Chapter 33

33

"Well, knock me down with a feather," said Lady Buchanan two weeks later as she gaped at the garden of Rath Hall. "The garden has never looked better."

Patience exchanged an amused glance with Dorian, who grinned back at her. Happy butterflies danced in her stomach, as they had every day for the past two weeks. She and Dorian woke up in the hazy light of dawn each day, their limbs entwined. Every night was a blur of passion and pleasure, their bodies joining again and again.

"Two months ago, I wouldn't have believed it myself," said Chastity, who stood next to Patience while the butler and the footmen were arranging tea on the terrace overlooking the garden.

Lady Buchanan looked at Dorian and her eyebrows rose to her high and elaborate hairstyle that was more suited for the court of Louis XVI than the garden terrace. "Are you…smiling, Dorian?" asked his aunt, her own lips stretching.

Dorian cleared his throat and wiped the smile off his face, frowning. "Er… No. "

Lady Buchanan's eyes practically glimmered with mirth. "You have been smiling! Goodness, I have not seen a smile on your face since… Oh, Lord, since your wretched papa sent my dear sister away from you!"

Chastity nodded. "He has been doing that recently, yes."

Patience's heart felt so full of love, even as an undercurrent of unease rippled through her. The past two weeks, she'd been happier than ever before. She loved her husband, and he showed every sign he loved her, too, even though he never said it. The only thing casting a shadow over their happiness was that he was going through his horrible, exhausting morning routine with more vigor than ever, and she had no idea why… The shadows in the depths of his sky-blue eyes had darkened. Had she not resolved the great mystery that had kept them apart?

It took her a long time to get accustomed to the idea that the brother she had known as a child was not the man he truly was. Very carefully, she wrote a letter to Mama asking if John had ever been capricious, mean, or selfish. Mama's reply was as positive as ever—however, she did say John had different sides to him. That he thought he had the right to have whatever he wanted, since he was the oldest child and the only boy. Papa's heir. That sometimes he took it too far, but he always apologized and tried to do better.

Patience didn't remember these sides of her brother. Then again, she was the youngest, and her childish memories had no doubt been influenced by the innocence and simplicity of youth, missing the complexities of the man John had become.

"Well, my darling," said Lady Buchanan, squeezing Patience's hand, "I was right about you."

Patience grinned back at her. "Your nephew makes me very happy," she said, and Dorian's eyes melted again with warmth as he looked at her .

The tea was ready, and they were invited to take their places at the round table. Patience served tea while a slight breeze brought the scents of awakening flowers in bloom from the garden. Over the weeks, it had become lush and beautifully manicured. Her work and the work of Dorian, who helped her occasionally, as well that of the footmen and gardeners, had paid off. Life bloomed where there had once been only decay.

She loved it. She loved that she didn't have to hide her interest in botany, that she could sit on a bench and enjoy watching her plants grow. She could take a stroll with Dorian down the narrow, meandering path of white gravel, now flanked by perennial bushes.

To their left, her roses were thriving. She could see their glossy leaves, their buds just beginning to unfurl. Next to them was the striking yellow yarrow. The plumed seed heads of tall grasses nodded gently in the breeze, and she enjoyed the sight of them next to the roses and the yarrow. An oak tree, an ash, and a chestnut tree had replaced the diseased trees, and their green branches swayed in the wind. Ahead, on the right, lavender plants had bees buzzing around them. Interspersed with the lavender were the yellow umbel-shaped flowers of fennel, which would be not just pretty but also useful. Beyond the stone path and past the bursts of lavender and goldenrod, there was a glimpse of the soft blues of periwinkle, which gave a nice splash of cooler color.

And the glasshouse… It was not yet complete, as she had ordered some plants and was waiting for their delivery. But it was clean. It was repaired. It had humidity, windows that opened for ventilation, and a working oven to provide warmth in winter.

She had done this. Her work, her passions—they mattered. She mattered.

Lady Buchanan took a sip of tea and replaced her cup with the tiniest, slyest smile. "Well, the garden has come to fruition. Clearly, the fertility here is abundant."

Patience's smile died as the older lady's gaze dropped to Patience's stomach.

"That is a good sign, I would say," Lady Buchanan said softly.

Patience felt Dorian go rigid, and mortification struck her. Her hand clutched around the fabric of her gown. A baby… Dorian didn't want one…did he? She looked at him, and his gaze was haunted, looking somewhere into space, with a blank and yet terrified expression.

"Grandbabies," said Lady Buchanan dreamily.

Chastity sighed as she bit into a biscuit and chewed delicately. "Aunt says grandbabies but what she really means are grandnieces or -nephews. She was as close to being our mama as we would ever have, after Papa died, of course. She was not allowed to visit before, but both Dorian and I wrote secret correspondence with her. She even snuck us a couple letters from Mama before our mother died."

Patience nodded, amazed at yet another layer to this broken family. She ached to hug all three of them and make them feel as loved as she felt with her parents. But they were all together now, and she couldn't feel more accepted and appreciated by them.

"Forgive me," said Popwell as he appeared with a tray in his hand. "There is a letter for the duchess."

Patience took the envelope with her name written in an elegant script on the front. With eager fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the contents. With a trembling voice, she read aloud:

Her Grace, Duchess of Rath,

Rath Hall ,

Most Noble Duchess,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you of the acceptance of your paper, "Creation of a Hybrid English Rose," for publication in the Linnean Society of London's quarterly journal. Your work shows exceptional insight and scientific rigor, and we believe it will make a significant contribution to the field.

We cordially invite you to attend a soirée at the Society's headquarters in Burlington House in London on the 8 of May, where your paper will be discussed among our esteemed members. It would be an honor to have you present your findings to our community.

I have the honor to be, Madam,

Your most obedient and humble servant,

Sir James Edward Smith

President, Linnean Society of London

Patience looked up, and her gaze locked with Dorian's. His eyes were big and shone with pride and happiness.

Her stomach lurched with joy at such wonderful news… But as she pictured the room full of well-educated men, listening to her present her paper, she could just imagine their scorn. How dared she—a woman, whose highest goal should be embroidering a perfect rose—dare to create a new hybrid with a method no one had considered previously? Surely they would look at her with judgment, destroy her with questions…

"You must go, Patience," Dorian said. "This is everything you worked so hard for."

It was as though he read her mind. She opened and closed her mouth. She wanted to say yes. She should go. Did the acceptance of her paper not prove that her mind was worthy of recognition, that she needn't shrink herself to fit society's suffocating mold for women?

And yet, she was an eighteen-year-old girl who had never gone to university, who had hidden her true passion for years. Should she not hide it now?

"Oh, darling," said Lady Buchanan. "You must!"

"I see it in your eyes, Patience," said Chastity, squeezing her hand under the table. "Go for both of us… In fact, I'll come, too."

"And I!" declared Lady Buchanan. "I do have a dinner at the Marchioness of Virtoux's, but I'd rather go and see the faces of all those old farts as you rub their noses in it with your brilliant work."

Dorian sat straighter, his expression inscrutable. "You must go, sweet girl," he murmured as he took her hand in his and kissed it. "And I'll make sure they give you the respect you deserve."

The purr of his velvety voice made resolve rise up in her. Perhaps it was his doing, the positive side of his wrathfulness, but she felt a vigorous anger stir in her stomach. She squared her shoulders. Her previous self would have cowered and hidden, afraid of conflict.

Not anymore. She was not afraid.

"You're all correct," she said. "All the more reason for me to go. To show them that a woman's intellect is a force to be reckoned with." Her chin lifted with determination. "I will not be cowed by their prejudice."

A slow smile curved Dorian's sensual mouth. "That's my fearless Patience. You're right—we'll go to London. Let them tremble before you."

"Hear, hear!" toasted Lady Buchanan, and the four of them clinked their teacups together .

Pride suffused Patience's being as Dorian rose to embrace her. She sank into his arms, fortified by his belief in her.

If only he would trust her with whatever demons still plagued him…