It was immediately clear to her that the Beckham siblings had not learned the same restraint. En route, Miss Beckham demanded details of her wardrobe, undoubtedly with an eye to her future commitments, and Patience had to think of which shared items she would leave behind and which she might take. It was resolved that she possessed four day dresses, two more plain than the other, a velvet Spencer that could be worn with all of them and a long coat of good wool. She possessed no dress suitable for formal parties and balls though she expected to choose one for her wedding, and she was forced to cede that the riding habit fit Prudence better than her. At least she rode. She was glad of that when Mr. Beckham granted her an appreciative nod.
How much was her life going to change? Prudence would have loved the prospect of stepping into the life of an aristocrat, but Patience was less enthusiastic. She had always hoped that money would grant choice and opportunity, not restriction. She had no desire to call upon ladies and discuss trivialities, to compare the merit of one dress over another, or to be always attending parties. There was work to be done that could make a difference and that was what she hungered to do.
Mr. Beckham regarded her with a sparkling eye as the dressmaker cast lengths of silk over her shoulder. “I fear my betrothed is a most uncommon lady, one who does not enjoy the task of choosing a new dress or two.”
Patience could not take offense for he regarded her with what could only be approval.
“It seems frivolous to expend much attention upon such fleeting details,” she confessed and the dressmaker’s eyes narrowed.
“No doubt you would prefer the companionship of a good book,” he said easily and she could not entirely hide her approval of that notion. He laughed, untroubled. “Then let me hasten the endeavor to its conclusion,” he said, setting aside his walking stick with purpose.
“Oh good,” his sister said with undisguised delight and Patience wondered what she was about to witness.
What she saw was practiced good taste in action. Mr. Beckham was decisive and quick, each selection unerringly perfect. He chose the cloth and the cut, conferring with the dressmaker about the length of the sleeves. He picked the ribbon for the sash, the embroidered tulle for the overskirt—the blue matched the ribbon perfectly—the satin for her slippers and the perfect hue of gloves, neither white nor cream, to finish the ensemble. A deep blue, but not one as dark as the ribbon, was his choice for the evening coat, its trim in the same cream, its delicate buttons in gold. He added gold ribbon flowers to the slippers and requested snippets of all for his sister to ensure the hat matched.
He bent his attention to the riding habit with the same focus upon detail. Patience much admired the deep dove grey velvet he selected, the pewter buttons and silvery blouse. These gloves were black leather, the hat of black felt with a silver tumble of a veil, and he informed her that she must have black boots from the bootmaker. Patience could only nod in awe as his sister swept through the array of delicate fabrics, choosing petticoats and stockings with as unerring a hand as her brother, adding a glorious shawl when Patience confessed that hers was better left to her sister, another pair of gloves and two purses.
“Goodness, Mr. Beckham, you are generous,” she whispered and he bent to kiss the back of her hand.
“Every gem must be given the setting it deserves,” he murmured and her heart fluttered when he looked up at her, his gaze dark with something she could not name.
Then the door of the shop opened, a group of ladies spilling into the space. Patience was aware of their arrival but could not look away from Mr. Beckham. She heard Miss Beckham catch her breath, then a swish of silken skirts announced the arrival of another.
“You cannot make a silk purse of a sow’s ear, Mr. Beckham, regardless of the weight of your purse.” The lady’s voice was light, as if she made a jest, but it was clearly one at Patience’s expense. She saw Mr. Beckham’s lips tighten, then he straightened and turned, his smooth gesture leaving Patience’s hand neatly tucked inside his elbow.
They stood together as a couple as she faced her competition and she felt the steel in him as he inclined his head to the lady. “Miss Grosvenor. What an unexpected pleasure.” His tone indicated otherwise in a most gratifying way.
“Mr. Beckham,” that lady replied, hunger in her eyes as she studied him and ignored Patience.
Miss Grosvenor was not an unattractive young lady. Her figure was good, a little more curvaceous than Patience’s slender curves, but more fashionable for that. Her dark hair was set in a volley of curls; her lips were ripe and rosy; her green eyes sparkled and altogether she was a fetching sight, attired in the latest mode to the last detail. Perhaps she was a little too embellished. Perhaps there was a sharp gleam in her eyes and a petulant curve to her lips, but few would have found fault with her appearance.
One could not see at a glance that a person was in the habit of defacing books, of course.
“I am certain you are acquainted with my sister,” Mr. Beckham said smoothly to Miss Grosvenor, who was glaring at Patience, and the two curtsied to each other. “But not perhaps to my betrothed, Miss Patience Carruthers.”
“Charmed, I am sure,” Miss Grosvenor said, her tone indicating she was anything but.
“You should be,” Mr. Beckham said softly, and her gaze flew to him as Patience watched. He turned to smile at Patience, his expression softening for the first time since the other lady had arrived. “Never have I encountered a lady of such grace and wit as Miss Carruthers. Much of society could take a lesson from her manners, if not her other charms.” He smiled down at her, looking so much like a man smitten that Patience found herself blushing—and that only made his smile broaden. “Come,” he murmured to her. “We will be late.”
“Of course,” she said, letting him lead her from the shop as Miss Grosvenor fumed behind them. Patience felt the other woman’s regard upon them as Mr. Beckham granted a coin to the urchin who held the door for them, as he handed his sister into the carriage, as he turned and fitted his hands around her waist, lifting her to the carriage but not with undue speed. “Mr. Beckham,” she whispered, scandalized that he should touch her thus in public and fearing her heart would burst.
“Every champion deserves a reward from his lady, does he not?” he murmured, that mischievous glint in his eyes.
“What reward would you desire? I have no token to tie upon your jousting lance.”
His grin flashed. “One kiss, Miss Carruthers, no more and no less.”
“Before everyone?”
“Before one person, to be certain.” His tone was grim and she knew he was angered by Miss Grosvenor’s remark.
She smiled and leaned toward him. “You are irresistible, Mr. Beckham,” she teased then kissed his cheek. His grip tightened on her waist and she caught her breath, savoring his proximity. “But wicked, to be sure.”
“I can be so much more wicked than you imagine, Miss Carruthers,” he said, turning his head so that his mouth brushed across her own, a fleeting but thrilling caress. “You have but to encourage me.” She caught her breath and felt his heat against her own. “How else am I to find and honor your most bewitching spot?” he asked.
Their gazes met, so very close, and Patience felt a yearning beyond any previous sensation. Mr. Beckham lifted a brow, his gaze falling to her mouth, and Patience did not dare to breathe.
This time, he kissed her upon the mouth, slowly and sweetly, and she hoped she was not the only one who had forgotten about their audience.
