“Tell me your disappointments to my face. Let me know. No hiding, no disguises. Tell me, Patience. That’s an order.”
“What is it you want to hear? You want to know how I like to hear you breathing next to me? That I hate that you can’t walk because it pains you so? Do you know I’m relieved that you’re not traipsing to gaming hells with Markham and how I don’t have to wait for him to come to Hamlin to tell me you’re dead as he did Colin?”
“Markham was the one to tell you? Not the magistrate?”
“Halt!”
Men shouted from outside.
Busick clasped her hand and led her into the hall to view the front lawn. “Buck up. Maybe it’s a note from Markham telling you he’s given up.”
He pushed his chair toward the stairs.
Patience came behind and put her hand on the seat as if she would assist.
Taking up her fingers, he kissed them. “I can manage.”
“Must be a rule about not wanting my help.”
Before he could answer her barb, he saw the rider coming up the driveway. The fellow wasn’t in regimentals, but this could be a disguise to deliver a message straight from the battlefield. “Thank you, Patience, for never disguising yourself as a soldier. I still think of your hips in breeches.”
“Why do you make me laugh when I’m angry?”
“It’s good to know you don’t feel apathetic toward me, Patience, and humor is the best way to deal with troubled hearts.”
Busick swiped under his chin at the guards at the entry, the signal to let the fellow enter.
The guard went outside to greet the rider.
“You think this is a messenger from Wellington?” she asked. “Should I get you downstairs? I could call to some soldiers or Lord Gantry.”
He pushed away from the railing. “I’ll not be dragged down like I was carried off the field, even for Wellington.”
Out of uniform, unable to stand to greet the rider—no. Busick pulled out his watch. “Lionel’s story time. You get the message for me.”
“What?”
“My duchess can handle this.”
He left her there knowing she would indeed take care of things and went to Lionel.
The baby was up. He sort of smiled when Busick came close to the crib. He reached inside and drew the boy to his lap.
“My little soldier, are you ready to get your afternoon started?”
Lionel answered with that sucking noise he made with his puckered lips.
He held the boy at eye level. “We’ll wait for your mother for that. I concede to your hate of pap milk. What would you like, crawling or a story?”
More whooping noises came from the baby.
“I guess that is a no. Want to hear about the Battle of Assaye? Want to know how old Repington, a lowly lieutenant general at the time, helped win the campaign? Wellington could count on me.”
Lionel frowned, but with his little fingers he reached for Busick’s drooping cravat.
Busick pulled him closer, snuggling the boy he loved. Then he hummed the shipwreck tune.
“I don’t think my heart could create a better picture.”
