He learns she’s bent on revenge. But her unmasking could be his undoing.
The Earl of Coulter has always had a way with the ladies—until now. A delicious little countess with a thirst for revenge and a penchant for trouble has taken society by storm. Can he bring her to heel or will he wind up dancing to her tune?
Damien, Earl of Coulter, turned a jaded eye to the dizzying array of brightly colored dresses swirling around him. The cloying mixture of perfume and fawning femininity had left him with a headache of astronomical proportions. Of course, he thought, with a small, self-deprecating smile, that third snifter of brandy he had drunk before leaving the club hadn’t helped matters either. But he’d wager he was not the only gentleman in this room tonight who had required a little liquid fortitude before being dragged off to the Duchess of Alderman’s annual ball.
“Damien. So nice of you to tear yourself away from your nightly round of gambling, drinking, and general debauchery to accompany your sister to her debut into polite society.”
With his first genuine smile of the evening, Damien turned toward that wry, irascible voice. Tall and trim, even at sixty the Duchess was the epitome of understated elegance. Her emerald green dress with its creamy gauze overskirt revealed a body that had changed little with the ravages of time. Wisps of snow white hair escaped the bun atop her head, and the blush painting her finely chiseled cheekbones owed nothing to artifice.
“Aunt Viola,” said Damien, raising her hand to his lips, “might I just say that you are the loveliest woman in this room tonight.”
“Don’t waste your pretty platitudes on me, boy,” said the dowager duchess, her emerald green eyes glittering merrily. “Save ’em for the ladies. They’ll appreciate them much more than I.”
“Alas, dear aunt, were I able to find one lady amongst this throng who could hold a candle to you, I would rush to her side and bestow upon her my undying love and devotion.”
“Well,” drawled the Duchess, “the night’s still young, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll find that woman after all. One can only hope that when you do, she won’t take one look at that devilishly handsome face of yours and fall straight into your arms. You’ve had it too easy with the ladies thus far, my boy. You need someone who will lead you a merry chase.”
“Ah, but Aunt Vi, aren’t you forgetting something—namely, my lovely bride, Penelope.”
“Patience,” said the Dowager with a frown.
“Excuse me?”
“Your bride—her name is Patience. Penelope is the cat! A fact of which you would be aware if you ever visited the child. Have you even seen her since the wedding three years ago?”
Damien raised one raven-colored brow. “Patience. That’s right,” he sighed. “And no, I have not seen her since the nuptials. But for good cause. The little hellion made it quite clear that ours was to be a marriage of convenience only. Her family’s lands for my fortune and title.” He smiled, remembering the tiny scrap of a girl with her scrawny, underfed body and flashing blue eyes, “The last time I saw my beloved, she was spitting fire at me and calling me a rake and a scoundrel. No—not a scoundrel…a scalawag. ’Twas the wretched cat I found in my wedding bed that night—not the lady. So, I ask you…is it any wonder that I cherish fonder memories of that mangy feline than I do of my wife?”
“The Countess Fraser,” intoned the black-clad servant just as the clock tolled two.
A sudden silence spread through the ballroom, cutting through the chatter like a knife.
“Ah, the Divine Countess,” whispered Alexis Harrison, sidling up to her big brother. “Late as usual.”
“Who is she?” asked Damien, unable to tear his gaze from the stunning figure atop the stairs. She looked to be about nineteen, with the face of an angel and the body of a goddess. Though small in stature, she radiated an air of self-assurance unusual in one so young. A jeweled sapphire comb secured her shining golden hair atop her head. A few wispy butterscotch curls tumbled around her temples and over her forehead. Damien wondered what those soft curls would feel like wrapped around his fingers.
Her Empire-waisted satin ballgown in the palest shade of cream, with an overlay of ecru colored lace, emphasized her slim form to perfection.
“The women hate her, you know.”
Feeling as if he had just emerged from the depths of a fever, Damien glanced over at his sister. “What?”
“The Countess,” she continued. “Elizabeth Churcham says the ladies hate her because no one knows where she came from. She just showed up at Lady Peterley’s cotillion last week. The men certainly don’t seem to mind her mysterious past, though, judging from the way they all seem to flock to her side.”
Damien turned a penetrating gaze on the Countess. How could such a magnificent creature have materialized out of thin air without anyone having heard of her? He frowned. There was only one possibility. She was a charlatan. Some poor little church mouse who had decided to capitalize on her incomparable beauty to snag herself a rich husband. A thoughtful smile curved his lips.
“Aunt Vi—”
“If you’re going to demand that I introduce you to the lady so that you can interrogate her, Damien,” said the Dowager slyly, “don’t bother. I hear she’s remarkably close-mouthed about her background.”
Damien turned his head just in time to catch the conspiratorial look that flickered between his aunt and sister.
“All right you two. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” Alexis responded, a hair too quickly.
The Dowager wrapped a hand around his arm and dragged him forward. “Oh, leave your sister alone, you brute. Come on—I’ll take you to the Countess. It might be good for you to meet a woman who can withstand your charms for a change.”
The Earl smiled into the older woman’s twinkling eyes, “And just what makes you think your little Countess can stand up to my charms when so many before her could not?” he asked mockingly.
“One can only hope, my dear.” Her hand tightened on his arm as she pulled him to a stop. “Countess Fraser, may I present to you my nephew, Damien—Earl of Coulter.”
The Countess’s sapphire blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she looked from the Dowager to the man at her side. Finally, lush, cherry red lips curling into a slight smile, she bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“Your lordship.”
“May I have this dance, my lady,” he asked, “and I warn you—if you say no, I shall be absolutely inconsolable.”
Her smile quickly became an impish grin. “Somehow I doubt that, your lordship. But far be it from me to cause distress, however slight, to a man of your stature.”
“My aunt tells me you’re from Dorset,” Damien said, placing a hand on her impossibly small waist and guiding her onto the dance floor.
“Does she?”
So…do I take it you are from Dorset, then?” he probed.
Smiling, she shook her head from side to side. Her fragrance captivated him. Like a love-starved youth, he leaned over, inhaling deeply of her lavender scented hair.
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
“No, of course not,” he drawled. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I just had the most ridiculous sense that you were sniffing me in much the same manner as my great-aunt’s terrier, Reggie, often does.”
“Ah,” he purred, “so, you are not from Dorset and you have a great-aunt who owns a terrier named Reggie. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Her giggle was infectious, and he smiled widely in response.
They danced in silence for a few seconds as he endeavored to think of another question. A light dusting of freckles dotted the tip of her tiny, upturned nose. He frowned. She seemed vaguely familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn’t decide where he’d seen her before.
“The Baron of Snydley,” the manservant announced.
Beneath his hand, Damien felt the sudden tensing of the Countess’s delectable body. He followed her gaze to the top of the stairs, where a tall dandy languished in the doorway. The man wore a stylish coat jacket, a perfectly tied snowy cravat, and the requisite look of the bored aristocrat.
“Friend of yours?” asked Damien. The Countess trod squarely on his foot.
“What?” she snapped, without looking away from the other man.
“I asked if the Baron was a friend of yours.” Damien continued, a bit miffed at her obvious interest in the hatchet-faced Snydley. “You seem inordinately interested in him.”
“I assure you I have no interest in that…that…scalawag!” she spat. “Other than to see him punished for his heinous and reprehensible crimes against women.”
A sudden alarm trilled in the back of Damien’s mind. Scalawag. It couldn’t be! His hands tightened on the Countess’s arms as he dragged her against him for a closer look. “Penelope?” he asked.
“Patience,” she frowned, her gaze still on Snydley. “Penelope is my cat!”
Revenge is too delicious to concede, even if her wayward husband is far more handsome than she recalled. After all, with a disreputable rake for a cousin, sweet deception can be made sweeter by a healthy dose of jealousy…and the promise of a kiss!
“Some people slow down for turns, you know.”
Damien glanced sidelong at his friend. Jonathan Crane managed to look languid even though Damien’s breakneck pace threatened to overturn their phaeton in the middle of St. James.
“Completely unnecessary,” Damien disagreed with a smile. “Besides, I must make my fun last while it can. That wayward wife of mine is bound to insist upon a carriage or some other such dull mode of transport.”
“Just like she’s bound to insist upon a proper home. It can’t be comfortable for her to stay at your mother’s.” At Damien’s strangled look, Jonathan laughed and tapped his walking stick smartly against the floor. “Where is the Countess staying? Or do you even know?”
“That’s Lady Coulter to you, Mr. Crane,” Damien snapped. “I don’t know where the devil she picked up that Scottish title, but I won’t have my wife wandering around like some merry widow.”
“She didn’t look very merry when Lord Snydley graced us with his disreputable presence, did she? Think there’s anything to that?”
Damien fought a possessive growl but couldn’t stop his insides from tensing. If the man had laid even one perfectly manicured finger on his wife, he’d kill him.
A thought hit him then. What if she’d come seeking his protection? Gallivanting off to his club wasn’t helping her, if that was the case. Perhaps it was time to set her up as his wife.
He pulled his horse into a dangerous turn, guiding the phaeton away from his bachelor apartments and toward his locked up town house in Mayfair. He couldn’t help sending a panicked look to his friend. “Egad, Jonathan. You don’t really think she’s staying with my mother, do you?”
“It certainly seemed your entire family was in on that little jest, now didn’t it?” Looking satisfied the mayhem was happening to Damien and not him, Jonathan propped a booted foot over one knee. “Yes, my friend, it’s almost as if your Patience is trying you.”
“I think he took the bait.” Arthur, the Baron of Snydley, splashed a dollop of milk into his tea.
Patience passed him another plate of scones. He’d already devoured three, and his hungry glance around the tea table implied he’d happily down three more.
“Yes,” she agreed, pulling her fingers away quickly lest she get bit. “He was quite miffed I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off you. How lucky I count myself that my dearest cousin is a handsome, reprehensible rake, and clever enough to figure out how those qualities might benefit me.” She giggled into her glove, tilting the parasol to shield her fair skin from the sun. Taking tea outside was just the thing, she decided. Life in Town was turning out to be delicious.
“My lady!” Her butler skidded to a halt on the garden steps. “We have a situation!”
“Whatever is the matter, Grimm?” Patience rose quickly. Arthur pushed back smoothly and rose as well, visibly swallowing his last scone.
“Lord Coulter is here!”
“What? Why on earth would he have come here?” She conveniently forgot this was his home. Finding it locked up and vacant, she’d quickly summoned a small staff from her country estate and had all the rooms reopened. Among other things.
Grimm made a face that said they were bound to be caught sometime.
She sighed. “Very well. Fetch me a sheet of paper and a quill.”
Two minutes later she’d penned a very pretty note. Signing it Penelope, she giggled and handed it to the butler. “Take this to him. Is he still standing agog in the foyer?”
Grimm nodded. “He seems less than impressed with the cherubs, my lady. And there was a small outcry against the purple drapes…”
Patience grinned. “Excellent.”
She paced while she waited. After a few minutes, Arthur grunted. “Patience, I realize you’ve probably forgotten about me. But there’s only one way out of your house, you may recall, and it’s currently blocked by your husband.”
“Nonsense. The servants’ entrance—”
“Surely you jest! I’ll be your heinous enemy because I’ve known you since you were in leading strings, but using the servants’ entrance—that goes beyond familial duty!”
“Then get under the table, Arthur.” She looked at the door. “Quickly!”
The tablecloth had just stopped fluttering when Damien strode into the garden. “Patience! What the devil have you done to my house?”
He looked so handsome, what with the wave of dark hair over his eye and his broad shoulders outlined elegantly by navy superfine. Her giggle died on her lips, replaced by a small gasp. “It’s my house, too, you know,” she offered, fighting the thrum of excitement she felt at seeing him again. “I rather like violet.”
“It would be impossible to overlook that, dear wife.” He loomed over her, so close she could see a shade of stubble along his chin. “I can add that to the four other facts I know about you.”
“And what are they?”
“Your aunt in Dorset has a dog. You have a cat. You have the most adorable nose.” His face lowered, bringing his lips to her cheekbone. Against her skin, he breathed warmly. “And you smell like flowers.”
Suddenly, he straightened. “Purple flowers! God, woman. Take the drapes back. Take the vases back. Take the carpet back.” He inhaled, likely to continue his tirade, but was interrupted by Grimm’s arrival.
“My lord.”
Damien turned to look at the butler. “Yes? And might I say it’s damned odd having people I don’t know skulking about my house?”
Grimm reddened. “Mr. Crane requests your attention in the library.” He swallowed. “At your convenience.”
“At my convenience. What rot.” Damien stalked inside, still shaking his head.
Patience ran to the tea table and lifted the edge of the cloth. “Get out, Arthur! Hurry!”
Her cousin stood, straightening his coat in obvious affront. “You better believe I’m getting the hell out of here. When he finds out what you’ve done to his library—”
“Patience!”
She winced. Arthur laughed. “You didn’t think he’d take kindly to all those cats, did you?”
If a man is not safe in his own home, his wife is probably redecorating!
A tiger attack, a brush with death by fire, a soul-shattering kiss, and a midnight phaeton ride. Having his wife in town is going to be the death of our hero! If he doesn’t kill her first!
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be a source of amusement to you, Crane,” Damien drawled icily as he looked around what was once his library.
Jonathan Crane continued to laugh uncontrollably at the travesty of their surroundings. Statues, vases, and even embroidered cushions carried the theme to a point of saturation that screamed of eccentric maiden aunts and horse-faced spinster cousins.
“Oh do shut up!” Damien snapped irritably, turning to and fro in search of a vista that was not occupied by cats. “I am obviously married to a bedlamite!”
“A very attractive bedlamite to be sure,” Jonathan observed. “Really, Damien, what sort of man forgets to tell his best friend that his wife is a diamond of the first water?”
Damien’s eyes narrowed. For some reason his friend’s observation made him…angry, for lack of a better word. Very angry.
“I will thank you not to make such personal observations about my wife,” he growled.
“Ah…” Jonathan mused, his tone completely without inflection. “I see.”
“You see what?”
“Nothing at all, old man,” Jonathan said as he moved to the window. “I am prone to flights of fancy. Although why I would have such a flight about Snydley is quite beyond me. Dashed odd, that.”
“Crane, will you kindly shut up!” Damien snapped.
The sight of his neglected bride had addled his wits. When did Patience become so beautiful, and how dare she do so without telling him? Suddenly he was aware that Crane was staring at him in that way he did when he knew something that Damien did not. Had Damien just said something in his ramblings about Snydley?
“What did you just say?” Damien asked.
Jonathan looked at him askance. “Am I permitted to speak now, my lord?”
“If you wish to delay my murdering you, yes!”
“Been doing that since we were in short pants, Coulter,” he said dryly.
“Jonathan!” Damien roared. “What…did…you…say?”
“Say or see, old man?”
Damien could only manage an exasperated noise in response.
“Snydley’s carriage just pulled away from the mews of this house,” Jonathan said casually.
It was difficult for Damien to discern if the feeling that washed over him was a searing heat or an icy blast. Whatever it was, it produced a very definite response in his friend.
“I believe I will take my leave. Oh, and Damien?”
Damien glared expectantly.
“With a beauty like that, I won’t be the only one making observations. Snydley’s appreciation of beauty is legendary.”
“Bloody damned hell!”
Patience jumped as she heard the tremendous crash and consequent stream of profanity coming from Damien’s bedchamber. It sounded as if there was a battle going on in there. She flung open his door and, by the light of the candelabra she held aloft, saw Damien sprawled on the floor across the large tiger skin rug, his foot caught in its mouth. Her laughter caught in her throat when she realized he was not moving.
“Damien!” she cried as she dropped to her knees beside him. “Damien, are you all right?”
Patience looked frantically around the room. Her eyes landed on the writing desk by the window. Quickly, she snatched the quill. Touching it to the candelabra, she knelt back down beside her fallen husband, waving the still burning feather beneath his nose, and in the process singeing his hair.
“Good God, woman, what are you trying to do?” Damien yelled, sitting up and beating his burning hair away from his face. “If you wish to kill me, there are less painful ways to do it!”
“Kill you!” Patience cried. “I was trying to revive you! You fainted!”
“I did not faint! I was simply lying here playing dead in case the tiger decided to attack me again.”
Leaning back on his elbows, Damien watched as Patience took in the scene and tried desperately not to laugh. Her luminescence lit up the room.
“Oh, Damien, I am sorry,” she said sincerely. “Are you sure you are quite well?”
She started to get up when he touched his hand to her cheek. When she leaned into his touch, Damien felt his chest tighten. He thought he might die at that simple act of trust.
“Patience,” he murmured as he bent to touch his lips to hers. He marveled at the softness of her lips and the siren’s call of her innocent response. His hand curved around to cradle the back of her head as he drew her up to him. The temptation to devour her was torture, but the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her with the power of his desire. A power that, frankly, scared him to death. Who was this sprite of a creature to bring the worldly Earl of Coulter to his knees? He was floating along on a cloud of heaven when he opened his mouth and promptly stepped off that cloud.
“Patience,” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmm?”
“What was Snydley doing here today?”
A bucket of cold water could not have done a better job of cooling her ardor.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord,” she said, rising to her feet with the dignity of an affronted lady and the face of a guilty child. “What on earth makes you think Arthur was here today?”
“Arthur?” Damien inquired. “You call him Arthur? I find that very interesting…wife.”
“Oh really?”
Her resemblance to the tiger lying at his feet was rather disconcerting.
“I find it interesting, my lord, that you have finally managed to remember that I am your wife. It only took you three years. Perhaps there is hope that our children will not be complete idiots after all.”
“If they are as beautiful as their mother, it will not matter.”
His compliment did not have the desired effect. Patience stood glaring at him for a moment, then stormed from the room, slamming the door hard enough to shake the windows.
“And if they have her temper, I am in serious trouble.”
“Can I at least inquire as to why we are dashing about Mayfair in the wee hours of the morning?” Jonathan grumbled, hanging onto the seat of Damien’s phaeton for dear life.
“We are going to find Snydley.”
“We have to do it tonight?”
“You are the one who warned me of his appreciation of beauty.”
“Why is it no matter what idiotic thing you do I get blamed for it?”
“She called me an idiot too.”
“Who did?”
“Patience. Well actually, she said our children might not be complete idiots, but—”
“What children?”
“The children I am going to have with Patience, Crane, do try to keep up! Here we are.”
The phaeton had rocked to a halt in front of a completely dark and obviously sleeping town house. Jonathan stared incredulously as Damien dragged him up the steps and proceeded to pound on the door.
“Is something burning?” he asked over the pounding. “I smell burnt hair.”
“She did what?” Damien demanded as he downed the second snifter of brandy Snydley handed him.
“She asked me to pretend to court her,” Snydley said evenly. “Is he always this thick?”
This last was addressed to a very amused Jonathan.
“He has had a bad day.”
“Why on earth would my wife want me to think some other man wanted her?”
“Frankly, because you did not seem to want her yourself,” the Baron replied from his chair by the fire. “Can’t fathom it myself. Only an idiot would leave a beauty like her languishing in the country.”
“Yes, well—” Jonathan started, cutting himself off when he saw the look on Damien’s face.
“She threw me out of my own house!” Damien raged. “How was I to know she wanted to be a proper wife?”
“Our Patience is many things, but a proper wife will never be one of them!” Snydley laughed.
“She will be when I get through with her,” Damien growled.
“And what do you mean by that, Coulter?” Snydley obviously took exception to Damien’s tone. “I never would have agreed to this plan in the first place had I not considered you an honorable man. I have told her she can do better, but she will have none of it. She loves you.”
Damien looked as if he’d been hit by lightning.
“She does?” he mused softly with a faraway look. And then his expression changed to one Jonathan was all too familiar with. “Oh, she does, does she?”
He rose and began to pace the room.
“What is he doing?” Snydley asked Jonathan quietly.
“Plotting our doom,” Jonathan replied with a groan. “He’s scheming to get even with her.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea. We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill us all.”
“I say, what’s that burning smell, Crane?” Snydley asked.
“Our goose,” was the solemn reply. “As in thoroughly cooked.”
Damien fakes an injury and succeeds in luring Patience to his bed. He falls asleep in heaven—but wakes up in hell.
A loud banging at the front door roused Patience in the night. Hers had been a fitful sleep, her dreams a jumble of tigers and thunder and kisses, and she was grateful for an excuse to rise from bed. She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and grabbed a candle. She cautiously ventured into the corridor and made her way toward the source of the insistent pounding.
Patience watched from the top of the staircase as a footman opened the door. In tumbled a confusion of dripping masculinity. Jonathan and Arthur half dragged, half carried a groggy Damien across the threshold, leaving a trail of mud and rainwater. Jonathan’s foot caught on the fringe of a carpet, and Patience gasped as her husband dropped to the floor with an indecorous thud.
“Quick, man,” Arthur ordered the manservant. “Send for the doctor. There’s been an accident.”
The footman blinked.
“Other than this one that just occurred,” he added. Arthur’s gaze went to Patience at the top of the staircase. He stepped over Damien’s unconscious form and mounted the stairs with purpose. “Patience,” he said in a solemn tone, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You must be brave.”
“What happened?”
“We were driving home in the storm when lightning struck a nearby tree. A branch was severed from the trunk and fell squarely on Damien’s head.”
Down on the foyer floor, Damien blinked and raised his head slightly. He looked into the face of the footman, whose powdered wig listed at a sleepy angle. “Mummy?” he said, before his head fell back and he closed his eyes.
“I’m afraid he’s rather addled.” Jonathan grabbed one of Damien’s booted feet and hoisted it awkwardly. “We really ought to get him to his bed.”
With Arthur, Jonathan, the footman, and Patience each taking a limb, they managed to heft Damien up the stairs and down the corridor to his bedchamber. However, a fifth person might have been useful in preventing his head from hitting the doorjamb. A low moan escaped his throat.
For a feigned injury, this wound was causing Damien no small amount of pain. At least a falling tree branch would have confined its damage to one side of his head. As it were, his skull throbbed in three distinct locations, thanks to the doorjamb, the foyer’s marble floor, and Snydley’s damned brass candlestick. Blast Snydley. “Create a convincing bruise,” he’d said. Once the stabbing pain in his temple subsided, Damien intended to convince Snydley of a few other things.
But for now he would enjoy the soft touch of feminine hands arranging him on the bed, pulling off his boots and coat, propping his head with downy pillows. Patience’s fingertips whispered over his neck as she loosened his collar. She tenderly smoothed the hair from his brow, and he flinched at the exquisite combination of pain and pleasure.
“Where am I?” Damien opened his eyes slowly. Patience sat on the side of the bed. Her honey-colored curls were tousled by sleep, and her crimson dressing gown slipped fetchingly off the alabaster skin of her shoulder. It hurt to look at her, she was so achingly beautiful. “Is this heaven? Are you an angel?”
“It’s me, Damien. Patience.”
“I’m certainly in no hurry.” He moved his hand slowly across the coverlet until it grazed hers. “We do have all eternity.”
Crane towered over him from the other side of the bed. “That’s just it, Patience. He doesn’t remember a thing.” He addressed Damien in the loud, simplistic manner reserved for children and senile great-aunts. “This—is—your—house. Patience—is—your—wife.”
“My house?” Damien blinked and looked innocently about the room. His gaze settled on Patience. “My wife?”
Snydley took his cue. “Come along, Crane. I think we’d better see about the doctor.” The two headed for the door. “Stay with him, Patience,” he added. “Try to help him remember.”
Patience nodded. Her luminous blue eyes were brimming with tears. Her bottom lip quivered as she covered his hand with her own. “Oh, Damien.”
She did love him. Damien’s heart hammered in his chest with a force that rivaled the pounding in his head. He wished nothing more than to start afresh with this beautiful, passionate woman who was his wife. He doubted, however, that any of his charms could erase three years of neglect from her memory. It seemed a far simpler strategy to erase his own.
“Forgive me.” His voice caught in his throat. “It seems impossible that a man could ever forget such a stunning creature. But I fear I must ask you to refresh my memory. How long have we been married?”
“Three years.”
“Have we any children?”
“No.” She blushed prettily. “Not yet,” she added.
Damien smiled. “And we live here, in this house, in London?”
“When we are not in the country.”
“We have an estate in the country? What do we do there?”
She paused before answering. “We have picnics by the lake,” she began slowly. “We take our tea on the green. You read me poetry beneath an old willow tree. We go for long rides on horseback and race across the countryside. And you always let me win.” Her sapphire eyes took on an impish gleam. Damien could not help himself. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly.
“And here in town? How do we spend our days?”
“We go shopping and buy little things we don’t need. You take me driving in your phaeton, and you drive the horses wild and fast until I am screaming with laughter. In the evening, we attend the theater, the opera, a ball.”
“I’d wager you love to dance.”
“I love to dance with you.”
He tugged her arm gently, pulling her down to lie beside him. He rolled on his side to face her and stroked her soft, golden curls fanned across the pillow.
“And our nights?” he asked. “How do we spend our nights?”
She closed her eyes and nestled closer to him. “Here,” she whispered. “In your bed. I hate to sleep alone.”
He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “We sound very much in love.”
She swallowed and met his gaze boldly. “I believe we are.”
He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her gently. She wrapped her arms about his neck, pressing her deliciously soft body to his. He slowly teased her lips apart and tasted her, drinking deeply of her sweetness. She was a powerful elixir, an intoxicating cure. The throbbing pain in his head dissipated, leaving behind luxurious warmth and lassitude. He wanted to sleep forever in these arms, not knowing or caring where dreams ended and reality began.
“Patience,” he sighed, burying his face in her sweet-scented hair as he drifted into oblivion. “I remember…lavender.”
Damien awoke to the lovely sensation of someone licking his ear. This plan had worked better than he’d dared to dream. “Patience,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke his wife’s silky…fur? His hand clamped down on a handful of angora, and sharp teeth sank into his earlobe.
“Patience!”
“No, Damien, that’s Penelope. I’m Patience. I’m your wife, remember?” She rolled a cart laden with dishes toward the edge of the bed. “How does your head feel this morning?”
“Why are all these cats in my bed?” His skull was pounding with pain. He counted two, three, four…It hurt his brain to count any higher.
“But Damien, you always take breakfast with your little darlings. Creamed herring on toast and a pot of chocolate.”
She thrust a plate of pungent fish under his nose, and Damien’s stomach churned with nausea. The little minx. How long had she known?
“Later this morning I thought I would read to you for an hour or two from your favorite book of sermons. You take such comfort in Reverend Mumford’s spiritual guidance.”
“Really, Patience, I’m feeling much improved.” He sat up in bed, dislodging the plump tabby sprawled across his chest. “I remember a storm…thunder…a tree.”
Patience tutted and pushed him back against the pillow, drawing the coverlet up to his chin. “I just knew the kitties would help. You do dote on them so.”
There was a light knock at the door. Grimm entered, bearing a gilt-edged salver. “A caller, my lady.”
Patience plucked the calling card from the tray and squealed with delight. “Wonderful! This will be just the thing, Damien. The one person who is certain to cure your condition!”
“And who would that be, my angel?”
“Why, your mother, of course!”
Patience wanted love and laughter. But what is this about…letters?
With all the men allied against her, Patience has no choice but to rally her own troops. A quick note brings the women in Damien’s family running to her side. But are they there to help—or hurt?
“My mother?” Damien’s mouth flopped open like a fish.
“I’ll just fetch her,” Patience said. “I’m going to take a turn in the park with your sister. But before I leave…”
She moistened her lips and bent to give him a quick peck. But Damien curled his arm around her before she could pull away. He drank in her softness, tasting her lips. She sighed against his mouth, and he nibbled in response. She tasted of chocolate and cinnamon. He could count the number of kisses he had shared with his wife on one hand. And he would, except he needed both hands for the present task. Damien pulled his wife’s sweet form closer. Perhaps he could convince her to send his mother away—
The sound of a throat clearing interrupted their kiss. He didn’t dare look. His mother. Now there was a cure for ardor, if ever he had heard of one. How the devil had Patience managed to entangle his oh-so-proper mother in this charade? He released his wife and opened his eyes.
Ah. That mother. A befeathered bonnet roosted atop his aunt Viola’s gray hair like a malevolent, pink turkey. She scowled at him, seeming not the least concerned by his bruised countenance. Damien quickly rumpled the counterpane over his lap, hoping that his aunt had missed the obvious evidence of his passion.
Patience wiggled her fingers at him and left the room.
“Hello, ‘Mother.’ You look well.”
“Scamp,” Aunt Viola remarked without emotion, her bonnet bobbing.
“You’ll have to excuse my poor conversation. I seem to have mislaid my memory.”
Aunt Vi rolled her eyes. “Do you think your wife an idiot?”
“She seems intelligent,” Damien said. “But I can’t recall—”
Aunt Vi pointed at his head. “If you had been hit by a tree branch, there would be scratches on your face. And bits of bark clinging to your skin. Do you really think that a blow from a branch would have caused that perfectly round bruise?”
Damien guiltily clapped his hand to his forehead.
“What did you do,” she continued, “have Jonathan hit you with a candlestick?”
Damien reddened. “It was Arthur,” he confessed.
The pink feathers quivered as Aunt Vi buried her face in her hands. “Damien, why on earth are you pretending to be an amnesiac?”
It had seemed so logical last night, but in the cold light of morning he realized how stupid he sounded. “I couldn’t face her as myself,” he finally blurted out.
“Why ever not?”
“Well,” Damien announced haughtily, staring at the ceiling, “she pretended not to know me at your ball. Turnabout—it’s only fair.”
His aunt’s eyes narrowed. “The truth, Damien. Or I swear I shall read her the sonnet you wrote me when you were eight.”
Damien gulped. “It was just a joke,” he offered lamely.
Aunt Viola tapped her cheek impatiently. “The sonnet, Damien.”
His gaze dropped. “I couldn’t bear to tell her how sorry I was,” he finally whispered.
There was a long pause. “That’ll do,” his aunt said. “It’s not too late. Get dressed. Walk—no, run to the park. And this time”—she fixed her gimlet glare on him—“this time, you tell her.”
“Your note was the most delightful thing!” Alexis giggled. “I have never laughed so much over a single piece of paper.”
“But I sent the note to your aunt,” Patience protested.
“Oh, I was there.” Alexis airily waved her hand. “I often visit her in the mornings. I love morning visits to family, don’t you?”
Patience bobbed her head. She wondered how Aunt Vi was getting along with Damien. Perhaps half an hour was a sufficient time to let the man stew.
“In fact, I picked your missive out of the pile and read it before my aunt awoke,” Alexis confessed. “I always love being the first one to pick through the post. I can sort out which events I’d like to attend. And I adore examining the cunning invitations.” Why, oh why, was Alexis rattling on about invitations? Patience barely restrained a yawn.
“Ooh! What an enchanting grove! Shall we walk through it? Before you came to town,” Alexis continued, “I used to spring early morning visits on my brother.”
This topic suddenly interested Patience. “And what did you do on those early morning visits?” she inquired as they started down a path through a small section of oak trees.
“Why, I went through his post, of course! Usually when I arrived he was still abed, nursing a sore head.” Alexis darted a glance at Patience. “He gets ever so many billets-doux from the ladies, you know.”
Patience gritted her teeth. Perhaps the subject was not of interest at all. She could see the green on the other side of the woods. They would return as soon as they got out from under these trees. Hopefully, the man was still abed and she could spill something on him. Something hot.
Wait. Two men stood in the grassy meadow. Damien’s back was to her, but she would recognize those shoulders anywhere. Had he come looking for her? Her heart beat faster in excitement. But Damien’s friend spoke in carrying tones, and his words froze Patience to the core.
“I hear you’ve set Countess Fraser up at your town home in Mayfair. You must be utterly gob-smacked. It’s not the done thing, putting your Bird of Paradise among the ladies.”
Patience froze. The ton didn’t know she was his wife. All they saw was an unknown woman coming and going from a gentleman’s home. What must they think of her?
“Bird of Paradise?” Damien chuckled. “She’s no Bird of Paradise.” Patience’s heart lifted. Yes! He was going to publicly claim her. “With the dance she’s put me through,” Damien continued, “she’s more like a Bird of Perdition.”
The bottom dropped out of her heart. So she was a Cyprian, and not even a loving one at that? So much for her plan. So much for her husband. And so much for love. She would not cry in public. She spun on her heel and walked quickly in the other direction. She would not cry in public. But perhaps it was a good idea to run.
It had seemed like such a clever turn of phrase until he heard the tiny gasp. He turned in time to see Patience bolting. Alexis gave an odd little nod to his companion before following in pursuit.
“Now you’ve put your foot in it,” joked his companion. “You’ll need to lay out a fortune in jewels.”
Damien contemplated planting the man a facer. But Patience’s fleeing form was growing distant, and he didn’t have the time for a brawl. “She’s my wife,” he growled as he started after her. “My wife!”
At least, he hoped she would be.
“I might as well return to the country,” Patience said, choking back her tears as she slumped on the Duchess of Alderman’s settee. “You did not hear what the man said. I’ll never be able to show my face in Town again.”
“I agree,” Alexis said warmly. “My brother can be such a pig. You might as well go.”
“You can’t leave now,” Aunt Vi insisted. “I could thrash that unthinking idiot. Patience, you came to London last month because I told you he loved you. Do not doubt that he cares.”
“He loves me? Let me see. First, he avoided me for three years. Then he faked a head injury to avoid talking about our relationship.”
“My nephew has never dealt well with wounded pride. But—”
“And,” Patience added with quiet dignity, “he never responded to a single one of my letters.”
“Letters?” Aunt Vi straightened suddenly, shaking her head. “What is this? You wrote Damien letters?”
“Every week,” Patience confessed.
“The man constantly complained that you didn’t answer his correspondence.”
It was Patience’s turn to frown. “His correspondence? I received none.”
“But I saw the letters when I visited. Franked, and sitting with the other messages. Has someone been tampering with the post? But none of his servants would…” Aunt Viola trailed off, biting her lip.
Something cold and clammy skittered down Patience’s spine. As if in a dream, she turned to Alexis, whose face paled and fists clenched. “‘I always love being the first one to pick through the post,’” Patience quoted, her eyes narrowing. “What else do you love doing with the post, Alexis?”
“I—I—”
“I’ll wager you do,” Damien drawled from the doorway. Patience lifted her head in wonderment. He leaned casually against the door frame, his eyes resting on her form. Her toes curled and her heart turned over. He smiled apologetically. He held her gaze for only a moment, but it felt like a sweet caress. But then he turned toward his sister, and something positively arctic swept across his features.
“Alexis,” he whispered, “what on earth have you been doing these last three years?”
In which the missing missives are thankfully not read, apologies are exchanged, and Damien once again finds a furry animal awaiting him in his bed…
“Three years?” Alexis scoffed. “Neither of you bothered writing after three months.”
“That might have been because someone was interfering with our correspondence,” Damien said dryly. Alexis blushed. “But why would you steal them in the first place?”
“I was angry at you, for one thing, and I was curious about Patience. What kind of brother gets married without his only sister in attendance?”
Damien groaned. “Alexis, the ceremony lasted less than fifteen minutes, and aside from the vicar, the only witnesses were Patience’s father and the solicitor who drew up the marriage contract.”
Alexis huffed. “I still think I should have at least been invited.”
“Come, child,” Lady Alderman said. “I’m sure your brother has a great deal he wishes to say to you, but right now I believe we should leave him alone with his wife.”
As they were exiting the room, Patience called out, “Wait. Alexis, what did you do with the letters?”
Alexis turned to face her. “I…I burned them. I’m so sorry.” She hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.
In the hallway, Alexis and her aunt looked at each other.
“You didn’t burn them, did you?” Viola whispered.
“Of course not,” Alexis replied, grinning widely. Her aunt grinned back.
Then, in tacit agreement, they pressed their ears against the door.
“A letter every week, was it?” Damien asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning in a rather supercilious manner.
“A letter every week for three and a half months,” she conceded, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.
“So, a total of, let’s see, fourteen letters?” he mused.
Patience blushed. She marched forward and poked him in the chest. “Exactly how many letters did you send me?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said thousands.”
She made a sound of patent disbelief.
“Hundreds?”
Patience laughed and shook her head.
He stepped closer and drew her into his arms. “You win. Nine.”
“I suppose I should be grateful you wrote me at all,” she said, tracing a finger down the row of buttons on his waistcoat. “So, what did you write in those nine letters?”
Damien thought of the scathing missives he’d penned in the anger of those first months. If his wife had ever read a single one, he would never be where he was now. It was a sobering thought. He released her and strode over to the window, staring blankly out as he sought the right words. Suddenly, he knew just what to say. Thank heaven Alexis had burned those missing missives.
“I wrote that I was sorry,” he lied. “That I had been an idiot. That I wanted another chance to make our marriage work. That I wasn’t just marrying you for the land.” He drew in a deep breath. “That I’d fallen in love with you. That’s why I went to the park this morning, to tell you, but then everything went wrong.”
His wife walked over to him and placed one of her small hands upon his arm. “You couldn’t have known what Alexis was doing.”
He shook his head. “No, I was referring to what I said in the park.” He covered her hand with his. “It was a joke. A stupid joke. I don’t know why I said it. I’m so sorry.”
“Damien.”
“I told him you were my wife, but you had already run away. I’m sorry for leaving you all those years ago, for not trying harder to make our marriage work. I—”
“Damien!”
He jerked his head up and looked into his wife’s suspiciously moist eyes.
“I’ll forgive you.” Her voice wobbled. “But only on one condition.”
Damien pulled her close, savoring the feel of having her in his arms, where she was meant to be. “Anything,” he whispered against her silky curls.
She pulled back slightly and met his gaze. Tears were freely coursing down her cheeks. His heart clenched to see her cry, but even with her face turning red and blotchy, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“You have to forgive me too,” she choked. “I’ve tried to lay all the blame at your door, but I—”
He couldn’t bear to hear any more, so he silenced her with a kiss. She opened eagerly to him, and his pulse raced wildly. He brought his hands up to caress her breasts through the thin muslin of her gown. She made a little mewling sound in the back of her throat, and he was lost. He wanted—no, needed—to take her upstairs, and then he remembered where they were. He mentally cursed and reluctantly broke the kiss.
Patience looked up at him, a dazed expression on her face. He grinned. It was a look he planned to put on her face every day for the rest of their lives. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go home.” They were some of the sweetest words he had ever uttered.
As soon as they were inside the town house, Damien swept her up in his arms. When he finally set her down, it was on his bed. She noticed that he carefully avoided the tiger-skin rug that had felled him just days before.
Had it really been less than a week since she’d waltzed with her husband at Aunt Viola’s ball? Less than a week for her to fall in love with her scoundrel of a husband all over again? Less than a week for those three lonely years to fade into insignificance next to the rightness of being in his arms? She couldn’t dispute that it had happened quickly, but nor could she dispute that it was love.
She was irrefutably, irrevocably, insanely in love with her husband, and miraculously enough, it seemed he felt the same way about her. Damien kissed her, and the flames that had flared so hotly before sprang back to life. They quickly shed their clothes, all modesty dissipated in their urgency, and soon they were naked under the covers.
“I love you,” Damien said as he braced himself above her. And then he kissed her deeply, and slowly, tenderly, perfectly, made her his own.
They clung to each other in the aftermath, content simply to hold and be held. Damien finally broke the silence. “I forgot to ask you what was in your letters?”
Patience thought of the horrible words she’d written, the names she’d called him, the terrible accusations she’d made in her anger and hurt. If her husband had ever viewed what she’d written in those early days of their marriage, he would have sought an annulment at once. She would never have known the bliss he’d just shown her. It dawned on her that she should thank Alexis for burning those poisonous posts.
“I told you that I was sorry,” she lied. “That I had been an idiot. That I wanted another chance to make our marriage work. That I wasn’t just marrying you for your title or your money.” She paused. “That I’d fallen in love with you.”
“It seems we’ve wasted a lot of time,” he said, tenderly stroking her curls.
She nodded. “We’ve a lot to make up for,” she mused, holding him close.
He took her mouth in a possessive kiss. She responded instantly to him, body, heart, and soul. Somehow she knew it would always be this way with them.
Damien tumbled her onto her back, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “There’s a lot to be said for this making up business,” he remarked, and then he proved that he wasn’t going to waste even a second more.
Seven months later…
Damien awoke on Christmas morning, and sensed at once that his wife was no longer beside him in the bed. His eyes still closed, he frowned and reached out a hand to see if the sheets were still warm from her body. Instead, he discovered a small furry body. His eyes flew open.
There, curled up on his wife’s pillow, was a cream-colored Pomeranian puppy. Trust his wife to find a dog as fluffy as her cat. “Patience!” he roared.
Her immediate appearance in the doorway of the dressing room confirmed his suspicions that she’d been waiting to see his reaction. “Yes, my love?” she said, approaching the bed.
“I thought you had outgrown such childish behavior,” he teased, gesturing toward his furry bedmate.
She laughed. “Don’t you like your present? This is Percy.” She picked up the puppy, cradling him to her chest. “I thought perhaps we could use him for practice.”
It took several moments for her words to sink in. “You mean…” He glanced deliberately at her stomach.
She nodded, practically glowing with happiness. “That’s the other part of your present.” She placed Percy at the foot of the bed, where he promptly curled up and went back to sleep. Damien patted the bed, and his wife slid in beside him.
“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, enfolding her in his arms.
“Mmmm,” she sighed sometime later. “They do say that practice makes perfect.”
“I disagree,” he said solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. “In my experience, I’ve found that Patience makes perfect.”