PATIENCE... Second in The Passion Quartet

A WOMAN CALLED PATIENCE. A DESIRE THAT WOULD PUT HER NAME—AND HER LOVE—TO THE TEST.

Known for her exceptional beauty, Patience Emmalina Dare has been pursued by admirers ever since coming of age. But suitor after suitor fails to inspire her love – or her desire. Certain she will never find a man who touches her deeply, she decides to forgo marriage in favor of pursuing her music. But just when Patience thinks she has her life well in hand, a passionate kiss with her enigmatic brother-in-law awakens a powerful need in her. How will she reconcile her desire for him and her desire for a life that's her own – and what will she do when he shows her a deep and hidden part of herself that she never knew existed?

When the secret of his illegitimate birth pushes Matthew Morgan Hawkmore from his place in society, the darkly handsome half-brother of the Earl of Langley plots his resurrection and his revenge. Betrayed and abandoned by the women he believed loved him, he swears to never again be controlled by love. But despite his vow, he is unable to resist the beautiful Patience, whose strength and self-reliance hide a need that he is perfectly suited to fulfill. Can he have her without loving her? What will he give up to keep her? And will her passionate surrender be the one thing that can stop him from making a tragic mistake that could destroy them both…

A LETTER OF LITTLE CONSCEQUENCE

My Dear Henrietta,

You simply can't imagine all the scandalous goings-on! You're missing everything! Of all the times for you to be in Italy! I tell you, my dear, there isn't likely to be a grander entertainment than this in our lifetimes. And wait till you hear who is at the center of it all. I daresay, you shall never guess. For, until his engagement, he was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in England. Have you guessed? It is none other than the very man who you had once hoped to match with your daughter. Yes, Mr. Matthew Morgan Hawkmore!

Oh, Henrietta, where shall I begin? Let me just say that once you have heard what's happened, you will be thankful that Mr. Hawkmore never took to your Amarantha. Had he, you would now be embroiled in a scandal from which you would never recover. Never, I tell you!

Are you ready, my dear? You should sit down if you aren't already seated.

It turns out that the rich, handsome, charming and popular Mr. Hawkmore is a bastard! Yes! And to make matters ever so much worse, his father was a gardener! Yes, it's really true! And the whole thing came to light in a most shocking and unseemly way.

You remember from my last letter that his brother, the Earl of Langley, had become engaged to a commoner by the name of Charlotte Lawrence? Well, it turns out that the chit's mother was blackmailing the earl into marrying her daughter. The woman had in her possession some letters which revealed the truth of Mr. Hawkmore's parentage. And the disgusting fact is that the letters were written by none other than Lucinda Hawkmore, herself. Though how a mother—a Lady—could write such letters, I'll never know. One was actually printed, my dear, and spread all over London. I saw it myself in Lady Winston's parlor, and it was perfectly awful. In it, the Countess gloated, and spoke of how it pleased her to see her little bastard in the Hawkmore linens. She even spoke of the possibility of him inheriting the earldom one day! Can you imagine?

The whole blackmail scheme was revealed in The Times. Though no names were mentioned, everyone knows exactly who was being referred to. Oh, and it turns out that the revelation of the truth was very fortunate for the Earl of Langley. Who knew, but it seems that he really is in love with a commoner—only it isn't Charlotte Lawrence. It's some widow from Lincolnshire! A Mrs. Passion Elizabeth Reddington (have you ever heard such an outrageous name?). Apparently he is head-over-heels for her, and is to marry her within the next fortnight. Some have the idea that she's a distant relation of this Charlotte Lawrence, but I don't have that on any authority. Anyway, it's all too romantic, and everyone is just dying to meet her.

But as for Mr. Hawkmore—well, the Lady Rosalind has broken with him. And her father, Lord Benchley, is in an absolute fury. He believes Mr. Hawkmore knew of his true parentage all along. Which might be true because apparently the late Earl knew the baby wasn't his own. And if he knew, Lord Benchley says that surely Mr. Hawkmore learned the truth as well at some point. This, of course, would make him not only a bastard, but a liar and a fraud as well.

God knows what the truth really is. Right now, opinions do seem to be split on the matter. Some agree with Benchley, some are uncertain, but everyone is striking Mr. Hawkmore from their guest lists, so I suppose it doesn't really matter.

If you come home now, Henrietta, you won't miss whatever is to come—for, surely, there is more to come. Who is this bride of the earl's? Does she have any family? Will the Lady Rosalind get engaged again? If so, to whom? And perhaps most interesting of all, what will become of Mr. Matthew Morgan Hawkmore?

Yours,
Augusta

CHAPTER ONE – PATIENCE, A PRELUDE

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair, thou hast doves' eyes. Song of Solomon 1:15

June 30, 1851

Wiltshire, England ~ Hawkmore House, County Seat of the Earl and Countess of Langley

Moonlight, soft and pearlescent, filtered through the windows that lined one side of the long portrait gallery. Rectangles of illumination fell upon the carpet and crept up the opposing wall, revealing a path of alternating light and darkness that traversed the entire length of the gallery.

Patience Emmalina Dare paused just inside the broad entrance. A tentative stillness filled the space—as if, only a moment before, something or someone had stirred the air with some small movement. As if the inhabitants of the ornate, gilded frames might have just ceased their whispered conversations, and were merely waiting for her to pass before they resumed.

Patience strolled slowly forward. Long ago, when she had suffered so many sleepless nights, she had made friends with the dark. It didn't frighten her. Indeed, for some reason, the long room of light and shadow beckoned her. It was as if some sort of magic were at work.

Her silk dressing gown swished softly as she meandered her way through the gallery. She stopped here and there to study the faces of the Hawkmores, to whom she was now related by marriage. Such an old and noble family.

Patience sighed. In one day, she had gone from simple vicar's daughter to sister of the Countess of Langley. Her new status would, no doubt, bring a whole new horde of annoying suitors down upon her. She wanted none of it. Her decision to remain unmarried had been made long ago.

And yet…

She twisted one of her long curls around her finger as she crossed to a window.

Earlier that day, as she had watched her sister pledge her troth to the Earl, she had seen the beautiful, transcendent love in their eyes and a tremor of doubt had shaken her resolve.

Leaning her forehead on the glass, she stared down at the well manicured side garden. She had passed through it that morning as she had escorted her sister to the chapel.

What perfect happiness Passion and Mark seemed to have found. Patience sighed and her breath briefly clouded the window. She would never have what they had—romantic love, the comforting sacrament of marriage, or the miraculous joy of motherhood.

Instead, she would have her cello. And the freedom and independence that came with having to rely upon no one for her happiness. She would continue to teach music at the church school. She would care for her father in his declining years, and she would be a doting aunt. It was a trade she had felt comfortable with—until today.

Today, she'd watched her sister find joy.

A sudden vision of dark, intense eyes floated through her mind.

And today, Matthew Morgan Hawkmore had watched her.

A warm thrill coursed through her as she moved away from the window and continued through the gallery. Was her handsome brother-in-law the real reason for her sleeplessness?

Her body tensed with an answering rush of desire.

That morning, as they had stood across from each other, siblings, each of them, to the bride and groom, there had been a moment when he had captured her in his unwavering gaze. Dark and demanding, his eyes had touched her and held her as tenaciously as the firm grip of a hand. Unable to move or look away, she had submitted to his determined regard as he had seemed to delve into her heart—searching for…what?

Then, as she'd stood powerless to hide herself, he'd blinked. And in the blink of his eye, he'd suddenly seemed to have some certain knowledge of her. The experience had completely unnerved her. Yet, it had also left her flushed and warm, as if he'd truly touched her.

Patience paused before a portrait of two boys. The moonlight washed away color, but she recognized the deep, soulful eyes of the younger boy. They were like dove's eyes, calm and soft, yet dark and knowing.

She smoothed her hand over her fluttering stomach. Of course, Matthew couldn't possibly know her. No man had ever really known her. Her heart slowed. No man ever would.

And yet, she couldn't assuage the feeling that he had, for a moment, looked inside her heart. What had he seen there? What was the inexplicable bond she felt when she looked into his beautiful eyes—as if some important and inescapable connection existed between them?

A small pulse beat once between her legs. She closed her eyes with a gasp of consternation. And why did she feel such tenacious desire for him?

She looked again at the portrait. He hadn't attended the wedding luncheon, so she'd had no opportunity to speak with him. In fact, other than a stiff introduction, they'd never conversed—a point that was conspicuous in its oddity.

She leaned closer to the painting, but found no answers in the silent face of the young Matthew depicted there. A small sigh escaped her. She didn't like not knowing the reasons for things. But as she reached out and made a tiny adjustment to straighten the frame, she acknowledged that God did not owe her any explanations. If her path was to cross with Matthew's, then God would make it so.

Clasping her hands loosely behind her back, Patience moved on. She glanced up at two life-sized portraits, one of a man and one of a woman. She recognized the woman as Lucinda Hawkmore, Mark and Matthew's mother. The other must be the late Earl of Langley. Patience frowned. Though handsome, his face was creased with sorrow. How terribly exhausted and defeated he looked.

A narrow table separated the two portraits, as if to keep them apart. Patience stepped forward as she noticed a paper lying on the marble top. Picking it up, she lifted it to Athena's bright light.

June 20, 1851

Mr. Hawkmore,

Patience paused for a moment. She shouldn't read a letter not meant for her. It was wrong. Yet, even as she acknowledged the thought, she found her eyes rushing to the next line.

I resent the necessity for this letter. But as you refuse to accept my father's word regarding the dissolution of our engagement, I find myself in the unpleasant position of having to write to you myself. Please accept all that I shall say as my true and sincere sentiments.

It should be obvious to you that we will not suit. The shocking revelation of your parentage, the publication of your mother's disgusting letter in which she revels over your illegitimate birth, and the scandal which accompanied its disclosure, have made a match between us utterly impossible. It should also be obvious to you that I could never, ever, marry the son of a gardener.

Now, while I did, at one time, feel some measure of appreciation for you, I assure you I no longer harbor any such feelings. Indeed, upon reflection, I believe you will come to realize that you always cared more for me than I for you. So, perhaps your disgrace is a blessing in disguise, as it has saved me—and you—from a marriage that would have proven unsatisfactory in time.

Finally, as my father has already told you, we find your protests of innocence in this matter to be completely unbelievable. Were you a man of honor and nobility you would admit your deceit, but clearly your ill breeding disallows such honesty.

Mr. Hawkmore, I demand you do not write to me again, or attempt to visit. My father has already informed you that neither you nor your missives will be permitted past our threshold. Do not embarrass me with further attempts.

Sincerely,
Rosalind Benchley
Post Script ~ Your mother would do well to stay in Austria where I hear tell that she has fled. Perhaps you should join her there.

Patience's chest felt tight as she lowered Rosalind Benchley's missive. It was an awful, ugly letter—a disgusting letter. She blinked back the sting in her eyes. A letter that reminded her too much of the one she had received long ago.

“Now that you've had a look, I'll take that.”

Patience whirled and stared into the shadows that hung heavy between the windows on the opposite wall. The moonlight blinded her, so she stepped slowly into the shadows herself. Only then, did the whiteness of a shirt and the dark silhouette of a man appear. He was sitting on the dim shape of a couch set against the wall.

Patience's blood rushed and sudden warmth touched the nerves just beneath her skin. She hadn't expected that God would direct their paths quite so quickly.

“Hello, Matthew.”

* * *

CHAPTER TWO – A MASQUE

My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. Song of Solomon 2:10

Three Months Later

Wiltshire, England ~ A Masked Ball at Hawkmore House, County Seat of the Earl and Countess of Langley

They never left her alone. Like proud bucks pursuing a lone doe, her admirers pranced around her. Following wherever she went, they jostled and vied for her attention, each hoping to be the one to win her regard—however briefly. And all the while, though she smiled and nodded, and indulged them, he could sense her disinterest.

My poor Patience. How do you bear it?

Matthew crossed his arms over his chest. Leaning into a shadowed corner of the upper gallery, he kept his eyes trained on her. Though her beautiful face was half-covered by a demi-mask, her magnificent red hair made her identity unmistakable. Falling down her back in thick curls, it was like a flaming lure in a mottled sea of dimmer shades. A crown of flowers rested atop her bright head, and more blooms decorated her costume, a gown of filmy white layers that swept low across her shoulders and belled out from her slim waist.

She was an incomparable beauty.

In the three months since their kiss in the gallery, he’d thought of her often. Having spent most of his days alone, images of her had filled his mind. He had resisted them at first. But as the weeks had passed, he had resisted less and less, until it seemed that every night, his last thought was of her. She had filled his dreams and his fantasies. And the more he had thought of her, the more he had wanted her. And the more he had wanted her, the more worthwhile it had seemed to defeat the scandal that was rushing to ruin him both socially and financially. The scandal that would soon force him from the board of Grand West Railway, the company he had founded. The scandal that was being maliciously driven and escalated by Rosalind’s father. Fuck Archibald Benchley.

Matthew clenched his hands into fists as his gaze flickered over the milling throng below. They were like a pack of wild animals, and for the last three months, they had watched Benchley claw and tear at him while he did nothing. In the face of his inaction, it was no wonder many had already left him for dead, while others, more feral, still nipped and bit at him, either out of malice or for possible financial gain.

But he wasn’t dead. And he was through licking his wounds. He would take back his place amongst them—not by fighting them all, but by tearing the throat from just one.

He drew a deep calming breath. Yes. While the pack looked on, he would take Archibald Benchley down. And the more blood he drew doing it, the better it would be—for after the dust settled, no one would dare cut him again.

He let his gaze fall back upon Patience. But tonight, she was his primary goal. He had come for her.

His blood coursed and his gut tightened with anticipation. Somehow, he knew that if he could claim her for his own, then everything else would follow. With her at his side, he could do anything. She was the key.

Perhaps, she was even the reason.

“By God, it really is you. You’ve risen.”

Matthew looked at the sardonic Earl of Wellborn as the man came to stand beside him. “Fitz Roy.”

Roark Fitz Roy raised one black brow. “I bet Hollingsworth a hundred pounds that rumors of your presence were pure fabrication.”

Matthew shrugged as he turned his gaze back to the ballroom below. “Never bet on rumor.”

“Yes, well…unfortunately for you and Grand West Railway, plenty of people are betting on rumor.”

Matthew tensed. “That’s their mistake.”

“It’ll be yours if you don’t do something about it soon.”

Matthew glared at Fitz Roy. “I haven’t seen you since my fall from grace, Fitz Roy, and right now you’re interrupting the solitude I have become accustomed to. So, if there’s something you want to say, why don’t you just say it.”

The Earl stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Very well, but I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

Matthew raised his brows in mock surprise. “Really? Bad news, is it?” He wiped the _expression from his face. “Copies of my mother’s letter declaring her joy in my bastard birth can still be found floating down London’s sewage filled gutters. The newspaper article containing the blackmail plot against my brother, in which he almost lost his one and only love for my sake, is still being passed around the sitting and drawing rooms of my former peers.” He tried to keep his tone even by speaking each word slowly and deliberately. “And, should that not be enough, my former fiancée and her father,” he ground the words out, “have made their total and complete rejection of me a matter for public mastication. As people chew up the delicious gossip of my fall,” his voice grew progressively harder, “the Benchleys continue to add salt and seasoning to the feast with their public declarations and lies against me.” He leaned forward. “And, should that not be enough, while Archibald Benchley slanders my character publicly, privately, he infects my business associates with his vile influence. I’d wager my last pound note that he is the one who is at the heart of the ill rumor you speak of.” Matthew drew back. “Bad news? My whole bloody life is bad news.”

A long silent moment followed, but Fitz Roy’s supercilious _expression didn’t change. “Well, since you put it that way… Lord Wollby just informed me that he intends to sell all his shares in your company.” His black brows lifted. “He heard a rumor that Grand West Railway—in other words, you—will soon not be permitted to buy a single lump of coal unless Grand West Railway—in other words, you—is willing to pay four times its worth.”

Matthew felt his blood surge. Benchley and the other major mine owners had already refused his business. If the few small holdouts refused him as well, he’d have no fuel to run his engines. As it was, GWR wasn’t running at full capacity, and he was already being charged double for the coal he could get. “Wollby’s sell-out could spur an unstoppable wave of share dumping,” Matthew grit out.

Fitz Roy nodded. “Yes, well, he’s not likely to do anything while he’s here. You have some time to convince him to hold.”

Matthew stared down at the swirling mass of society below. He found Patience in the center of the dance floor. His cock twitched. “Convince him to hold? To what end? If it isn’t Wollby, it’ll be someone else.” The dance was the mazurka, and his frown deepened as he saw her partner come very close to touching her breast.

God damn it! A sudden and angry possessiveness heated his veins. He turned back to Fitz Roy. “No,” he growled. “I’m not going to convince Wollby of anything. I built Grand West Railway. She’s mine. She’s mine, and I’ll be damned if I’ll get on bended knee to beg the forbearance of every bloody shareholder.” He lifted his shoulder to ease his tension. “You tell Wollby that if he sells his shares it’ll be one of the biggest mistakes of his life.” He turned his gaze back to Patience. His prick throbbed and the call to claim her filled him with urgent determination. “I’ll take care of what’s mine,” he said quietly.

“Very well, then.” Fitz Roy spoke low. “Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess who approached me at the Cromley ball and posed discreet inquiries about you.” Matthew’s frown deepened. “I really don’t care,” he murmured as he watched Patience move gracefully through the steps of the dance. He may not be able to control his shareholders, but his beautiful sister-in-law was another story altogether.

“Yes, well, it was Rosalind Benchley.”

Matthew stiffened and a cold chill of anger crept down his back as he turned to Fitz Roy. “Rosalind,” he growled. “Rosalind Benchley can go to the devil.”

“So I take it you don’t want the sweet smelling note she furtively bade me give you.”

Matthew drew back in surprise. “She wrote a note—a ‘sweet smelling note?’ No.” He shook his head. “After everything that happened due to my mother’s sordid letters, Rosalind was not stupid enough to pen a secret note.”

“Actually, she was.” Fitz Roy shrugged as he pulled a small folded paper from his breast pocket and held it out. “I put it down to desperation.”

Matthew’s frown deepened as he stared at the folded pink paper. He ought to take it, but for some reason, it repelled him.

He glanced down at Patience. She moved gracefully through the mazurka. His heartbeat quickened and his cods tightened as he watched her pass close beneath the arm of her partner. She was the one he wanted. She was the one he craved. Rosalind no longer mattered.

Yet, he knew only too well that letters could be powerful tools—tools that could be used against one’s enemies. And Rosalind Benchley certainly qualified as one of his enemies.

Dragging his eyes from Patience, Matthew snatched the note before he could change his mind. He quickly opened it while Fitz Roy turned his back.

Matt, Darling, I know you must hate me, so perhaps it will please you to know that I am suffering. But I want you to know that I think of you every day as Father parades suitor after suitor before me, none as handsome or as “bold” as you. Darling, if you regret our parting as much as I, then send me word. I blush to say this, but just because we cannot marry, does not mean we cannot be together. Yours, R

Matthew snorted derisively as he shook his head. If he weren’t staring at Rosalind’s small, tight hand, he wouldn’t have believed what he was reading. Oh, what a change the months had wrought. And, oh, what possibilities this unexpected missive raised. Folding the note, he slipped it securely in his breast pocket. He needed time to consider how to make best use of both the note and Rosalind, but…he looked down at Patience…now was not that time.

Matthew watched her move off the dance floor. Immediately, a crowd of men encircled her. He knew them all, and his shoulders tensed as he saw Charles Danforth, Earl of Guilford, press far too closely against her back. Matthew’s gut tightened. He’d known Danforth since Eaton, but he’d never liked him. He was a randy, arrogant ass, an inveterate gambler, and a poor looser. If he moved one slimy hand toward her…

But in the next moment, the tall, graceless man grimaced and, jumping back, lifted his foot. Patience turned and, with her hand pressed to her breast and an oh-so-regretful shake of her head, mouthed what appeared to be an apology.

Matthew relaxed as Fitz Roy chuckled.

“Nothing like a hard stomp on the instep for deterring imbeciles,” the Earl said blithely.

Matthew frowned. He’d almost forgotten Fitz Roy was there.

The Earl turned to him and lifted his black brows. “By the way, have you heard Charles Danforth’s news?”

Now what? Matthew stiffened. “What news?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t say a word. Danforth is likely beside himself with excitement over the notion of conveying it to you himself.” Fitz Roy briefly examined his nails. “But, since I do so love dampening the glee of idiots, I’ll tell you.” He leaned his hip on the low gallery wall. “Charles Danforth has just become engaged to none other than the very Lady whose sweet-smelling note is now tucked in your breast pocket.”

Matthew froze for a moment and waited to feel something, anything. Nothing came. “When did this occur?”

“This very day. Danforth is positively giddy over the whole arrangement, because his future father-in-law has agreed to pay all his debts and renovate his crumbling manse.”

“Is that so?” Matthew stared down at Charles Danforth. The man was incapable of staying out of debt. He would be a huge liability for Archibald.

Matthew scowled. And the son-of-a-bitch was still standing too bloody close to Patience. “Then he will surely be at the gaming tables tonight,” he said tightly.

Fitz Roy snorted. “Can you keep a hound from a hank of sausage? Of course he’ll be at the gaming tables.” The Earl pushed away from the wall and straightened his cuff. “Well, I must be off. I’m partnering Miss Dunleigh and her two hundred yards of pink tulle for the next waltz.”

Matthew nodded as he returned his gaze to Patience. His heart thumped and his prick throbbed eagerly. It was time for him to go as well.

“Oh,” Fitz Roy paused, “not that you care, but Lady Rosalind bade me tell you that she will be at the Filbert’s autumn hunt should you wish to arrange a private meeting with her.”

Matthew swallowed his distaste and kept his eyes on Patience. He wanted no more thoughts of Rosalind. Only one woman mattered now and she stood below him. “Good evening, Fitz Roy.”

“Evening, Hawkmore.”

Matthew watched Patience’s red curls bounce around her bare shoulders as she turned to address one of her admirers. He barely noted Fitz Roy’s departure as he traced the curves of her body with his eye. Drawing a deep breath, he could feel his excitement shifting into the strong, controlled containment that fed his dominant passions.

Tonight would be the beginning—a new beginning with Patience.

He wanted her. He’d come for her.

And though she didn’t yet know it, she belonged to him.

* * *

“She does not!” exclaimed Lord Farnsby.

“I hear that she does.”

“Just because you hear it, doesn’t make it true, Danforth.”

“A hundred pound note says she does,” offered Lord Asher.

“Done,” replied Farnsby.

“A bet! A bet!” cried some of the other gentleman.

Male laughter filled the circle.

“So,” Lord Danforth silenced them, and all eyes turned to her. “I ask you again, Miss Dare. Is it true that you actually play the cello?”

From behind her demi-mask, Patience raised a smile for the tight crowd of gentlemen that encircled her. Some costumed, some not, they all wore masks. Yet, their masks were lifted now and all eyes were fixed upon her. In the light of the huge ballroom, she could observe them well. What a bunch they were. She saw lechery cloaked as friendliness, conceit disguised as charm, insecurity posing as bravado and, as she returned her gaze to Danforth, a predator, undisguised.

She’d only just met them, yet they were all too familiar.

Her smile deepened. “It happens, Lord Danforth, that you are correct. I do play the cello. In two weeks time, I shall begin training with the renowned Fernando Cavalli in London. I am proud to be the first female student to ever earn his tutelage.”

As a chorus of ‘ahs’ filled the circle and jokes about debts were tossed around, Danforth bent close. “I knew you were the sort of woman who could hold a large instrument between her legs.”

She’d only heard that one about a hundred times. Patience squelched the desire to roll her eyes and excuse herself. Clearly men were the same everywhere—even if they bore titles. Instead, she laughed lightly and lowered her voice. “If you mean to wound me, my lord, I’m afraid your small prick has missed the mark.”

A slow frown turned Danforth’s brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Patience lifted her brows innocently. “No, I beg yours, my lord.”

With a touch on her arm, Lord Farnsby, costumed as Napoleon, drew her attention from the odious Danforth. “You must forgive my incredulity, Miss Dare. Your beauty alone would compliment any musical experience.” He pulled his vest down over his portly middle. “It is only that the cello is such a large and unwieldy instrument, and therefore not well suited to the delicate nature and gentle sensibility of ladies.”

Patience nodded. She’d heard that before, as well—all too many times. Heaven forbid that a woman should play the cello, or ride astride, or do anything that required the parting of her thighs. Never mind that every man standing there had been born from between a woman’s legs. How did they think that affected a woman’s delicate nature and gentle sensibilities?

They didn’t think. That was their problem.

She smiled. “I understand you completely, my lord. But at the young age I took up the cello, I had no notion of the delicacy of my nature, and my sensibilities were quite determined. You have only to ask my father.”

As the men chuckled and made jests about their own determined boyhoods, Patience caught the thread of a conversation behind her.

“I can’t believe Matthew Hawkmore is actually here tonight.”

Patience tensed. Matthew was here, at the ball? The sudden memory of his hard body pressed to hers brought a warm flush to her cheeks. “Matthew Hawkmore? Don’t you mean Matthew Gardener?”

Patience gasped as the ladies tittered.

“Well, I can’t believe it,” the first continued. “Does he think he shall ever be truly accepted into polite society again after lying to all of us? I mean, really…He ought, at least, to have had the decency to stay away.”

“But, my dear, I hear that he never knew of his illegitimacy.”

“Well, Lord Benchley informed me that Hawkmore knew all along. And I, for one, do not appreciate being duped.”

The voices of Patience’s admirers faded as she listened, with growing indignation, to the women behind her.

“You know, I overheard my husband say that Hawkmore may lose all his money. No one wants to do business with Grand West Railway so long as he’s in charge.”

“And why should anyone do business with a liar and an imposter?”

Stiff and hot with anger, Patience clenched her hands in her skirts. But just as she was going to turn and give the malicious gossips a piece of her mind, a tall, thin gentleman, ill-garbed as the hearty King Henry the Eighth, pushed past Farnsby and Asher.

“My dear Miss Dare, I do believe this is our dance.”

Patience heard the overture to the waltz begin. She glanced over her shoulder only to find that three gentlemen had crowded into the space behind her. Where were the horrid women?

Barely able to hide her frustration, she looked down at the dance card that hung from her waist. “Why yes, Lord Fenton, it is.”

“Bloody rude, Fenton, taking the beautiful Miss Dare from us,” Farnsby complained.

“Yes, don’t go far with her, Fenton,” Danforth warned as he brushed a speck of lint from his evening attire. “Her next dance is mine.”

“And then mine,” called Asher.

The eager Lord Fenton merely smiled at her crookedly from beneath his mask as he led her from her circle of admirers and out onto the dance floor.

Patience sighed. Was Matthew truly here, amongst the dancers? Fleetingly, she searched the crowded floor, but in the next moment she chastised herself. If he was, he obviously hadn’t sought her out, so what did it matter?

She managed a smile for Lord Fenton as the waltz began, but she was soon grimacing as he trod repeatedly upon her toes.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Dare. A thousand pardons.”

The man was concentrating so hard upon her décolleté, he wasn’t leading. So she did.

“There now,” Fenton grinned. “We’ve found the way of it now.”

“We certainly have,” Patience agreed.

“It may take me a moment, but I always find the way of it.”

“Do you?” she replied absently.

Why try to fool herself? If Matthew was in attendance, she at least wanted to see him. Just for a moment.

The morning after their mid-night encounter in the gallery, he had retreated to his country estate. Three days later, she had gone home to the vicarage with her father, sister and cousin. She had resolved to put him from her mind, but no matter how hard she had tried, he had persisted in invading her thoughts. She had envisioned him so often that his face had become engrained in her memory—the hard angle of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth. She drew a deep breath as she pictured his dark, soulful eyes. Had a day gone by that she hadn’t thought of him?

Where was he? Lifting her chin, she scanned the crowd as she turned to the urgent strains of the waltz.

Masked faces filled her view. Half revealed, half hidden, they whirled around her in a kaleidoscope of color. More masked revelers surrounded the dance floor of the huge ballroom, moving in an ever-shifting tide. Even the liveried servants, adorned in black demi-masks, seemed to dance through the milling crowd as they swiveled their trays of sparkling champagne.

Where was he?

The music swelled. A scintillating tingle of awareness shimmied down Patience’s spine. Sudden anticipation coursed through her. She whirled.

There he was—striding purposefully across the dance floor, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly upon her.

Matthew.

Patience drew in her breath. The sense of inevitability that had overcome her after their kiss, flowed through her even more strongly now. And desire—hot, rushing desire.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Was he leaner than since last she’d seen him? His tall frame was adorned in strict black evening attire. No mask covered his incredibly handsome features. That had been a calculated move, she was sure. In fact, the hard and unassailable _expression he wore seemed to say: damn you all, this is who I am and I shall not hide.

Deep in her body something pulsed. Was it pride?

He drew closer.

What was it about him that moved her?

A couple danced in front of her, blocking him from her sight.

“I say, Miss Dare, I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said.”

Patience snapped her attention back to Fenton. “Forgive me, my lord. Uh…” She blinked, “…you were saying…?”

“I was saying we dance so well together, that perhaps we might consider partnering for other activities.” He smiled in what she was sure was supposed to be an alluring fashion. “I’m certain that we are very well suited.”

“And I’m certain that you are not.” Matthew’s deep voice drew them to a halt. Patience’s blood surged as he took her hand in his. He bent a cold eye upon Fenton. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m cutting in.”

Lord Fenton frowned and kept hold of her other hand. “I’ve been waiting half the night for this dance with Miss Dare, Hawkmore.”

Matthew’s hand curved warmly around hers. Her heart skipped. “Then you won’t mind waiting longer,” he said coolly.

Fenton pushed back his mask, revealing a sudden and nasty glare. “Blast you, Hawkmore. I suppose cutting in should come as no shock from a gardener’s son.”

Patience drew back in angry surprise and yanked her hand from Fenton’s. “Is that supposed to be a pun, my lord? If so, it is a poor one. Now, if you will excuse me, I find I am in agreement with my brother-in-law. You and I will not suit.”

Fenton turned haughtily to Matthew as if he were the one who had spoken. “I never did like you, Hawkmore. I see I was right to petition for your dismissal at White’s.”

Ignoring the man, Matthew swept her into his arms and turned her into the waltzing throng. His features were hard with anger, so she lowered her eyes to give him a moment.

Despite the uncomfortable exchange, excitement, happiness and relief coursed through Patience’s body. She found herself leaning into Matthew, both offering support and taking succor. He held her so closely that she could smell the green, powdery vetiver that clung to him. She could feel the press of his lower body and the brush of his legs. His shoulder was strong beneath her hand as he led her with unwavering surety.

Lord, how many nights had she tried to summon the smell of him, the feel of him? How many nights had she longed for his embrace? For his breathtaking kiss which had seemed a promise of something even more sweet and inescapable?

She closed her eyes and wished she could just lay her head against his shoulder. God, she hadn’t realized how tired she was—so very tired of the constant onslaught of male attention. The wrong male attention.

“Look at me, Patience.”

Her body hummed with sensual appreciation at the sound of his voice. She breathed in the light scent of vetiver and lifted her gaze to his dark, heavily lashed eyes. What did she see now? Determination? Pride? Need?

Her heart thumped. God, his eyes were more beautiful than she had remembered. He was more beautiful than she had remembered. Glints of gold lit his dark hair.

“What took you so long?” she asked, softly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

His nostrils flared and his eyes seemed to darken. “I’m here now.” His fingers pressed against her back. “Are you prepared to give me what I want?”

The deep, resonant tones of his voice stroked her like a caress.

“Well, I don’t know,” she said softly. “The last time I gave you what you wanted, against my better judgment I might add, you left.”

His beautiful brown eyes didn’t waver from hers. “Not a day has passed that I haven’t regretted leaving you that night. Give me what I want now, and you won’t be sorry.”

“What is it you want?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze dropped to her low, flower-strewn décolletage. “You’re gown is lovely. As whom are you costumed?”

Patience drew a shallow breath. “Persephone.”

“Ah, how appropriate. Persephone, the herald of spring—the goddess.” His low voice held her captive as he turned her to the music. “Then I am Pluto, god of the underworld—and I want you.” His dark, beautiful eyes held her enthralled. His embrace tightened and his voice held her captive. “I shall steal you away and hide you in my shadow. I shall chain you to my side and demand your submission. I shall take everything from you and, in the doing, give you everything you desire.”

Something dark and hidden reverberated in Patience’s heart. Like a strike upon a tuning fork, it flowed over her in waves, filling her womb, her quim and the pulsing heart between her legs with a desperate but unrecognizable hunger. Her lips parted on a silent sigh.

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “And you—you shall light my dark world,” he said, quietly.

Patience trembled at his words. “How shall I light your dark world, Matthew?”

His eyes returned to hers and they were unfathomable. “I don’t know—perhaps by speaking my name as you just did.” A spark tumbled from her heart to her womb. His voice was so tender. “Perhaps I have lost my way.” He paused then drew back a little as he turned her. “Does it really matter, as long as I give you what you desire?”

Moisture tingled between her legs. “It matters to me.” When he didn’t respond she continued. “You speak of my desires. You look at me and I feel you know something about me—something I don’t even know. Yet, how could you?” She shook her head. “We’ve only ever shared a kiss.”

“It was more than a kiss—and you know it.”

Her blood rushed. “Yes,” she admitted quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you know my desires.”

His gaze held her. “Oh, I’ve been watching you, Patience. You’re the belle of the ball. Almost every man here wants you. They practically stumble over each other to get to you. Isn’t that true?”

She stared into his long-lashed eyes. “Yes.”

“And isn’t it true that your fawning admirers crowd you, almost beyond bearing, in their urgency to impress you. Isn’t it true that they drown you in continuous compliments that are meaningless to you? That they suffocate you with their innocuous but unending attention?” His dark eyes seemed to reach inside her. “Isn’t that true, Patience? Hasn’t it always been true?”

She frowned into his almost hypnotic gaze. “Yes.” The word came on a whisper. Did he hear it?

He bent closer. “And though you smile and sweep them off their feet…”

She breathed in vetiver.

“…I think none of them inspire your passions…”

His cheek touched her temple.

“…let alone your love.”

Patience felt her chest tighten. Love? When Henri had left her and stolen her will to play, she’d tried desperately to find new love. How long had she searched for it? How many men had declared it? More than she could remember. Yet they had all proven false. Or weak. And none had inspired any reciprocating emotion in her. Even when she had given in to her passions and indulged in kisses and caresses, she’d always been left frustrated and dissatisfied.

Then one afternoon, as she’d stared into the uplifted face of yet another suitor, and listened to yet another proposal of marriage, she’d suddenly realized that she was done. That day, her search for love had ended. And that day she had returned to her cello.

But sensual pleasure was another thing altogether. She looked into Matthew’s proud, handsome face. He lit a fire in her that no one else seemed capable of igniting. “I have no desire for romantic love, nor marriage either. I love my family, and I love my instrument. That is quite enough for me.”

“Really?” One dark eyebrow lifted. “Are you sure?”

Patience drew a breath but then paused. Why didn’t ‘yes’ burst from her lips? She frowned as she met Matthew’s enquiring gaze. “The pursuit of love and the pursuit of art are antithetical. One cannot live in the face of the other.”

“Who told you that?”

The man I loved. “A former music master of mine.”

“And you believe it?”

“I know it.”

Matthew eyes searched hers for a moment. “Shame all your admirers don’t know you’ve chosen your cello over them.”

Patience shrugged as Matthew turned her with the music. “It wouldn’t matter if I told them. They wouldn’t believe me.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would. Each one wants to believe that he shall be the one to win your heart—or your body.” His mouth turned up a little at the corners. “Hope springs eternal, Patience.”

Such a full, kissable mouth. She had hoped for this moment—for this time with him. “Yes, hope springs eternal.”

“Poor souls…with their hopeless hope.” His head tipped closer. “None of them will ever have you, will they?”

Patience’s heart quickened and her quim tightened. “No.”

“No. Because they don’t know what you need.” Matthew’s hand tightened around hers as he whirled her amongst the dancers. “But I know what you need, Patience. I am the perfect foil for your needs.”

She stared into his dark eyes—such deep, compelling eyes. He tempted her, almost beyond her endurance, for he knew something she didn’t—something that touched her with a deep and inexplicable force. And yet, she couldn’t help but think of their tense parting in the gallery. She wanted him, but she had no desire to be a substitute for Rosalind. “It’s never good to be the one who follows in the footsteps of lost love, Matthew. And as I’ve already indicated, I cannot offer you love. So, perhaps you should have a run at someone else.”

The set of Matthew’s mouth softened and his long lashes flickered with a slow blink. “But that would be a complete waste of time, Patience. You’re the only one I want. In this whole room, there is not another woman who can satisfy me.”

Patience’s mouth went dry, even as moisture wet her thighs. She had known this day would come. But now that the moment was upon her, she didn’t know if she could go through with it. She sighed. “There is something undeniable between us. I feel it.” It shivered in the shortness of her breath and trembled in the tender spot between her legs. “But at this moment, even I am uncertain of my desires.”

“No, you’re not,” he said softly. “You’re just afraid to admit to them.”

Was he right? So many thoughts filled her head that answers evaded her. “Perhaps, but right now I don’t see what you see.”

“Yes, you do. You saw it the night our gazes first met across this very ballroom. You felt it in the gallery the night we kissed.”

She stared into his deep eyes. “I saw you. I felt you.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “But why me? Why not another? Why not Asher or Danforth, or any of the other dozens of men who want you?”

Because you are the man who calls to me.

“Why can it only be me, Patience?”

“I don’t know why. I only know that it is so.”

His hand moved on her waist, drawing her even closer. His voice came low and soft by her ear. “Give me tonight—only tonight—and I’ll show you why.”

Heat flooded Patience’s womb. Her heart pounded in her breast and her cunt quivered and clenched. God help her, she wanted him so desperately. And yet… What if—what if it all went awry.

“Patience.”

She looked into Mathew’s penetrating gaze.

“One day you will relent,” he said softly. “For I will pursue you until you do. So why put off the pleasure that can be yours tonight?” He spoke with such casual reason. “I’m not asking for your love, Patience. Nor your hand.” His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I just want tonight.” He bent closer. “Give me tonight.”

Patience drew a shaky breath. He was right. One day she would relent. Only she wished he didn’t know it.

Matthew twirled her to the edge of the dance floor and then clasped her wrist. “Come with me, Patience,” he said.

She tensed and stalled. “Come with you where?”

Hidden in the folds of her skirt, his fingers stroked her palm. “Wherever I say.”

Staring into his dark eyes, her breath quickened and her nipples tightened. It wasn’t the answer she had expected. Trembling, she cast a quick glance at the couples that milled by them.

She wanted to go—yearned to go. It was as if there were an invisible string between them, and he was pulling it. But, God help her, where would it lead? She grasped at her last protest. “How can I?” she breathed.

He bent close and his low voice was gentle. “You can because you hunger for something you don’t understand—something you are afraid to even recognize. But I am going to make it clear and simple for you, because what you need cannot be asked for; it can only be taken. And I am the one to do the taking.” He drew back. “I am the one. Now, not another word.” Then he pressed his hand against her waist, and pushing her ahead of him, he guided her through the crowd with the simple pressure of his palm against the small of her back.

Patience’s blood rushed in her veins. His calm commands were surprising. Yet, her reaction to them was more so. Part of her wanted to pull free and refuse him. But the stronger part, or was it the weaker, felt a hot thrill and an urgency to follow.

An unusual and uncomfortable moment of indecision overcame her. But she seemed unable, or unwilling, to act contrary to his influence. So, with a wildly beating heart, she continued to allow him to propel her forward.

Pulling her arm through his, he guided her in a leisurely fashion and they nodded to people as they passed. Smiles, raised eyebrows and speculative glances followed them. She thought of the horrid gossips and lifted her chin. She was not ashamed to be seen with him. Indeed, there was no man she would rather be with. And why shouldn’t they be seen together? He was her brother-in-law, after all.

But the closer they came to the wide ballroom doors, the faster Patience’s heart beat. Doubt and desire, uncertainty and trust, all struggled for preeminence. The doors loomed before her. Her step faltered.

Matthew glanced down at her and his dark eyes flashed. “Come, Patience.”

No sweet-talking, no cajoling. He tightened his arm on hers and a heavy throb pulsed between her legs. His firm command sublimated her resistance in a way that no amount of coaxing would have. Hot and flustered, she stepped over the threshold.

They crossed the wide hall and climbed the stairs leading to the third floor. Masked guests ascended and descended around them, moving to and from the upper gallery that overlooked the ballroom. Matthew nodded at two passing matrons. The elderly ladies wore their masks up and Patience noted their curious stares. She stared back at them. They looked like two ripe old tittle-tattles.

Finally, Matthew turned her down the corridor that led to the family’s private wing. Sconces mounted on the walls flickered with light. The noise of the ball receded. Taking her hand, he pulled her past the hall that led to her room, and moved on down the corridor. She had trod this same path to visit with her sister in her dressing room. But tonight, her destination was...where?

Her breath came quickly as Matthew turned her down a second corridor leading away from familiar pathways. She had never been in this part of the house. It was empty and quiet. She could hear almost nothing of the ball and her breathing sounded loud.

She glanced at Matthew. His strong profile revealed nothing but a purposeful intent. He said nothing. And then, as they turned another corner, he pulled her in front of him and released her. Patience stared at a wall decorated with a large tapestry. Only two doors faced the short hall.

She whirled around.

Pulling off his gloves, Matthew regarded her with dark, hooded eyes. His sensual mouth was parted but unsmiling. She removed her mask as she tried to slow her breathing.

Her fingers trembled as he slowly approached. She saw that his trousers were tented by his formidable erection.

A wash of desire sluiced through her. She swallowed the moisture that pooled in her mouth and tried to calm her nerves. But he simply leaned against the door jam to her left and, reaching for the handle, let the door swing open. She looked into his dark eyes and then into the dark room. Some flickering light sent dim shadows dancing upon the wall. But standing in the illuminated corridor, she could see little else.

She remembered his words below. I shall hide you in my shadow, chain you to my side, and give you everything you desire. Her clitoris throbbed hungrily.

She stared back down the well-lit hall. This was it—her last chance to change her mind. But to what would she be returning? To insignificant conversations with men who were too busy gawking at her to care what she said? To endless talk with men who were more interested in telling her their opinions than discovering hers? To trifling associations with men who only wanted to get between her legs?

She met Matthew’s gaze. Of course, he wanted to get between her legs, too. Suddenly, she thought of her sister. Dressed as Aphrodite, her sister’s gusseted gown didn’t quite conceal her five-month pregnancy. This ball and hunt would be her last social event before her confinement.

Patience put her hand over her flat stomach. Matthew’s beautiful eyes seemed to dare her. But she didn’t know if the dare was to flee or to enter.

Her body railed against her procrastination. She spoke on a rush of breath. “I’m a virgin. And I intend to stay that way.”

He raised his brows. “Forever?”

“For now.”

He lowered his eyes and seemed to consider for all of two seconds before nodding. “Very well. Until you tell me otherwise, I agree to leave you intact.”

Patience nodded, even as she thought of her other concern. “And if I walk through this door, can you really assure me that whatever happens will be between us? You won’t be thinking of Rosalind?”

Matthew didn’t even blink. “Rosalind who?”

“That’s very amusing, but I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Patience looked into his unwavering gaze, but she saw not the least bit of humor there. She turned her stare back to the darkened chamber. She had refused so many and trusted so few.

Go. Discover the secret he claims to keep.

It’s only one night…

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. God and St. Matthew keep her. Then, with open-eyed determination, she walked past him and crossed over the final threshold.

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