Penelope began hesitantly, “Never tell me you’re still harboring affection for—”
Her fingers slipped on the keys. “No.”
Their youngest sister, Poppy chewed her lower lip. “You’re certain. Because—”
“I’m certain,” Patrina said, snapping the cover closed on her instrument. With a sigh she accepted the end of her dreams of peace this day.
The girls shared a look. “We hate seeing you this way,” Penelope murmured. “You’re ever so sad—”
“Except today,” Poppy interjected. “Today she returned from…from…wherever she goes, with a smile.”
Prudence and Penelope spoke in unison, with wide eyes. “She did?”
Patrina pointed her gaze to the ceiling and prayed for deliverance from these her vexing sisters. Their outrageous behaviors gave her a renewed appreciation for the great chore given Mother in rearing four troublesome daughters—her present self not excluded, of course.
Poppy nodded emphatically. “She did. And now she won’t tell me, er, tell us, anything.”
Three accusing stares swung back in her direction.
And because Patrina recognized she had little hope of peace and solitude if she didn’t give her tenacious sisters something, she slipped them a niggling of the truth. “Two little troublemakers set upon me at Hyde Park today and hurled snowballs at me.”
Poppy gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. “That is hor…er, horrendous,” she corrected.
The girls’ former governess, turned sister-in-law, Juliet, after she’d gone and wed their brother, Jonathan, the 5th Earl of Sinclair, had striven to strike the oft-used word horrid from the girls’ vernacular.
Prudence continued to frown. “That is not funny.”
“It really isn’t, Patrina.” Penelope nodded in agreement.
She smiled and remembered the two little hellions so very much like the three girls before her now. Albeit vastly younger versions of the three, but similar nonetheless. “I returned the favor.”
Poppy laughed. “Well done, Patrina. I didn’t believe you knew how to do anything fun anymore.”
She frowned. Whatever did her sister mean by such a statement?
As if following her unspoken thoughts, Poppy said, “Not because of that…him, but because you’ve never been the laughing sort.”
“I am the laughing sort,” she replied instantly. Her sisters exchanged a look, and she shook her head at their silent, blatant disagreement. “I am,” she said and snapped her skirts. “The laughing sort,” she expanded.” She tossed her head and stepped a deliberate path around the troublesome misses. “And I know how to do…fun things,” she muttered to herself as she sailed from the room.
“No, you don’t.” Poppy’s sharp laughter followed her down the corridor.
Patrina’s frown deepened. Not fun, indeed. How very insulting of her sisters to say such a thing. Just because she’d never descended into quite the same level of mischief as the three younger girls didn’t mean she hadn’t been fun or the laughing sort. As she made her way abovestairs, she thought of her exchange in Hyde Park with the Marquess of Beaufort. Somber, scowling, and unsmiling, he’d been.
Is that how her sisters saw her? Is that how the world saw her?
She turned down the corridor that led to her chambers. The steady tick-tock of the longcase clock punctuated her quiet steps. It hadn’t been her fault that when she’d come out, there had been a remarkable dearth of suitors. Hence her pathetic grasping for the pretty compliments Albert Marshville had poured into her ear.
Or so she’d thought.
Patrina stopped in front of her room and pressed the door handle. She slipped inside then kicked the door closed with the sole of her boot. Only now, as she stood and stared at her rather cool, lonely chambers, she confronted the ugly possibility perhaps there was some defect in her character that had deterred suitors. Perhaps they’d seen her as Poppy had claimed—an un-laughing, un-fun sort.
Just as the severe Marquess of Beaufort.
Patrina crossed over to the floor-length window. She tugged back the ivory brocade curtains and peered down into the empty streets below. Snow fell, thick and heavy outside and blanketed the paved roads in a pure, white covering.
As she’d confronted the marquess, she’d done so with no small trace of condescension. How dare he and his unruly children shatter the small time she stole for herself, away from the pitying gazes of her family members? She’d judged him as a cold, unfeeling sort. After Poppy’s recent charge, however, she was forced to wonder about his story, this man who’d spoken so coldly of the loss of his wife. Still, for all his blusteriness, he’d marched back over to inquire after her. He had offered her his assistance when she’d already judged him and found him wanting as a singularly pompous ass.
Patrina let the curtain go and it fluttered back into place. In actuality, mayhap she and the Marquess of Beaufort were more similar than she even cared to admit to herself. Much like Patrina, this man, who’d initially earned her scorn and disdain had a story. Some great pain was surely to blame for the marquess’ seething coldness. And she, who’d not moved outside her own self-misery these past months was suddenly besieged by a desire to know more about the darkly aloof marquess.
Oh, dear.
CHAPTER 4
Patrina stole down North Old Bond Street, the blessed peace of her own presence her only company. In spite of her sisters’ needling and attempts to wheedle more details about her morning forays into Hyde Park, she had snuck free.
Her expedition to the bustling shops had little to do with a desire for any fripperies for herself, but rather for her sisters. “Don’t know how to do anything fun, do I?” she said softly to herself. Did un-fun sisters sneak off to Bond Street for a special shopping outing? Why, it seemed like just the fun sort of thing a young lady who laughed a lot would enjoy doing.
She paused beside a random shop front and stared into the window of what was a bakeshop. She eyed the confectioneries within. The door opened and set a tiny bell a-jingle. The sweet, syrupy scent of baked treats and mince pies wafted through the crisp air. Her mouth watered. She took a step toward the door when her gaze snagged upon the image of a small girl in the windowpane. Something seemed so very familiar about the slight girl’s furtive movements. Only she didn’t know any—
Patrina’s eyes widened. Mince pies forgotten, she turned to stare curiously out across the street to where the little girl—the same one who’d hurled snowballs at her only yesterday morn—moved with deliberate steps onward to the Bond Street Bazaar. The large one-room establishment that featured numerous shops and vendors within its walls, popular during inclement weather and the colder months. The little girl, Charlotte, entered the bazaar, otherwise known as the Western Exchange.
She glanced around in search of the golden-haired, somber marquess, or even the troublesome little boy. Only, no one followed on the girl’s heels. Not a father. Or brother. Or nursemaid. Patrina had engaged in quite enough mischievous behavior as a young child, and witnessed a fair share of it from her sisters to recognize the makings of trouble.