More importantly, this novel provided Arthur with a map. The gentleman depicted in the tale had been rebuffed by the lady in some earlier chapter, it was clear, his proposal declined. A sister then had embarked upon a scandalous path, but this gentleman made it his concern to see all put to rights.
He made the lady’s interest his own, and thus earned her admiration and her hand.
Arthur closed the book as the clock in the hall rang six and others in the house stirred. Here was his directive, the very definition of Patience’s expectations, and better yet, he had already embarked upon this path. He pinched the wick, much reassured, and fell into a deep sleep, content that all would come aright and soon.
CHAPTER10
The rain had stopped when Patience awakened. The fire had burned down to embers, though her room was still warm, and the cats looked to be at ease in the chairs before the fire.
She was alone.
There was no sign of Arthur.
Had he not returned home yet? She had heard nothing. Surely no ill had befallen him?
She slipped from the bed and listened at the adjoining door.
Silence.
She could knock and disturb him, or she could look. She steeled herself to be audacious, reminding herself that she had an apology to deliver, then turned the knob and opened the door soundlessly. She waited on the threshold for a moment, relieved when she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Arthur was home! Patience sniffed but did not smell brandy, another encouraging sign.
Unlike her own room, her husband’s chamber was in darkness. The drapes had been pulled and she could not discern any details of the room beyond. One cat whisked past her ankles and vanished into the darkness with the confidence of one who knew its surroundings well. She heard a weight land on something padded.
She crossed the room cautiously then opened one drape to admit a beam of sunlight so that she would not trip. When she turned, she caught her breath at the sight of Arthur sleeping nude, the black cat curled against his side and a book fallen to the floor beneath his hand.
Patience stared, her mouth dry. His room was larger and more splendid than her own, but she could not look away from Arthur himself.
Goodness. What a remarkable specimen he was. He must have cast off his nightshirt for it was on the floor in a heap, his tanned skin revealed to her view.
She took a step closer and looked, emboldened by fascination. She could not find a single flaw. Everything was as it should be—perhaps even more artfully shaped than any ideal. Those who illustrated medical volumes could have used Arthur as a model, perhaps even of the ideal man, or maybe an artist would see him as inspiration. He was powerfully built, his body all sinew and strength, and so gloriously male that something deep inside her quivered. There was a shadow of stubble on his jaw and a tangle of dark hair in the middle of his chest. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were closed, his strong fingers barely grasping a book.
Her book.
Patience yearned to touch him. The thought was startling and bold. But she wanted to run a hand over his skin, to learn how he felt. She wanted to lift aside the linens draped across his hip and thighs, and see all of him.
Even that.
She took a step closer, realizing only after she had done as much that she had blocked the sunlight. A beam of it fell across his face and he grimaced, rolled to his stomach to evade the light.
His move granted her a view of his bare back and buttocks. This, too, was worthy of scrutiny, particularly as the sheet had slipped lower, and she could find no cause for complaint. Arthur was as lean as a Greek statue and nearly as perfectly formed. She could see a scar upon his shoulder, perhaps the one she had been told about, and she averted her gaze, unable to even consider the peril of him at duel.
The sight of his discarded breeches and boots on the floor made her frown. He had returned home too late even to call for his valet. He could not have been doing any deed of merit at such hours and her heart sank that he would be a wastrel forevermore.
She started to turn away but he stirred sleepily.
“Patience,” he murmured with a lazy satisfaction that would have weakened her knees, had he whispered thus in her ear. Instead, he mumbled into his pillow, frowned and seemed to struggle against his need to sleep.
He might be drunk upon some substance of less strong scent than brandy. In truth, Patience knew little of spirits.
But the discarded book hinted at sobriety. As one who routinely fell asleep reading, Patience found it difficult to harden her heart against him.
How could she chastise a man who lifted her own book from her hand as she slept and read it himself? In truth, she could find no fault with that.
In truth, she admired the choice.
And Arthur was quite alluring when rumpled and nude. The sight made all of Patience flutter.
