Poppy’s eyebrows drew into a single line. “You make it sound so perfunctory.” The words exploded from her lips. “Do you not care for him?” She began to pace. “What of affection? What of laughter?” She slammed her fist into her palm with each word. “What of love?”
Patrina blinked. She cocked her head, considering Poppy’s words. What of love? “I’ve only just met the marquess a handful,” eight “of days ago.” And yet, the mere thought of him stirred excitement in her heart. He and his children had taught her to smile once again.
“Oh, time has nothing to do with matters of the heart,” Penelope called from across the room. She shifted in her seat when everyone’s gazes swung in her direction. “Well, it doesn’t. Or it shouldn’t.”
Patrina folded her hands. She dropped her gaze to the interlocked digits. She’d fancied herself in love with Albert Marshville. After she discovered his perfidy she’d viewed her mistake with a woman’s eyes; knowing with a maturity which could only come from betrayal, that she’d loved the idea of him. She, with her suitor-less Seasons, and longing for some element of romance, had been enamored with the idea of being in love. It had blinded her to Albert’s true character and that would always be her pain to bear. In this way, she was more alike than different to Weston who’d loved the ideal of his late wife.
“You needn’t marry him, Patrina,” Poppy said with more seriousness than she’d come to expect of her youngest sister. “Jonathan would never require you to marry a gentleman just so you’ll be wed.”
“Of course she must marry him,” Mother cried. At the uncharacteristic explosion of emotion, the daughters looked to her. She gave her head a shake. “That is, they are indeed correct, Jonathan would never require you to marry.”
Mother, on the other hand would likely drag each one of the Tidemore sisters by their troublesome heels, to the proverbial altar if need be.
Patrina returned her attention to her sisters. “No. No, I know that,” she hurried to assure Poppy. She drew in a breath. “I know Jonathan wants me to be happy.” Not because he felt guilt over failing to note Marshville’s vile intentions, but truly because he loved her. She didn’t doubt that for a moment. “I want to marry Weston,” she said simply. And she did.
“Why?” Penelope asked with a world-weary edge she’d never detected in her sister’s words before.
Why, indeed?
Because he has a love for his children that filled her heart with warmth. Because he’d not peered down his nose at her with a look of scorn when she’d revealed her truth. Because he reminded her that she deserved to smile and laugh again.
Because I care for him.
The whisper of truth danced around her mind and her palms grew damp at the implication of such a revelation. She’d come to care for him. And all manner of dangerous things could come in caring for a man who’d never see her as anything more than a mother for his children. Especially a man whose embrace she burned for.
“It doesn’t matter why,” Mother cut into the silence. “It only matters that Patrina does want to wed the marquess.”
Yes, to Mother, that much was true. To Patrina, however, the reasons she wanted to marry Weston mattered very much.
“Patrina?” Penelope prodded, gently, disregarding their mother’s pronouncement.
A knock sounded at the door, saving Patrina from responding. Their gazes flew to the door in unison.
The butler coughed loudly. “My ladies, the Viscountess Merewether to see Lady Patrina.”
Patrina stared blankly at the unfamiliar woman in the doorway, and then the name registered. Weston’s sister.
The Viscountess Merewether peered about the room and then fixed her gaze on Patrina. The other woman’s blue eyes did a momentary, up and down path over her, and from the slight sneer on her lips, Weston’s sister had found her lacking.
Smith made his pronouncement again. “That is, the Viscountess Merewether to see—”
Mother jumped to her feet. She set the embroidery down on the table beside her. A wide smile wreathed her face. “That will be all, Smith,” Mother shouted to the butler. She rushed over to greet the woman.
He scratched his brow. “No, er I don’t believe she fell, my lady.”
“What? I didn’t say…” her words trailed off and she waved a hand. “Thank you,” she called after him.
The viscountess glanced back at the unconventional butler and then around at the wide-eyed girls scattered about the room. “It is an absolute…pleasure.” That last word sounded dragged from the woman’s lips.
Patrina’s stomach flipped over at the underlying disapproval in the woman’s pretty eyes. Something in the firm set to her shoulders and the hard, flat line of her lips indicated this visit was no mere social call. She slowly took her feet. “My lady.” She sank into a deferential curtsy.
Her sisters, reminded of their proper deportment, fell into suit.
Mother spread her arms wide. “What an absolute pleasure to see you, my lady. May I ring for—?”
“I’d hoped I might speak with…” She glanced back to Patrina. Her lips tightened. “Your daughter.”
Mother’s eyes flew wide and she looked from the viscountess to Patrina and back to the viscountess. “Er, why, yes, of course,” she said on a rush. “Of course!” She clapped her hands once and the other girls fell into a neat line. They shuffled from the room with more ladylike decorum than Patrina ever remembered. Mother walked over to the door. She hesitated at the entrance and then took her exit.
The viscountess glanced over her shoulder until the door clicked shut. Then she returned her attention to Patrina. She said nothing for a long while, just continued to study her with that reproachful, condescending glint in her pale, blue eyes. “You are Lady Patrina Tidemore,” she said at last. As though speaking of the infamous woman who’d eloped would forever ruin her own reputation.
Patrina bowed her head, battling back a frown. “I am,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my—”
“May I speak plainly, Lady Patrina?”
She went still. “My lady?”
“Plainly?” the woman said with a wave of a hand. “I’d like to speak with you on a matter of the gravest importance. You see, mine is not a social call.”
“Oh.” Because really what more was there to say? Patrina wandered over to the ivory sofa. Praying the woman didn’t detect the faint tremble to her hands, she motioned to the seat. “Would you care to sit?”
The woman hesitated and then took the seat directly across from Patrina. She folded her hands primly on her lap. “My brother means a good deal to me, as do his children. I’d not see them hurt.”
She wet her lips. “Nor would I do anything to hurt them—”
“Ah, but you would. With your very decision to wed my brother, you’ve placed your own happiness, your own well-being, over the welfare of two innocent, wonderful children.”
Patrina’s heart skipped an odd beat. Her mouth went dry and she searched for appropriate words. Assurances that she’d be good to Weston and his children. But she could not force the words out. She fell quiet.