The woman carried on. “I’m sure you are a perfectly lovely lady.” Her tone indicated anything but. “But my brother had his heart was broken by his wife. And you…well, he would be making another grave mistake if he were to wed you.”
If he wed her. Not when.
For all the shame she’d visited upon her family, Patrina had felt the needles of shame thrust into her heart by the ton. Even as her world had crumpled around her feet, they’d looked at her as nothing more than the latest on-dit. Their ill-opinion, their rejection; however, was so very paltry when compared with the truthful words of Weston’s sister. The woman who would be her sister-in-law.
“You can’t marry him,” the woman said with an almost achingly sweet scolding. “Surely you know that?”
“I…” She caught the flesh of her lower lip between her teeth. She did know that. Only, she’d convinced herself that if her past didn’t matter to Weston, well then perhaps it didn’t really matter at all. She’d convinced herself she could be happy in this formal arrangement.
“If you care for my brother. If even at all, then do not do this thing, Lady Patrina. I implore you.”
That this lofty noblewoman should come here and do something as common as beg her to break off the arrangement with Weston, spoke to her ill-opinion of Patrina.
Fury stirred in Patrina’s belly. She fed the simmering rage, embraced the indignation for it dulled her to this woman’s scathing attack. “He asked to wed me.” She firmed her shoulders. “And I intend to marry him.”
The viscountess narrowed her gaze. The blue of her eyes lost to the thick, impenetrable slits. “Tsk, tsk. Never tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with Weston?”
Heat burned Patrina’s cheeks. She ticked her chin up a notch, refusing to be cowed by this vile woman. “I’ll not discuss my feelings for Weston with you, my lady.”
A muscle ticked at the right corner of Lady Merewether’s lips and then she tossed her head back, a cool, mirthless laugh bubbled past her lips. “Oh, Lady Patrina. You’ve fallen in love with a man who could never have real feelings for you.”
Patrina curled her fists along the edge of her seat and gripped hard, filled with an insatiable urge to toss the other woman out on her ear. “I believe you are wrong, my lady.” She prided herself on the steady deliverance of those handful of words.
Weston’s sister shook her head, pityingly. Pity. That bloody awful emotion Patrina detested above all others. “You aren’t very smart, are you, showing feelings for inappropriate men? First that Marshville fellow and now, my brother who could never love again after his Cordelia.”
The truth of the woman’s words sank into Patrina with an agonizing slowness, gripping her with the numbing truth. Agony tugged at her belly.
“No, Lady Patrina,” she pressed, as relentless as Boney’s forces marching through the barren wilderness of Russia. “We can’t have you wedding Weston. You’re wildly inappropriate for him and…” She paused. “You will damage his children’s reputations.” The hard glint faded from the viscountess’ eyes, replaced by a hint of softness. She leaned over and touched her hand to Patrina’s. “If you’ll not think of Weston, then think of his children. Think of young Charlotte. The day will come when she makes her entrance into Society and all will remember the horrid tale of…” The viscountess’ words trailed off and she cleared her throat. “I really needn’t continue. I imagine you can very well supply the details.”
Patrina could. She’d not for this woman. But she could. She knew the details so very well they haunted her waking and sleeping thoughts, robbed her of the ability to sleep.
Lady Merewether’s visit had forced her to confront the selfishness in the decision to wed Weston. If only she and Weston were involved, then she’d jump to her feet and jab her finger toward the doorway, and order the viscountess gone.
But there was more to consider.
There was Charlotte and Daniel.
Her eyes slid closed a moment. She could not wed the marquess. Not because she didn’t care about him. She couldn’t marry him because she loved him and he didn’t deserve to know any more misery than he’d already known at his first wife’s hands. He deserved far more; he and his children.
She stared at her lap, swallowing past the blasted lump in her throat. With the lamentable mistake made, Patrina had already brought pain upon others. She could not so hurt Charlotte and Daniel. With their mother’s infidelity, they’d already known too much of life’s harsh cruelty.
“You must end it,” the viscountess urged. “You know Weston would never rescind his offer.”
Patrina glanced away, the meaning clear. She must release him from his obligation. Her lips pulled with bitterness. First a scandalous flirt who’d elope, and now a jilt. My, the papers would relish every last shameful bit of this great tale. She touched the snowflake at her neck.
“Thank you, Lady Patrina,” the viscountess said, with the most warmth and sincerity she’d evinced this whole curt, perfunctory meeting. Perhaps because she saw the decision in Patrina’s stare. And knew.
She gritted her teeth so hard pain radiated down her jawline. “I’m not doing this for you, my lady.” Patrina’s hand fell back to her side. The tension seeped down her body and to her toes as the fight went out of her. How could she give him up? How when he’d filled her life with such happiness these eight days, fleeting moments which, would never be enough? “I don’t know what to say to him,” she whispered more to herself.
“Oh, merely pen him a note,” she said so breezily Patrina’s head shot up with disbelief. “Thank him for his very generous offer, but tell him…” She tapped the tip of her finger to her lip. “Perhaps tell him you still love the gentleman who—”
“No,” Patrina bit out. The fury and outrage laced in that one-word utterance seemed to penetrate the flighty woman’s ramblings. She smoothed her palms over her skirts. When she’d manage to reign in her temper she began again. “No, my lady. I’ll not tell a lie even to set your brother free. The gentleman who ruined my reputation isn’t even deserving of false words of pretend love uttered even to protect your brother.”
“Very well.” The viscountess’ lips tightened so that Patrina wondered if she’d merely imagined any earlier softness from the cold woman. “Allow me to be perfectly honest with you.”
Patrina quirked an eyebrow, tired of the role of wounded woe-is-me-young-lady, pitied by young ladies throughout the ton and scorned by nobles across the whole blasted English isle. “You haven’t already?”
The other woman pressed on. “I do not care if you profess to love another, claim tedium drove your acceptance of Weston’s offer, or simply offer no explanation at all. My only concern is my niece and nephew’s future happiness and that happiness cannot, will not, ever be tied to you.” Her chest rose and full with the passionate fury of her deliverance. “Have I been clear?”
Patrina stood in a flurry of skirts. “Perfectly,” she said coldly.
The viscountess gave a toss of her golden curls. “Thank you for speaking with me. I wish you a very Happy Christmas, my lady.”