Patience found herself flushing at his perusal. “I am not certain it will be such an ordeal, sir.”
Arthur laughed. “Nor am I.” He turned the horses then and she recognized that they headed toward Berkley Square again.
“I suppose you have more than one secret,” she said and his smile flashed.
“I might contrive to have a hundred to keep your interest.”
“I do not jest, Arthur.”
“Nor do I and I apologize for my reticence.” He frowned. “The fact is that I have never had a confidante.” He halted the horses before the house, then turned to look at her. She saw the truth in his darkened eyes and watched him swallow, her chest tight that he confided such a truth in her. “I am so accustomed to keeping my secrets close that I was not certain how to begin.”
Patience’s heart clenched tightly. He had never had a confidante. That meant he had never truly had a friend. Patience had sisters, and had confided in Prudence all her life. “But you must have had friends at school.”
Arthur shook his head slowly. “I was not there long.” His gaze rose to hers, an appeal in his eyes. “There was an accident, a prank in truth, but a boy died. I was taken away from school immediately and had tutors at home since.”
“How dreadful!”
His throat worked. “It was tragic, to be sure.” He seemed discomfited by the memory and Patience did not dare to ask him about the lost boy. Had that been his friend?
“Goodness. That is two secrets in rapid succession,” she said lightly, hoping to prompt his smile.
But Arthur simply raised a gloved hand to her cheek, his gaze warming in that way that made her heart nigh stop. “You have made it so easy that I fear you will soon be burdened with another confession.” He bent and brushed his lips across her cheek, his touch sending a thrill through her. “Forgive me, Patience,” he whispered and she could not have refused him anything.
“Of course,” she said, pulling back to meet his gaze. “But I was wrong last night as well. I must beg your forgiveness.”
“You?”
It was galling to admit the truth. “I was afraid.”
“Because you had no guide or instructions,” he replied with a small smile. She nodded and his smile broadened. “But you have me, Patience.” He sobered. “I will never hurt you and I will never demand more than you wish to give,” he vowed.
Patience believed him.
Arthur kissed her again, this time upon the mouth, and she kissed him back. She felt as if they began anew and had a newfound accord.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were glittering and his expression bemused. “How scandalous we are, Mrs. Beckham,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to the butler who stood impassively at the door, waiting for them to alight.
Patience felt herself flush with predictable ease and saw the flash of Arthur’s smile. “Indeed, we are,” she agreed. “Perhaps we should do something about the matter.”
“Perhaps we should,” he agreed, then jumped from the carriage with admirable ease. He reached back to lock his hands around her waist and swing her down to the ground, then claimed the bag she had collected from Catherine before escorting her toward the house. “Fine day, Stevens,” he said.
“Indeed, sir.”
“I know Lady Beckham likes to have tea on Sunday afternoon with everyone in attendance, but my wife and I will send our regrets today.”
The butler’s brows rose for a heartbeat, but his tone did not change. “Very good, sir.”
Arthur swept Patience up the stairs with purpose. Outside of her room, he surrendered her bag, bowed and left her there—much to her astonishment. Then he winked before vanishing into his own room and Patience understood. She went into her chamber, locked the door, shed her coat and bonnet and set the bag down. She went to the adjoining door and opened it, only to find Arthur leaning against the wall there, her book in his hand. He had discarded his jacket but looked as if he had been waiting a long while.
His eyes twinkled when she laughed. “Your book, my lady,” he said, presenting it to her.
“I wish for more than a book, sir,” she said, feeling audacious indeed.
“Truly? Are you my wife? Because I am given to understand that Patience Beckham née Carruthers finds the greatest of satisfactions in a good book…”
She reached up to kiss him quickly, silencing him with surprise at her move. “And I invite you to demonstrate my error, Arthur,” she whispered, loving how he laughed, caught her up and fairly charged into her bedchamber.
* * *
