But he didn’t. He said nothing as he watched her read the words that had been burned into his brain.
Mr. Hawkmore,
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 once felt a measure of appreciation for you, I no longer harbor any such sentiment. Indeed, I believe you will come to realize that you always cared more for me than I for you. So, perhaps your disgrace is actually a blessing, 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 you would admit that you knew all along of your bastardy, but clearly your ill breeding disallows such honesty.
Mr. Hawkmore, I demand that 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.
With a short exhalation, she lowered Rosalind Benchley’s missive.
Why had he let her read it? “Now that you’ve had a look, I’ll take that.”
Patience started, whirled around, and stared into the shadows that hung heavy around him. Her head tilted, and he could tell the moment she saw him in the dimness. She took a step toward him.
His frown deepened. Accustomed to the shadows, he could see her well. But what did she see?
A bastard?
A gardener’s son, posing as a gentleman?
A man forsaken by the women who had claimed to love him?
She took a step closer.
His shoulder pulled tighter. He should leave.
But as she took another step, he couldn’t seem to move. As much as his mind urged him, his body had no will to go. Her moonlit skin called for his touch. Her lips, full and soft, beckoned kisses and more. And her thick red curls, falling down her back in wild disarray, begged the grip of his hand.
Her beauty was potent with an uncontainable sensuality. And yet—his cock pulsed as she drew closer—she was completely contained. Her eyes had told him that from the beginning—her deep, verdant eyes that reminded him of unsheared grass. Though he couldn’t distinguish their color in the moonlight, they held him now, unflinching and unshakeable.
His heart beat faster as she closed the distance between them. Pausing before him, she held out the letter.
The fucking letter.
Snatching it, he crushed it into the couch cushion beside him.
“Forgive me for reading your private correspondence, Matthew.”
He stared at her and wondered at the calming effect her voice had upon him.
“Shouldn’t I call you Matthew?” she asked. “I know we’ve never actually conversed. But, since your brother married my sister this morning, I think it not unseemly of me to use your Christian name.” She spoke with such a casual tone, as if it weren’t the least bit unusual for them to be alone together in the gallery in the middle of the night.
A muscle in his arm jumped as she stepped toward the settee. He watched her and his hands twitched. His ears registered the soft swish of her dressing gown. His mouth watered.
She sat down beside him. He couldn’t pull his eyes from her. Little more than the span of a person separated them. He took a deep breath. God, she smelled of gardenias, sweet and heady.
She leaned against the high couch-back but didn’t look at him. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it? One not made for sleeping.”
Matthew gripped the arm of the couch.
No, not for sleeping.
She tucked one of her curls behind her ear. “My younger sister always says nights like these are made for secrets and magic.” She paused for a moment before finally turning her head to look at him. His heart pounded as he stared into the shadowy beauty of her face. “I don’t know if she’s right. But just in case she is, would you like to tell me a secret?”
At another time, he would have smiled. But not now. His cock was hard and ready and his body was tense with restraint. He wanted her. He’d wanted her since he first saw her, when he was still engaged to Rosalind. And now he was affianced to no one. Now, his heart was near to bursting, and his body was in agony.
Her head tilted. “Perhaps not then.” She looked away.
His body trembled as she leaned forward to go.
“Stay, Patience.” His voice sounded terse. He clasped her hand and drew a shallow breath. “Stay,” he said more gently.
Patience stilled. She looked down at his hand on hers before lifting her eyes back to him. God, had he ever looked upon a more gorgeous face? “Stay,” he murmured again.
Keeping her gaze fixed on him, she leaned back. Rather than release her hand, he curled his fingers over hers. He thought she might pull away, but she didn’t.
He rested his head against the couch-back when she rested hers. They sat still and quiet, their eyes locked.
The silence drew out. His prick throbbed and his skin felt alive. “I have no more secrets.” Though he tried to keep his voice calm, his fury lay as close to the surface as his desire, and it infected his words with a hard edge. “Everything that ought to be secret, or private to me, is fodder for public gossip.”
A frown creased Patience’s smooth brow. “I know.” Her hand moved slightly beneath his. “But you mustn’t concern yourself too much with gossip. It will pass. Gossip never sticks to good people.”
He looked at her and something in his chest pulled tight. “How do you know I’m a good person?”
She stared at him for a long, quiet moment. Her eyes looked dark in the shadowy light. “I have a sense for people,” she finally said. “Besides, my sister thinks the world of you.” A brief smile turned her lips. “And if Passion believes you’re good and decent, then you are.”
Matthew’s heart thumped.
So long as you think so.
Pulling his eyes from her, he nodded toward the moonlit portrait of the man he’d always thought was his father. “You spoke of magic. Is there any magic that can make me that man’s true son?”
Patience’s beautiful, intelligent eyes never left him. “Is that what you want, Matthew? If you could have only one wish?”
Yes.
But then he thought of his brother’s wedding. Mark and Passion would stand together through everything. Their love was absolute. “No. I would have wished for love—love and loyalty.” He stroked his thumb over Patience’s hand. Her skin was so soft. “I could have borne anything then.”
“You ‘would have wished’? You don’t anymore?”
The ruthless sting of Rosalind’s rejection coursed through him. “No, not anymore.” He looked into Patience’s tranquil gaze. His shoulders relaxed.
Right now, I only want you.
“Perhaps I would wish for revenge,” he said more quietly.
“Revenge?” A small frown turned her brow. “But I say unto you, Love your enemies . . . pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you . . . Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in Heaven is perfect.” She paused. “The Gospel according to St. Matthew.”
Did she really think him capable of such beneficence? A calming warmth seeped through him. And did she know how beautiful she was—quoting the Gospels in her dressing gown? His prick felt full as he rolled onto his hip to face her. “I’m not St. Matthew, Patience.” He sensed her tension at his sudden proximity, but she didn’t move or look away. “I’m not St. Matthew, and I’m not perfect.”
Her lashes fluttered. “None of us is. But we must aspire to perfection.” She regarded him for a moment. “Tell me you won’t seek revenge, Matthew. Revenge is never free.”
Her hand felt warm beneath his and her expression held a gentle seriousness. He stared at her plump, luscious mouth. What would it feel like to kiss such beautiful lips? “Very well,” he murmured. What would it feel like to taste her and hold her close?
“Good.” She released a sigh then looked back across the gallery at the portraits. Matthew studied her moonlit profile while the silence drew out between them. Was her cheek as soft as it looked? He wanted to touch it.
Finally, she turned back to him. “You know, Matthew, I think one day Rosalind will regret her decision to break with you.”
Matthew thought of the letter crushed beside him. “I doubt that,” he replied, bitterness seeping into his tone.
“No, I think she will,” Patience insisted softly. Her eyes looked past him as she continued, “One day, she will see you somewhere, perhaps even from a distance, and she will pause to watch you. Memories will flood through her. She will remember how it felt to be in your presence—how it felt to know your touch and your smile. She will yearn for you, and ‘what if’ will reverberate in her head. For she will know that she could have had you, had she not thrown you away.”
Patience stared into the distance. Then her long lashes flickered and she seemed to return to him. She lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “And you shall walk blithely on—unknowing, yet content in the life you have made without her.”
Matthew regarded her intently and couldn’t ease the frown from his brow. She spoke from experience. Who had hurt her? And who carried intimate memories of her—her touch and her smile? Did she yearn for him still? A ripple of jealousy moved through him.
His frown deepened. “Kiss me, Patience.”
Her gaze swept over him and her lips parted. A soft sigh escaped her.
Matthew’s blood rushed and his cock ached. He forced away his frown then repeated his command. “Come. Kiss me, Patience.”
Her lovely eyes were dark with desire and uncertainty. Such a beautiful contrast. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you and I ought not do anything that might cause us strife in the future. You’re my brother- in-law, Matthew. I want no regrets between us.” She paused, and her eyes rested for a moment on his mouth. “Besides, even when I think I want kisses, I am invariably disappointed by them.”
Matthew released her hand and slowly stretched his arm across the couch-back. “I don’t want to speak of regrets right now. I just want a kiss, Patience.” He fingered one of her thick curls. It was soft. “And if our kiss is disappointing . . . Well, we won’t do it again, will we?”
She seemed to consider his words as she held him in her searching stare.
He sat tense and waiting. Would she reject him? “Kiss me,” he whispered.
Her gaze flickered to his mouth. Then, slowly, she turned toward him and eased forward.
Matthew’s heart thudded and his breathing grew shallow. She stopped only a few inches from him. He breathed the scent of gardenias that clung to her. Had it only been three weeks since he’d first laid eyes upon her? Why did it feel like he’d wanted her forever?
“What are you waiting for?” he managed.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Many men have asked to kiss me. Many men have kissed me without asking.” She paused and a tiny frown creased her brow. “But none has ever demanded that I kiss him.”
He stared into her lovely face and realized he’d stopped breathing. Demands were what she needed. He inhaled. “Do it now.”
He saw her indecision weaken. Then her hand smoothed slowly over his shoulder and her lips parted. Matthew’s heart hammered in his chest as her lashes lowered. Her warm fingers touched his nape, pulling him to her with a gentle pressure. And then her mouth touched his—not in a pursed- lipped peck, but completely, softly, and searchingly.
A burning heat surged through Matthew’s body, igniting something deep inside him. Yet, he sat still as a statue as over and over, between breathy sighs, she pressed her soft, parted lips to his. With each kiss, she lingered longer. His eyes closed and her other arm came around him. He drew a sharp breath and his hands began to shake as she drew even closer. And closer . . .
With a moan he swept his arms around her, pulling her fully against him and capturing her tender mouth with his. Desire flamed through him, hot and fierce. Fueled by his suppressed longing for her, fueled by emotions he couldn’t even name, it ravaged him. He thrust his tongue. Her lips parted and her embrace tightened. She tasted of tea and lemon—and want. His heart pounded. She was wearing her stays, but even so, he felt the press of her breasts and curves of her body. She was soft yet firm, and the scent of gardenias filled his head as he kissed her and kissed her, pushing his tongue a little deeper into her warm mouth with each thrust.
His blood rushed in his veins and his prick ached. He held her even tighter and stroked his hands over the curves of her bottom, gripping it as he surged against her. Her open mouth clung to his, and her fingers curled in his hair. She moaned and then gasped, but he couldn’t stop kissing her. Couldn’t stop . . .
For in that moment, she was the balance against everything he couldn’t have—Rosalind, the man he’d always thought was his father, his so-called friends who had abruptly become so scarce, his old life. All were gone. But this kiss was his—this kiss, with Patience. He crushed her against him and pulled her down with him on the couch. He pressed his body to hers. If he could keep her, then maybe . . .