“I hope the doors were a good addition,” he said. The room seemed very small with Arthur so close beside her and curiously lacking in air. “They were my suggestion to the cabinetmaker.”
“They are perfect.” Patience caught her breath. “Books, as I am certain you know, are adversely affected by exposure to humidity or bright light, due to the lack of stability of the paper. A book protected from both light and dust will retain its original condition for a considerable period of time…” Her words faltered as she realized what she was doing. She risked another glance toward Arthur to find him smiling, just a little.
“Am I so fearful as that?” He leaned closer, his gaze locked upon her and his eyes dark. Once she met his gaze, she felt snared and could not look away.
Patience swallowed, aware that he watched her closely. “I merely meant to show my appreciation for the addition of the doors. Few would have considered them, given the expense,” she managed to say.
Arthur turned to consider the bookcase himself, leaving her simultaneously relieved to have his attention diverted and missing his perusal.
The man confused her beyond all expectation! She watched him through her lashes, hating that she was essentially his possession now, and desperate for some reassurance that all would be well.
“And what is the merit of having funds if one does not acquire what one desires?” Arthur did not seem to expect a reply, which was fortuitous. His hand landed on the back of her waist, a possessive weight that sent a thrill through her—and struck her dumb. His thumb moved against her spine in a slow caress that Patience felt keenly even through all the layers of her clothing. She stared at the bookcase without seeing it and swallowed.
The man would think she was a fool.
Indeed, she felt like one. There was not a thought left in her head. Her entire being was focussed upon the slow motion of his thumb, of the waves of pleasure emanating from that spot, of the sense that time stopped and would remain thus until he chose otherwise. In a way, it was terrifying to feel herself so close to losing command of herself, to surrendering to sensation.
But that was the effect Arthur Beckham had upon her. She supposed she should become accustomed to it, even learn to trust it. The notion was startling.
“Thank you,” she managed to say. “It is a delightful surprise.”
“Is it such a surprise that I would see my bride pleased?” Arthur said softly and she shook her head. “I never thought to silence you with a bookcase,” he teased. “What should be the result if I gave you a library?”
She felt herself flush. “I am pleased, sir…”
“Arthur,” he corrected gently.
“And perhaps overwhelmed by such generosity.”
“Is that it?” he whispered, then urged her closer as if he guessed otherwise. “Might a kiss be in order on this day?” he asked and she heard a challenge in his tone.
“Yes. Of course!” A wife should kiss her husband. She should kiss Arthur. She wanted to kiss Arthur.
But Patience could not initiate the embrace. Once again, she felt an unwieldy mix of emotion, anticipation and uncertainty churning together so that she could do nothing but wait.
Arthur turned her to face him, his hands fitting around her waist. She held her breath as he bent down, then his mouth closed over her own with ease. His kiss was sweet and gentle, much like the first one he had bestowed upon her in the carriage, the one that had haunted her dreams in the nights since. He did not demand but seemed to cajole her to join him.
Patience chose to surrender to his invitation. She eased a little closer to him, well aware of his heat and stillness, then stretched to her toes to lean against him. Arthur made a little growl of satisfaction and angled his head to deepen his kiss.
Goodness. She found she could only close her eyes and enjoy, her hands clutching his shirt. She had never felt such warm and welcome pleasure. His kiss was enticing and seductive. She felt as if something warm unfolded within her, something that promised far more than even this. She dared to place her hands upon Arthur’s shoulders and lean against him, tilting her own head that she might kiss him back. She opened her mouth to him and sighed at the perfect caress of his tongue, the way his broad palm slid up her back, the heat of his fingers at her nape.
Oh.
He broke their kiss and looked down at her with a satisfaction that pleased her mightily. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckham,” he said with a smile, his eyes glowing, and she laughed despite herself.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beckham.” Their words reminded her of Catherine’s missive but before she could speak, Arthur raised his hands to remove the pins from her hair with purpose.
“I have wanted to do this since we first met,” he confessed, his eyes dark and his voice low. Patience did not know what to say. “The prospect of you in disarray has haunted my dreams,” he said, further astonishing her. “Patience, the siren of my visions, hair unbound, a beguiling flush upon her cheeks. Temptation personified.”
Was he teasing her? Patience had never thought to haunt the dreams of any man, but Arthur was so solemn that she was tempted to believe him. “Me?” she whispered and he chuckled.
“You. Lovely, clever Patience.” He stole a kiss and murmured against her throat. “I yearn to see how far this blush extends,” he confessed, his fingertip sliding along the neck of her bodice.
Oh! His touch lit a line of fire that melted her knees and ignited a heat in her belly that was new and wonderful. His hand slid lower, his palm cupping her breast through her dress and Patience could not take a breath. She looked up and he captured her mouth beneath his own again, the sweet urgency of his embrace leaving her dizzy.
He whispered her name when he broke his kiss, cleared his throat and returned his attention to the task of unfastening her hair. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing. He was close, so very close. She took the opportunity to study him, to note the thickness of his dark lashes, to wonder at his thoughts. In this moment, Patience was keenly aware of the differences between them. His caress made her feel treasured and protected, even while the brush of his fingertips aroused her, a combination so alluring that she could not summon a word to her lips. When his gaze flicked to meet hers and he winked quickly, her heart jumped. She lowered her gaze to the sapphire pinned to his cravat as his hands moved through her hair. She felt unbound, unfastened, revealed, and uncertain. She trembled, wanting something she could not name.
Was it possible to err in this endeavor?
