“I will leave you then, to the unpacking of your books,” Arthur said, his voice more terse than he would have preferred. “I will put my time to better use than engaging in an argument that cannot be won.”
“Doubtless there is a game of cards awaiting your attendance,” she said, her tone tart.
Little did she know that such a venture might aid their own.
“Perhaps I will find one.” He turned and strode to the door to his own chamber, wondering if his own trust was misplaced. His winnings were hidden in her chamber, but he could not retrieve them now without making matters worse
“I have placed some of my own books on your shelf,” he said on the threshold to his chamber, as if that might keep her from looking within them. “Perhaps that will not inconvenience you overmuch.” He glanced back to find her lips set and her eyes full of tears. He might have returned to her side, but she abruptly turned her back to him.
“Good night, sir,” she said tightly, dismissing him, her very manner sparking his ire anew.
Sir. He wassiragain. The very sound of that word sent fury through his veins. Arthur marched through his chamber, seizing his hat and gloves, claiming his greatcoat. He shouted for the carriage to be brought around and slammed the door as he headed to the stairs. He was frustrated and angry as he seldom was, his mood black, and he knew that at least half of the blame was his alone.
Why had he not confided in Patience?
How did she not realize how much she asked of him?
He was striding toward the waiting carriage, seeking a destination, when a thought occurred to him. Had Patience deliberately provoked their disagreement? She had responded to his kiss in a most promising way, then had become fearful.
Why?
Arthur looked up at her window, sensing that she had seized upon a point of dissent—and that any item of disagreement would do. It was a sobering notion to have a wife afraid of one’s touch.
He must proceed with care. The first task before him was to bring proof of his good intentions. How did one establish a publishing firm? He would ask his solicitor, a competent man of business, for advice. The hour was not so late as that and that man would yet be in his offices. Arthur gave the direction to Morris, then settled back, discontent with his own progress.
Perhaps he would discover a secret to surrender on the way, or choose from his collection.
Perhaps Dame Fortune could be tempted to smile upon him once more.
Arthur could only hope.
* * *
As soon asArthur was gone, Patience feared she had not been fair. What had she done?
She heard his boots on the stairs, his haste to be gone more than clear, then the sound of the front door opening and closing.
The house was silent then, as if all within it held their breath and Patience realized she was holding her own. She released hers slowly, hating that she had been such a coward. Arthur had been gentle with her and patient, but she had let her fears claim command. She had challenged him and provoked him, and now she was alone.
It was her own fault.
To be sure, she was concerned about his wasteful habits, but if he did not even speak to her, she could not effect a change. If she was a demanding shrew, he might have cause to abandon their agreement. She eyed the page and read it again. What was her secret? If Arthur had asked her for such a confession, what would she have admitted?
That she feared he would tire of her once his conquest was gained.
That she found him intriguing beyond all other men.
That she feared she might come to love him.
Patience sighed at the resonance of truth. What then? She feared she was a means to an end for Arthur, that she had surrendered all and might end up with naught. On this night, her solitude was her own fault. In this moment, it seemed all was lost. The rain slanted against the windows with renewed vigor, as seemingly even the elements echoed her new husband’s displeasure.
She had provoked him for no good cause, creating trouble for its own sake, and as she rested her forehead against the cold window pane, Patience knew why.
Fear.
In her heart, she believed Arthur would keep their agreement. She had been unreasonable, which was not like her, because of her fear. She had started a fight to avoid the obligation of her wedding night.
But how could anyone trust that tide of sensation, let alone abandon themselves to it? To abandon one’s restraint and be carried away by desire was so seductive that it had to be dangerous. She feared to lose command of herself not only in that moment, but forever, to cede all to Arthur for all time. The very fact that such yearning rose in a torrent, as if to overwhelm any objections, meant it had to be untrustworthy.
