A Christmas Dance (10 page)

He uncrossed his arms. “Is it my birthday?”

Not for months and months. “It will be. And you shall have a grand--”

“Who’s ever heard of a party rehearsal?”

“It’s a new fashion. The very latest.”

“Is it? How odd.” In an instant, his features went from baffled to delighted. “How marvelous. Is the rehearsal going well?”

“Like clockwork, all though I suspect the guests would be very disappointed to learn you’ve been sneaking about trying to catch a glimpse of the surprise rather than sleeping.”

“Sleeping, yes. It is late, isn’t it?” He glanced at the locked metal box where she kept the laudanum and scowled a bit. “Shall I take my medicine?”

She shook her head. The laudanum was only useful as a last resort to calm him down—it certainly wasn’t effective in making him more lucid--and since he appeared to be calming down well enough on his own, she saw no reason for further sedation. “Not if you let Simmons dress you for bed without complaint.”

“Who’s Simmons?”

“The nice footman waiting outside the door.”

“Ah.” He made an inviting motion with his hand. “Bring him in. Bring him in, then. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it will be tomorrow.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Well. . .” Oh, there was no point in arguing with him. It wasn’t as if he would wake up tomorrow and be disappointed. “I’ll just go fetch Simmons.”

She ushered in the footman, then wandered about the room tidying up while Simmons patiently readied Sir Franklin for bed. It took a bit of doing, but eventually, her father was cozily tucked up in bed with his compass in hand and the very beginnings of exhaustion tugging at his face.

Patience took the seat next to the bed and toed off her shoes. She watched him fiddle with his compass for a minute before leaning forward to gently brush away a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. She wished he’d sit still long enough for a decent trim. “Would you like me to fetch you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Tea,” he repeated slowly. He went very still all of a sudden, and then turned clear blue eyes up to hers. “You’re a good girl, Patience.” He reached up to take her hand in his. “A good daughter. Have I told you that?”

She squeezed his hand as a pain swelled in her chest and tears burned at the back of her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “You haven’t.” He’d never told her that. Not once had he said anything close to it.

In the past, before his infirmary became apparent, she’d often felt wounded by his lack of open affection, and what
sometimes even amounted to a failure to acknowledge her very existence.

That he should choose to acknowledge and praise her now was almost cruel.

She wasn’t a good girl, and she certainly wasn’t being a good daughter. Since the night of Lord Welsing’s ball, she’d allowed the staff to keep, even lock, her father in his room in the evenings so she could enjoy herself without worrying what trouble he might get into while she was out. She’d left him isolated and alone while she flirted and danced and indulged in dreams of a future that included her happiness, but not necessarily his.

She’d been horribly selfish.

“A good girl,” her father repeated. And then as quickly as his moment of lucidity had arrived, it was gone. His eyes clouded again and he released her hand to tap at the compass. “Goes round,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She sniffled and pulled away. “Yes, it goes round. You were very clever to discover it.”

And she was very late in discovering her conscience. Closing her eyes, she let out a long shaky breath and sorted through her options. Perhaps, with a little bit of luck, she could still make a few things right.

But to do so, she needed to speak with the Meldrins, and then, though it would break her heart, she needed to say goodbye to William.

“Things will be better now, Papa. I promise.”

Chapter 8

William waited impatiently in the small study off the hall. No doubt it made him look a pathetic fool to be pacing about the little room while guests were gathered in the front parlor. But he couldn’t bring himself to rejoin the festivities. Worry for Patience ate at him. She’d looked so stricken, so panicked as
she pulled away. How was he to go about making frivolous conversation after seeing her like that?

It had taken every ounce of his will not to follow her and Caroline into the family wing of the house. Only the knowledge that he’d be escorted right back out again had kept him from trying. If Patience had wished for his assistance, she’d have asked for it.

He had to remind himself of that fact after a quarter hour had passed without any word of her, and then again after half an hour. After three quarters of an hour, he was ready to seek out and assist the stubborn woman whether she liked it or not.

He was nearly to the door when it opened and Patience stepped into the room. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she looked even more distraught than she had been in the hall. Her face was drawn and tired, her green eyes glassy. It broke his heart.

“Patience, what is it? What’s happened?”

In a move too subtle to be an intentional insult, she turned away to softly close the door behind her. “Mrs. Meldrin said you were in here. It wasn’t necessary for you to wait.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I. . .” She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Thank you.”

He took a small, careful step back from her. If she wanted space, he could give her that. At the moment, if she wanted the moon in her hands, he’d find a way to give her that too. “How is your father?”

“He’s asleep.”

That didn’t quite answer his question, but he decided not to press the matter. Not if it was going to prolong the sadness in her eyes.

“Would you like me to escort you back to the parlor?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. . .I need to pack.”

“Pack,” he repeated dully.

“Yes. I’m leaving. First thing in the morning.”

“Leaving? For where? How long?”

“Hertfordshire. Indefinitely.”

He couldn’t have heard her properly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m going to Hertfordshire. To the country.”

“The Little Season isn’t over yet.”

“It is for me, I’m afraid.”

He leaned down in an effort to catch her eyes, but she kept her gaze studiously on the floor. “What is this about, Patience? Is it your father? Has his illness taken a turn for the worse?”

“No, he is the same.”

“Is it. . .Patience. . .it’s not catching, is it?” Surely it wasn’t something she could have caught. He’d never once considered the possibility. The Meldrins had more sense than that, didn’t they? “You’re not. . .”

She glanced up at him for the first time. “No. No, I’m quite well.”

The rush of relief nearly made him dizzy. “Then what is it? Have you had a falling out with the Caroline or Mrs. Meldrin?”

She shook her head, but still couldn’t meet his eyes. “No. Leaving is entirely my decision.”

“I see.” He scowled at her. “No, I don’t. Tell me why.”

“I. . .I’ve reasons.”

“What are they?”

“They’re complicated.”

His mouth hooked up in a humorless smile. “That’s a very uncreative way of saying you’ll not tell me.”

She tossed her hands up in frustration. “We. . .we’re a burden to them here. We’ll be a burden to them in the country as well, but more so in London.”

“The Meldrins can well afford the burden of keeping you and your father in London for another fortnight.”

“What burdens Mr. Meldrin
can
afford, and what burdens he should have to carry are two separate matters.”

He hated that she made a sound point. Hated more that he could think of nothing to say that might change her mind. . .except perhaps an offer of marriage. She couldn’t leave him if they were bound by an engagement. And he bloody well didn’t want her leaving.

The words “marry me” hovered on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back.

Only a rash fool would propose marriage to a woman after such a brief courtship. These sorts of things took time, and thought, and planning.

He had a plan, damn it
.

Another fortnight of coming to know each other, a visit to the Meldrin estate after the holidays, a conversation with Mr. Meldrin, or her father if he was well enough. And if those steps in his plan went well then, and only then, would it be appropriate to extend an offer of marriage.

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay?”

She shook her head.

“Then there is nothing left to be said.” He stared at her for several long moments, and though he wasn’t aware of it at the time, later he would realize he used those moments to memorize every detail of her face.

She dropped her gaze again and turned away. “I have to go.”

“Safe journey, Patience.”

He watched her move quickly to the door. And then she was gone. A tickle of something that felt uncomfortably like panic skittered along his spine. Just like that, the woman had walked out of his life. She hadn’t even offered a proper goodbye. Then again, neither had he. “Bloody hell.”

They should have a proper goodbye, damn it. He headed for the door, determined to remedy the oversight. He knew it was irrational, perhaps even a little desperate. But he bloody well didn’t care.

He’d taken no more than a step when the door swung open again, admitting Mr. Meldrin. The older man took one look at William and shook his head. “It won’t do you any good to go after her right now.”

“I’m not. . .” William swore under his breath and fisted his hands at his sides. “You’re certain?”

Mr. Meldrin nodded as he closed the door behind him. “Girl’s as stubborn as they come.”

“Stubborn,” William repeated. The panic had begun to dull into a sick empty feeling.

“As her father.”

He wouldn’t have guessed it until that night. “I’d have learned that for myself, with a little more time.”

“And she’ll learn to trust you, with a little more time.”

“Time we no longer have.” He turned and looked at Mr. Meldrin. “Trust me with what? What is she hiding?”

“Nothing so terrible, in my opinion.” Mr. Meldrin shook his head. “But then, our own troubles always seem more consequential than they do to those around us.” He walked to a sideboard and poured a finger of brandy. “Just last week, Mrs. Meldrin refused to attend a dinner party because of a facial blemish. Damned if Caroline or I could see a single thing wrong with her, not so much as a bit of red. But she refused to budge, absolutely refused to believe she had anything but a mountain perched on the end of her nose.”

“Are you. . .are you telling me Patience left because of a pimple?”

Mr. Meldrin handed him the drink and poured one for himself. “You’re not much for riddles, are you?”

“I’m a bit distracted.” He swallowed the liquid down, uncaring that he generally avoided spirits. He was already working on a plan that would allow him to be completely foxed before the night was out.

“The pimple is something of a metaphor,” Mr. Meldrin said. “Patience’s blemish is not quite so imaginary as my wife’s, but neither is it quite the mountain she believes it to be. Or perhaps, more importantly, the mountain she is certain others believe it to be.”

“Mountains out of molehills. Yes, I get it.” He couldn’t quite grasp the fact that, on top of everything else, he was having a conversation about pimples. “The difference here, is that your wife told you about her blemish.”

“At length.”

“I can’t tell Patience she’s overreacting if I don’t know what she’s reacting to.”

“As I said, she needs time. Time,” Mr. Meldrin emphasized before William could interrupt with an argument, “you could make at Lord Hartwell’s Christmas ball next month.”

“The Christmas ball.”

“Indeed. My wife and daughter were able to gain a promise of attendance from Patience. Our estate is but a half day’s ride from London. She’ll be returning on the eighteenth, the day before the ball, and leaving again the day after.”

“May I ask how they managed that?”

“Patience is remarkably susceptible to guilt, and my wife and daughter entirely too accomplished at providing it. They made something of a fuss at Caroline being left without her friend for the remainder of the Little Season.” Mr. Meldrin ran the back of his hand across his jaw. “It’s not a method I normally condone, but in this instance, I allowed it.”

Because he appreciated the result more than he disapproved of the method, William chose not to comment.

Mr. Meldrin swirled the liquid in his glass. “Do you know the odd thing about pimples, Lord Casslebury?”

“I. . .” They were back to pimples? He ran a tired hand down his face. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“The odd thing is that there’s no telling who will make mountains out of them. Nor is there any way of knowing who will point those mountains out to all and sundry.” He looked at William over his glass. “Mr. Seager saw something tonight. Something Patience would have preferred he had not.”

Bloody hell, Mr. Seager knew her secret, but not him? “I see. Any idea where I might find Mr. Seager?”

“His home, I imagine.”

“Right.” William set his drink down. “You’ll excuse me?”

“By all means, but a final piece of advice before you go? When Patience does confide in you, you might wish to avoid using the word ‘overreacting.’ It seems to have an adverse effect on women.”

* * *

William did indeed find Mr. Seager at home—a slightly less than fashionable townhouse on the very edge of fashionable Mayfair, where he was seated at a very small table, in his very small study, with a very large decanter of brandy within grasping distance.

William took a seat across from him and said a quick prayer of thanks that the decanter retained most of its contents. Mr. Seager was a trifle thick even when sober. Though William had never seen the man in his cups, he’d wager a considerable sum the condition wouldn’t enhance the man’s powers of perception.

Mr. Seager tipped his glass at him. “Thought you’d be at the dinner yet, my lord. Or were you run off as well?”

William decided to ignore the question in favor of one of his own. “You’ve had an interesting night, I’m told.”