He found himself distracted by the notion of hunting her bewitching spot, and of satisfying her curiosity about matters amorous. He would have to ensure that he did not disappoint on that venture.
“Home, Morris,” Arthur said as he stepped into the carriage again. He took a long look at the family home of the lady he would marry, considered that this was unlikely to be the last time she surprised him so completely, and grinned as he rapped his cane on the roof of the carriage.
This match might prove to be entertaining, indeed. Already he felt a welcome sense of purpose, one that had been lacking in his life, and anticipated a merry challenge to meet the lady’s demand. Arthur laughed aloud, knowing all ran in his favor.
While the run of luck endured, he had to make it count.
* * *
Was it a jest?
Patience did not even consider the possibility until Mr. Beckham was gone. She was well aware that he had teased her earlier, and he did seem the kind of gentleman to enjoy a joke. Surely, he was not so cruel as to make one at her expense, though? Surely, she had done nothing to earn such disdain?
She did not think so, but the notion made her uneasy all the same.
Pretty. He had called her pretty. Was that an honest assessment or a compliment intended to earn her favor?
What had Miss Grosvenor done to earn his dislike? He had not even been aware of that lady’s abuse of books.
There was an entire wealth of knowledge that Patience realized she did not possess. She had no notion of the costs of establishing a publishing firm, not just the funds required, but the equipment and skilled individuals that would have to be retained. She had no notion of where such an establishment might be located or should be located, much less the cost of such a facility.
Worse again, she had no understanding of Mr. Beckham’s worth. Women chattered all the time in the bookstore about inheritances and incomes, but Patience had never listened. On this day, she regretted her disinterest.
Could Mr. Beckham afford to keep his promise? Did he even know whether he could afford it? Many an aristocrat was a fool about money. His own uncle was proof of that. Just because he was reputed to spend lavishly and to shop without regard to expense did not mean Mr. Beckham could afford his lifestyle. He might owe his income and even his inheritance to a moneylender.
Had she just made an impulsive and whimsical choice? There was little that might have been more out of character—but then, she had never been confronted with Mr. Beckham and his twinkling eyes, his alluring smile and his determination to have her agreement at any price.
Her heart fluttered in recollection of his earnest appeal.
Patience believed that his vow had been made in good faith, but believing something was possible was not the same as knowing it to be possible, much less seeing it done. Marriage was forever, or as close to it as might be seen in this world. She needed to be certain before the agreement was made.
But how? Patience could not be so vulgar as to ask him.
Her father might not be disposed to tell her.
She could ask Catherine, but she had just left Trevelaine House and Mr. Beckham had said he would call upon her father the next morning. It was entirely possible that Baron Trevelaine believed Mr. Beckham’s finances to be sound, given that he had facilitated the opportunity for that man to propose. But he could not know her condition for the match, and he might not even know the expense of that.
Her younger sister, Prudence, was the most accomplished gossip in the family. Doubtless she could provide some insight into Mr. Beckham’s situation, if Patience managed to sound not overly curious. How could she ask for such detail without sharing the news of her agreement to wed Mr. Beckham?
How could she share the news without her father’s approval of the match?
Discretion was imperative, until her father decided. As much as Patience hated that truth, she would have to wait.
Too late, she realized she had given her agreement without acquiring all the pertinent details first. Such haste was greatly unlike her, but Mr. Arthur Beckham had a way of muddling her thoughts.
Surely that was not a bad portent for their match? Patience did not know, but the collection of questions gave her much to ponder.
* * *
Lady Beckham was waitingfor Arthur when he returned to the house.
He had no warning of her expectation and had just put down his hat in the hall when she called him from the drawing room. It was late for her to yet be downstairs and he spared a glance at the hall clock. Generally, at this hour, she would have retired to dress for dinner.
But no. She was seated like a queen in the drawing room, hands folded in her lap, her manner so composed that Arthur felt a prickle of dread.
“Good evening, Mother. I had thought you would be dressing for dinner,” he said, bowing as he entered the room.
“Close the door, Arthur,” she said crisply, a slight emphasis on his name.
