Chapter Twenty

Not wanting to blink, Patience’s eyes had gone dry. Damn things ached from staring across the ballroom all night, and her vision was beginning to feel strained. Upon the first landing of the sweeping staircase where two sets of steps, mirror images, met to become one, Lord and Lady Reyne greeted the new arrivals.

The guests already crammed the ballroom, pressed from flushed cheek to wobbly jowl. Were there always this many people at a ball? Patience scanned the room. Her mother probably knew them all by name and report, having studied those gossipy scandal sheets religiously for decades. Patience herself occasionally glanced at them. When her mother wasn’t looking. That’s the only reason she knew Lord Reyne and Lord Ashcroft’s names were linked as friends.

As to Ashcroft, where was he? Wasn’t he coming?

If only Elizabeth were here. Even if Patience hadn’t confided in her friend, the presence of an ally would have done much to bolster her strength.

A name was announced, at the same moment as a loud laugh burst out too closely in the merry group next to her. A murmur went through the room. Patience snapped her gaze back to the hosts just in time to catch them exchanging a brief surprised glance. Lady Reyne schooled her features, then smiled graciously and curtsied.

Patience’s mouth dropped open. Silverlund.

For as long as she lived, he’d always be the man in the black greatcoat, barely distinguishable from the darkness of the night around him, with fire reflected in his eyes.

If the look the hosts shared when he appeared at the top of the first set of steps was any indication, he had not been expected. Patience set her teeth. What did this mean? Silverlund was far from unknown to mingle in Society, true. However, he kept select company. Most people weren’t good enough for him, and her recent experience with the man made it keenly obvious that he probably let everyone around him know exactly that in no uncertain terms.

A hand wrapped around her elbow. It was her mother. “Come, my dear. Mr. Wilshire would like to dance with you.”

Patience’s mouth went tight. She’d forgotten about Mr. Wilshire. Her very own drink of cloudy water. “Pray tell the gentleman that I thank him for his regard, but that I have no intention of dancing tonight.”

Her mother’s face darkened, and she leaned in, struggling to keep her features if not cheerful, then at least placid. “No, Patience. You will dance with him.”

Patience kept her voice low. Whoever overheard them, overheard them—so far as she cared, they could. However, she would respect the fact that her mother would, no doubt, feel differently. “Mama, I do want to honor you, but I must be allowed to make my own decisions in such matters.”

“Decisions?” Her mother strained a laugh. A stray draft was toying with the long, blue feather emerging from her turban. When she continued, her voice dropped…and wavered a very small amount. “It’s only a dance, Patience.”

Patience turned her full attention upon her mother and broached the question at which she never before dared so much as hint, letting the words tumble from her lips before she lost her nerve. “Are you ashamed of me?”

The feather bobbed with the force of her head jerking upright in affront, and her mother went white before turning scarlet. “How dare you?”

How Patience dared was one thing her mother could never be allowed to know. She dared because of Ashcroft. Because he didn’t have to dare anything to be himself. He just was.

Before she could answer, however, the dreaded Mr. Wilshire bobbed through the crowd. He was a bit shorter than the average, requiring him to stand on the tips of his toes every so often to make sure he was headed in the right direction. What had made her father decide to make an alliance of any kind with this man? They’d met at a coffee shop, the kind Mr. Emery liked to frequent to pilfer newspapers for articles he could reprint. Patience used to believe her father had taken the odd Mr. Wilshire under his wing as an act of compassion. Now, with money muddling everything up and her mother pushing for marriage, Patience didn’t know what to think.

At Patience’s side, Mrs. Emery took her arm, warning her with a firm squeeze of the fingers into her elbow. Patience put her right hand protectively over her left and rubbed her empty ring finger. She would never wear that man’s golden shackle.

“Patience”—her mother pulled a bright smile over her face as she bit out words from between clenched teeth—“I absolutely forbid you from saying anything that will drive that man away.”

“Very well.” Patience held her head high and nodded to Mr. Wilshire when he came to stand with them. Her backbone was straight and firm, extending upward as if stretched by the force of newfound pride that would not be contained. “I won’t say anything to drive him away.”

Neither would she be coerced into doing anything with a man that she didn’t want to do. Even something so simple as dancing. She might accept a dance from a goodhearted man in whom she had no interest, if she, in a spirit of goodwill, were the one bestowing favor. The days of accepting pity were gone. Forever.

“Miss Emery.” Mr. Wilshire beamed at her. He wasn’t altogether the worst sort of man. Very plain, surely, but not homely, in spite of an unfortunate set of crowded teeth.

It was his character that dealt the death blow. Having remembered to address her properly was in his favor, but he’d need another three thousand points at least to begin tipping the balance—and he couldn’t earn a fraction of that amount, even if she gave him the whole rest of their lifetimes.

“I’m so pleased you’re here tonight. Your mother has been telling me…” He faltered and cleared his throat. Because, with the power of her eyes alone, Patience had attracted his attention.

She fixed her gaze unabashedly upon his falls, narrowed her eyes and frowned, then stared at him like she knew all his secrets. The message unspoken. But perfectly clear. No, sir. Whatever your endowment might be, it is absolutely without question not enough to satisfy a woman.

Mr. Wilshire went the sort of red usually acquired after ten long hours making hay under an unrelenting August sun. Ah. Good. So he wasn’t so oblivious as his manner sometimes made him seem.

Muttering something indistinct, he scuttled away. If he didn’t have the inclination to put his hands over his man parts to shield himself from what he no doubt believed were her superior powers of observation, her name wasn’t Patience Emery.

Warm with satisfaction, Patience started to smile but quickly went sober under her mother’s flat stare.

“What did you do, Patience?”

“He left, Mama. You saw the whole thing. I had naught to do with it, I’m sure.”

“Your protestations of innocence wouldn’t fool a corpse.”

“Of course not. What does a corpse know?”

“Patience.”

“Oh, really, Mother.” Patience waved her hand in the direction Mr. Wilshire had gone. “Him?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. Which was worse, that her mother had the power to make her feel as if she were a girl of eight? Or that she, Patience, acted a girl of eight again when the two engaged in this manner?

The duke stalked close, snuffing the conversation out as easily as extinguishing a candle. His eyes were dark and shone of malevolent intent. There was no doubt, then, why he’d come to the ball tonight. Silverlund was there for one reason. To intimidate her. He’d promised he’d be watching. Apparently, the man did not say what he did not mean.

The man glanced between Patience and her mother—a none too subtle warning—and stalked past them.

Something Ashcroft had said about leverage flitted through Patience’s mind. When one held leverage, one did not let it go, else it was lost forever.

Actually, he hadn’t put it exactly in those terms. But he had said that his father had taught him about leverage and power, which made perfect sense now.

Mrs. Emery, pale and uncertain, cast her daughter a wary look. “He’s the Duke of Silverlund, is he not? That was strange. I can’t begin to guess what he’s about, to walk past us in such a state and…” She grabbed Patience’s arm and shook it, pointing her folded fan at the duke’s back and leaning close. “He has a vile son. What they hint at when they write of the man…”

Mrs. Emery shook her head, lips squeezing together. She huffed. “I’m glad you don’t read them, so you don’t know. But mark my words. Like father, like son.”

Patience only half heard her mother; her thoughts had gone away in another direction.

There was something the duke wanted her to know. That’s why he’d come tonight. She had to push him, propriety be damned. Whatever he sought to convey, he did so by playing a game that forced her to be the instigator. Very well. She was willing to be manipulated a tiny bit. So long as she went in with her eyes open and her guard up, she would rise to the bait.

Fluttering in her silk gown, Patience hustled to catch up with the duke. “Your Grace, we seem to be missing the honor of your son’s company this evening.”

He’d stopped to take a drink from a yellow-liveried servant circulating through the guests with crystals full of lemonade. Silverlund gave her a haughty look as he took a slow sip.

Patience watched him intently. Every flicker of a muscle under the surface of the skin could tell her something. Even those best at schooling their features to perfect blankness were not above registering a flash of emotion on their faces.

“My son’s arm was inopportunely broken. I’m afraid he won’t be able to attend Society functions for a spell.” The subsequent smile the duke wore was the same as a deranged man about to brag about how many wings he’d ripped from butterflies.

Ashcroft’s arm was broken? Was broken. Not “he broke his arm.” The duke had carefully constructed his sentence… Patience went cold. The duke…had he broken his own son’s arm?

The scream. The one that had pierced her when she’d been fleeing Glenrose. That damn scream that echoed in her breast, haunting her like a ghostly caress.

And she hadn’t turned around. Ashcroft had been in agony, but she’d stayed in the plush squabs thinking about her own troubles. A new kind of agony bloomed in her breast. One that soured her stomach and made her breathless with the knowledge of what she’d done. Adulterous betrayal couldn’t have been worse. She’d left him. With the duke. While he’d suffered torturous pain.

Patience’s head went light. Never in her life had she fainted. Never in her life had she had so much provocation to do so.

“You might think you have some authority over me. You’re wrong, though. You don’t.”

“You’ve seen what I will do.”

“What you’re capable of, more like.”

“Then I suggest you don’t cross me.” His mouth turned down at the corners, and he wrinkled his nose slightly as he glanced over her. Gaze down. Gaze up again. “You disgust me. I’ve seen pigs more becoming than you.”

Around them, people snickered.

“I’m not a joke.” Patience stood firm. She was doing what she had spent twenty-five years avoiding: making a spectacle of herself. But if she didn’t speak, nobody would speak for her. That was plain enough. “I’m a person.”

The bastard actually smiled. “Come now, dairy maid. You’re at least two people. Maybe three.”

Laughter boomed around them. A bit of Patience’s strength withered, as if it had been no more than a slip of paper unable to withstand the proximity of flame. Her cheeks stung. All she wanted to do was give in to the tears threatening to burst forth, run away, and never—never—show her face in public again.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? If she ran now, that’s all she would ever be able to do. Run.

Taking a stand once made the next time easier. On the night she’d met Ashcroft, she hadn’t thought of herself as a fighter. Things had changed. Substantially. And it wasn’t merely her maidenhead that had been altered.

The duke sneered at her. “Don’t you have a flock of pheasants to go sink your teeth into?”

“Why, Your Grace. You surprise me.” Patience, trembling with the effort of remaining strong—this man would not get the better of her—offered a sweet smile. If she couldn’t use the word she wanted to use, she could bloody well use one that rhymed. “Everyone knows I prefer”—she lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes—“duck.”