* * *
As she stepped from Brian’s house on the morning of her wedding, Patience saw a bottle-green coach with white velvet bows on the doors and white carriage horses bearing snowy plumes on their regal heads.
Grant, handsome in dove gray pants and black frock coat, top hat tilted roguishly, bowed and took her hand as she reached the vehicle. “My Lady.” He kissed her inner wrist, a promise in his dancing black eyes, and handed her up before he got in and sat beside her.
“Scoundrel,” Patience said smoothing his lapels as the horses sped them on their way. “I suppose if a woman is forced to marry, it is best the groom be tolerable looking.”
Grant’s bark of laughter calmed her. “Vixen,” he said as he teased a curl amid the white rosebuds in her hair. He relaxed against the velvet squabs, took her hand in his and held it, their silence comfortable.
“I have a surprise for you,” she whispered as the carriage slowed.
He raised a brow. “Considering other surprises, I wonder, with no small bit of anxiety, what it could be.”
“I’m wearing bosom inserts today. Just for you.”
The carriage door opened upon his look of delight and reaching arms, and he growled his frustration.
When Patience stepped down, she gasped. He’d found her a country church in the middle of a green field. The sun broke through the clouds blessing the small Gothic structure with slanting beams of radiant light.
Life beckoned and showed new promise as, hand in hand, Grant and Patience climbed three steps to their future.
The stone-arched chapel was filled to capacity with wedding guests—including four scoundrels, one being the minister who would perform the ceremony—and a profusion of multi-hued, hot-house flowers.
Cherubs gazed from above, doves cooed in the eves, and sunlight splintered a rainbow through an honor-guard of stained-glass window.
As they pledged themselves to each other, Patience saw Aunt Harriette dab at her eyes, and Brian handed her his handkerchief. Four scoundrels beamed with the pride of brothers.
After the ceremony, sitting across the carriage from Grant—her new husband, God help her—Patience found him already ordering her life, for the carriage clattered away from London, rather than toward it. “Where are we going? I expected to go back to Brian’s. The girls will need me. You said I could decide—”
Grant shook his head. “This is our honey month, Patience. A time for us. Aunt Harriette will watch over your chicks. For the next few weeks, you are mine alone. No let me correct that, for we belong to each other, do we not? I would like to be alone with you, to love you at my leisure. Would you like that? Because if not—”
“I do,” she whispered. If only they could love each other.
He smiled, pulling her close. “Good. Now, I seem to remember you wanted a house in Sussex by the sea, with a kitten and a rose garden.”
“Grant St. Benedict, it’s bad enough we were forced to marry. If you offer me five thousand pounds a year, I’ll crack your skull.”
“Patience, I venture to suggest that no one could force either of us to do anything. We chose to marry. No don’t interrupt your husband, for I owe you an apology. That morning in Scotland, in my own misguided way, I was asking you to spend your life with me. I would have been true to you, Patience, forever, even without speaking vows. I was wrong, I know, and it was badly done. And after I asked you, I saw how vulgar the proposition. ‘Twas only stubbornness made me argue.”
He took her hand. “What I am about to admit, I do so knowing full well you are the only person likely to understand my motive. I wanted a lifetime with you without the frightening verdict of marriage attached.”
She looked earnestly into his eyes. “Now you’ve been sentenced, how do you feel?”
“Set free,” he said, surprising her. “How do you feel?”
“I wanted to be independent.”
“And I. But Patience, isn’t independence being free to choose the life one wishes. I stood my ground so long for wanting independence, I denied wanting you.”
Patience nearly denied the hope surging within her. But wanting someone was not the same as loving them. She crossed to him and settled herself in his embrace. They spent a long, lazy time kissing. Patience relaxed, free of restraints for the first time since she’d met him. It was right to be here, to love him. If only he loved her back.
The thought was sobering. “Where are we going?”
“To our house in Brighton. Snowdrop is waiting for us. Summer will bring your roses.”
“Is it a cottage?”
He tilted his head, his look apologetic. “The house is, perhaps, larger than you would have chosen. I am partial to it, but if it’s not what you want, I will buy you a smaller one, whatever, wherever you wish.”
He would do that for her? To choose one’s own house would seem independent, but she was not fooled. She had a choice only because he allowed it. She was shackled. Good and proper.
If only she didn’t love him.
Grant pointed to the cliff in the distance. “There it is.”
Patience gasped as jagged turrets and endless crenellations rose and sprouted from the landscape to become an edifice worthy to shelter a king. “A little larger than I would have expected? It’s a blooming castle.”
“I was afraid you would notice. Do you think we might fill it with children?”
“I don’t think an army could fill it with children.”
“Never the expected answer. I can’t wait to show you every priest-hole and secret door. I have favorite hideaways, the armory and the library. My ancestors are entombed in the chapel.”
“Company. How delightful.”
Grant kissed her in the very hungry, very demanding way he had done in her bed that night at the inn.
In a distant part of her mind, Patience decided that passion might be a very good argument against independence, passion with Grant, that is.
They had advanced into the realm of near-completion by the time the carriage came to a stop. Disappointment shone on Grant’s face as it pounded in Patience’s breast.
In a whimsical haze, she met the servants and chatted with the housekeeper. Then finally Grant led her upstairs. She’d no more than gazed at the master suite, before a magnificent creature of a man filled her arms and heart so full, she could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t.
Grant had never been so glad about losing a fight in his life.
He was determined to bring Patience with him on a slow, sensual journey, as determined to show her his love as he was terrified to tell her of it.
They dined in their private sitting room. “This meal is to keep up your strength, Patience,” he said. “You will have need of it.” Grant removed the covers to reveal lobscouse and plum duff and to fill the air with spice.
Patience laughed. “Will you lick my fingers clean?”
The heat in his gaze was answer enough. He stood and took her hand.
She followed willingly, seeing suddenly the truth that had been plaguing her. This man was her destiny. Smiling or scowling, his mouth begged for her kisses. His black eyes haunted her sleep.
Grant St. Benedict Garrick, her husband, her soon-to-be lover was as beautiful inside as out. Patience Kendall had married, not the Captain, not the Marquess of Andover, not the illusive Saint . . .but Grant.
Whatever his name, his soul was the mate to hers.
His kiss was deep and achingly slow. Her heart beat faster and her body quickened. “I believe,” he whispered into her mouth, between touches of his bottom lip to hers, his breath teasing, “Our union was destined.”
He did feel the same.
She removed his frock coat and waistcoat, but when she boldly stripped him of his shirt, he raised a shocked brow. “Saucy wench. You have overpowered me. Have your wicked way with me, then.”
“I believe I shall, if you will teach me how.”
“My pleasure. But you should know first that I love y
ou, Patience,” he whispered against her lips. “I love you so damned much.”
Her heart expanded. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Grant, I love you, too. I have for so long.”
His triumphant shout was muffled as he kissed her with blazing passion.
His husky voice purled desire through her in high, warm waves. She combed her fingers through the black curling hair on his chest, abrading ever so lightly. She rubbed her cheek against that very mat, inhaling his spicy scent. “I wanted to do this the day Wellington fell in the ocean.”
His eyes smoldered. “I would have let you.”
“I wasn’t ready then.”
“Are you now, Patience? Shall we finally . . .dance, my love?”