Rosalind was? His gut clenched. The thought was vile.

Shoving the note back in his desk drawer, he slammed it shut and began to pace. He wanted nothing to do with his former fiancée. Yet, his financial and social survival depended upon taking Benchley down. He must use every advantage at his disposal—even Rosalind. He would contact her. Then he would see how she could be of use to him.

He stopped pacing and rubbed his aching brow. He wished it were all over. He wished he could jump forward in time, and find Benchley defeated and himself restored to his former stature.

But he couldn’t. He had to play it all out. He had to have patience.

She would never betray him.

Matthew felt his shoulders slowly relax. Patience had the Dare family decency and goodness. It enshrouded her like a cloak and was plain for all to see. He thought of her perfect chin lifting proudly when Aunt Matty’s loud invitation for him to play had raised brows and caused murmurs. He remembered her fiery retort to Fenton and her proud demeanor when she had walked with him through the ballroom at the masque. She was loyal and true. She was honest and strong.

He stared across the room into the flickering flames of the fire.

She was going to be his wife.

His heart thumped and then beat fast.