When he looked into her eyes with such intensity, as if he truly cared what she might say—as if he might heed whatever she said—Patience could not take a breath, let alone reply. She stared back, spellbound as he lowered his gaze to her lips.
Then another driver shouted and Mr. Beckham returned his attention to the horses.
Patience looked at the crowded street, her heart leaping, and uttered the first words that came to mind. “Did you know that London is home to over one million individuals and may soon be the largest city in the world? That city, currently, is Peking. London is already the largest port in the world.” She heard Mr. Beckham chuckle beside her and fell silent. “I am doing it,” she whispered in horror.
“And it is delightful. But why in this moment? Am I so fearsome as that?”
Patience chose to be bold. “On the contrary, sir. You unsettle me in a way I do not understand.”
“How?”
“By your touch, your comments, your teasing.” She did not speak of his kiss. “I am not accustomed to the attentions of gentlemen.”
“And I am glad of it, otherwise you might have been already wed with three children or more, and I should have been compelled to make an unfortunate match.”
“You would have chosen another.”
“But there is no other I would prefer,” he said, his hand landing upon hers for a glorious moment. “Do you regret your response?”
Patience could not lie. “No!”
He laughed, clearly content with this reply. “Then I must issue fair warning, Patience, that I will continue to tease and to touch you, ideally for all the days of the rest of our lives.”
“You make this sound like a love match,” Patience said before she could catch herself. He drew the horses to a halt before a fine house and turned to look at her.
“Would that be so foul a fate?” he murmured and she could only shake her head.
He bent closer and kissed her cheek. Patience took a deep breath of the welcome scent of him and found herself meeting his curious gaze. Again, his finger rose to her cheek, his stroke one of unexpected affection. His expression, for once, was serious. “Do not fear Lady Beckham or her conclusions,” he advised quietly. “I cannot envision my life without you, whether she approves or not.”
“But you would not risk her displeasure?”
His expression became so resolute that she doubted all of her conclusions about his nature. “I most certainly would,” he said with conviction. “Never doubt it, Patience. Never.”
Patience opened her mouth and closed it again, unable to evade his conviction or the thrill it sent through her. She might not believe in love or its merits as a basis for matrimony, but there was much to be said for a suitor who would not be turned aside.
And better yet, Arthur’s steadfast manner offered all the fortification she needed to face his mother.
* * *
Why this girl?
Lady Beckham knew that any port could serve in a storm, and certainly she understood her son’s desire to avoid a match with Miss Felicia Grosvenor, but why had he named this young woman as his fictitious fiancée?
Miss Patience Carruthers was not unattractive, nor was she plain, but neither did she make the most of the assets that had been granted to her. Her dress was pretty but she did not wear it with a confidence that marked it to be her own. It must be a garment that had passed between sisters and was deemed to be the best. Yes, she would have ordered the hem to be let down slightly for Miss Carruthers, but perhaps there was neither time nor sufficient fabric. There was nothing wrong with frugality, though in this case, it was a reminder to Lady Beckham that the Carruthers family made their way in trade.
Lady Beckham preferred to believe that she was not a snob, but that she was keenly attuned to the opinions of others. She did not mind challenging expectation with good cause, she reminded herself as she surveyed Arthur’s choice, but in this case, she could not discern one.
She would have forgiven Arthur anything if he had been in love with Miss Carruthers—and she with him, of course, though Lady Beckham could not imagine any sensible woman failing to appreciate the many merits of her son.
Miss Carruthers appeared to be sensible, at least.
She was not shy, evidently, for her gaze steadily held Lady Beckham’s own. She was not so young as might be ideal, though she looked sufficiently healthy to bear children.
Sadly, one could not be sure of such a detail in advance.
“But why?” she said, giving voice to her question.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Beckham.”
