“I did. But only with the very best of reasons. You see Nurse…” Her gaze met Patrina’s, and then she dropped it to her father’s immaculately folded white cravat.
“Nurse what?” he prodded in a tone belonging to a man accustomed to having all his wishes met.
“Nothing,” Charlotte finished on a whisper. “I wandered away. I wanted to see the miniature theatres and I thought to steal away a moment, and…I’m sorry, Papa.” She turned wide, tear-filled eyes up to her father.
All hardness melted from his unyielding eyes like the snow under a too-warm sun. “It’s fine, sweet.”
Patrina snorted.
His frown swung back in her direction. “Is there something the matter, my lady?”
If he didn’t gain a better control of his unruly children, then there would be a whole lot of somethings the matter for the marquess in the future. Patrina could name four specific examples for him. Or four specific someones to be exact, whose names began with the letter P. Instead, she said, “It is not my place.”
“Not your place,” he repeated back, a bite in his words.
Perhaps she should have said nothing. Now, as she considered her previous response, she could certainly see how the whole ‘it is not my place’ sounded a bit condescending and judgmental. Having been judged quite extensively these past months, she’d rather not be guilty of the same charges. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I…” She dropped another curtsy. “Good day, Charlotte. My lord.”
Patrina sent a silent thanks skyward for the astute butler who cleverly interpreted her need to escape, and opened the door. She sailed out, and gave another thanks for her faithful driver, who stood with the carriage door open in wait. She made it no further than the edge of the street.
“My lady?” A deep baritone drifted out to her.
She stiffened and remained with her gaze fixed on the carriage door, knowing passersby studied both her and the Marquess of Beaufort with great interest, knowing her name would surely be bandied about by those who still remained in London for the holiday season, and hating that she’d become something of a spectacle for the haute ton.
“Lady Patrina,” the marquess said quietly in deep, serious tones, for her ears alone.
She’d braved Albert’s deception, her subsequent ruination, and the pain of her family’s disapproval. She could certainly face this frowning bear of a man. Patrina forced herself back around to face the marquess. “My lord?”
He tugged at his lapels, the first hint of the marquess’ discomfort. “I wanted to thank you, for helping Charlotte today. I do not find myself often in one’s gratitude—”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” she interrupted. She winced as soon as the waspish words left her lips. Is this what Albert had allowed her to become? A bitter, shrewish woman?
The marquess’ eyes darkened to the shade of the green-nearly black of a jade stone she’d once seen at the Egyptian Museum. They were sinful and dark and yet, at the same time conjured memories of the lush rolling hills of her family’s country estate when she’d run with wild abandon through the land.
The ghost of a smile played about his hard lips. He cleared his throat. “Nonetheless, you have it, my lady.”
She dug her toes into the soles of her slippers at having been caught scrutinizing him.
Before the scandal, Patrina would have been capable of a witty rejoinder, or a prettily polite response. That young woman might as well have been dead and buried by Albert’s cruel hands. More than ever, she wished to be the same innocent, carefree woman from before, instead of this defensive, fractious creature she didn’t much like. Because then, perhaps she and the marquess might not be these two combative souls spewing bitterness at one another.
The marquess stood stoic, and in his elegant black coat sleeves, seemingly unaffected by the chill of the winter air, clearly awaiting a response.
“Forgive me,” she said softly. It seemed they two did that often when in each other’s company. “Charlotte is a wonderful little girl and I’m so very glad I was there to help her. She is spirited,” she said, thinking how she herself hadn’t been all that different when she’d been an eight-year-old girl. His eyebrows knitted into a single line. Patrina fisted the fabric of her cloak. “Protect her, my lord.” Protect her from her future flights of fancy, protect her from the cruel grasping of those around her. She turned back to the carriage.
“Wait!” A child’s voice broke the winter still.
Patrina spun around.
Little Charlotte came hurtling down the steps, sailed past her father, and skidded to halt in front of Patrina. “My lady,” she said, slightly winded from her efforts.
She dropped to a knee and brushed a hand over the girl’s cheek. “What is it, sweet?”
“Ices,” she blurted.
Patrina angled her head.
The girl turned to her father. “We must repay Lady Patrina. She saved me, Father. She found me and brought me home. Such a deed must be repaid with ices.”
Patrina rose awkwardly to her feet. Warmth filled her heart. Had she herself ever been so sweetly innocent? Even before her own father’s death?
The marquess came over and settled a large palm on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Char,” he began.
The little girl interrupted him. “But when we do good deeds, you always take us for ices at Gunter’s. Lady Patrina did a good deed.”
He cleared his throat and glanced momentarily over at Patrina. “It is too cold for ices, Char.” He returned his focus to his daughter.
Patrina had been dismissed. She bit down hard on her inner lip in abject humiliation. It shouldn’t matter that Lord Beaufort did not want to escort her to Gunter’s. After all, she took great pains to avoid Society’s scrutiny any more than necessary. So why did this keen regret dig at her?
Charlotte folded her arms across her chest with a mutinous expression on her determined face. “It is never too cold for ices, Papa.” She looked to Patrina. “Isn’t that right, my lady?”
Heat blazed her cheeks. “Er—”
“See,” Charlotte supplied for her. “It’s never to cold for ices.”
“I didn’t say that,” Patrina said with bemusement. She glanced over at Lord Beaufort and tilted her chin up. “I never said that.”
Another smile played upon his lips. “I know, my lady.”
She tipped her head. He really was quite magnificent when he smiled. Not the cold, emotionless beauty of a stone statue he’d put her in mind of at their first meeting, but someone very real, and very much full of life.
“But Papa,” Charlotte pleaded, jerking Patrina back to the moment. The girl tugged at her father’s hand. “How can you not show appreciation for—?”
“That is enough.” His softly spoken words brooked little room for argument and managed to silent the loquacious child.
She hated the deep, innocent part of herself that still longed to be invited on an outing to Gunter’s. Patrina turned around.
“My lady?” the marquess called out to her.
She froze.
“Surely you wouldn’t allow me to be rude, my lady?” A gentle teasing threaded the marquess’ question.