“But I wish to do as much.”
“You do not even have to wed her to avoid the other one,” she continued tartly, unshakable in her view. Arthur realized Amelia was watching him with some concern.
“Mother, I wish to wed Miss Carruthers,” he said with authority, but the older woman simply shook her head.
“I give you credit for constancy, at least. Do not cry to me when you regret the bond you willingly made.”
They rode to the church in silence, Arthur feigning fascination in the view outside the windows. He knew Lady Beckham was waiting for his capitulation, for he felt the weight of her gaze upon him.
But he was resolute. Perhaps that was what troubled Lady Beckham.
He realized that his palms were damp within his gloves and marveled at that. Like Taylor, he was accustomed to his own surety. He was not afraid to wed Miss Carruthers, for he liked her better than any young lady he had yet encountered.
Arthur realized with a start that what troubled him was his own concern. He had spent two decades not caring a whit for anything, taking advantage of all that was offered to him, savoring his good fortune and seeking more. He did not truly care if Lady Beckham cast him out, for he had experienced twenty years of unanticipated comfort, if not luxury. He kept his secrets and confided in no one, and gave every appearance of being a reckless and shallow fool.
But he liked Patience. He could not bear to think of losing her, even at this early juncture, and he feared that if and when Lady Beckham reached the limit of her tolerance, Patience might find him less interesting than once she had.
She was practical, after all.
Had the root of his allure been his fortune—or access to one—and not himself?
What a daunting notion!
But then, if there was one person in all of England who would so confound expectation, it was Miss Patience Carruthers.
The coach halted and a footman offered Lady Beckham a hand.
“Your jacket is stained,” Amelia whispered once their mother had descended and Arthur checked his cuffs with concern. They were perfect, as he expected from Taylor, as was the front and the lapels—and Amelia laughed wickedly before she, too, stepped out of the coach.
“I made you check,” she whispered and Arthur grinned, pretending to reach and ruffle her hair. She ducked from his hand, then darted back to his side. “You look wonderful,” she said, kissed his cheek, then stepped out.
Arthur took a breath, adjusted the rose in his buttonhole, then seized his hat and stepped out of the coach. He nodded amiably to those gathered on the steps as he strode to the church, telling himself that he would win his bride’s admiration, one way or the other.
Once inside, he discovered that his bride’s family outnumbered his own, which was most curious. On his side of the church stood his mother, uncle and sister. On Patience’s side, were two sisters and Baron Trevelaine, two young male cousins—undoubtedly those who would inherit the publishing business one day - an uncle and aunt, and the Duke of Haynesdale. Arthur was well aware of the Duke of Haynesdale’s stern eye upon him, and recalled his own insistence that it was love that drove his choice. He nodded to the vicar who cleared his throat and pointedly checked his pocket watch, then turned with everyone as his bride entered the church with her father.
Arthur’s breath caught. He knew Patience was pretty—his first compliment had not been an idle one—but on this day, she looked so lovely that a lump rose in his throat at her appearance. Her dress was silk and of the perfect shade of blue to make her eyes appear even more mysterious. She had done something different with her hair, for soft golden curls framed her face, making her appear more delicate and feminine than was her usual choice. She carried a nosegay of lily-of-the-valley, the scent filling the church, and wore a modest string of pearls.
He felt, looking upon her, that marriage was a far more sacred and special bond than he had considered before, and could not evade the sense that he stood on the cusp of something entirely new. It was humbling, and it was thrilling, and his heart thumped as she stepped to his side. He hoped she felt even slightly the same.
They began a new adventure together and he could not have imagined a more steadfast companion.
He smiled when she reached his side and Patience smiled back at him, her wondrous eyes lighting and her cheeks flushing as she looked up at him. It was a sight he would never tire of seeing and he offered his hand to her, feeling a tide of satisfaction when she put her hand in his.
Clearly, he was ready to make a change.
* * *
One glimpseof Arthur standing before the parson and Patience’s heart began to skip. She could not look away from him, his dark jacket making him look larger and broader, the waves of his hair as dark as midnight, his boots gleaming. When he turned, she was sure she could see the fierce blue of his eyes even at a distance and when he smiled, she blushed to her very toes. There was no one else in the chapel for her, no one save Arthur, though as she drew near, she could not help but notice that he looked tired. She would not heed the poisonous tales of Miss Grosvenor, not when she could lose herself in the intensity of his perusal.
He offered his hand and, heart in her throat, she placed hers upon his. She saw him catch his breath, she noted the quick glance he flicked her way, and she fairly felt his satisfaction. “Good morning, Miss Carruthers,” he murmured, his voice sending a thrum through her. “Shall we wed?”
She smiled, not troubling to hide her delight. “Yes, Mr. Beckham, we shall.”
His smile flashed, then they turned as one to the parson to join their lives together, for better or for worse.
* * *
Patience closedthe door of her new room behind herself later that afternoon and took a breath. Though the day had been wondrous, she was unaccustomed to so much social activity. The solitude of her bedchamber was a welcome change, though the room was large enough to host a reception. Indeed, the space was so commodious that the silence seemed to echo. She stood for a moment and looked about herself, marvelling that this should be entirely her own.
