Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

H e was lovely.

Truly, Patience had never met Mr. Beckham's equal. His manners were impeccable. He was handsome, charming and comported himself well. His habit of giving coppers to impoverished children was more than endearing, and his taste was exquisite. He was kind and he was generous; he was an amusing companion and that kiss would keep her awake all the night long. He was courteous to her, yet assertive. She felt safe and confident in his presence. His younger sister clearly adored him, so Patience had not been misled as to the truth of his nature.

She had never been inclined to believe in the merit of love, but she had to cede that she could find herself in love with Mr. Beckham. Her sole doubt was whether she had seen the fullness of his nature, or whether he deliberately showed her only a part.

His reputation, after all, held that he was undeniably frivolous. She was inclined to trust him and to believe that the man who had both teased and defended her was the true man, but what if he had hidden part of his nature, the part he would expect her to find less appealing? It was not so ridiculous a possibility, given how little time they had actually spent together.

Could she trust him? Was his promise to aid in the publication of the book—the entire basis of their agreement to her view—a sincere one? Patience could not say. She could not imagine that such a man - a fashionable dandy, a gambler and a wastrel - would cast himself into the business of publishing with even her father's fervor. Had he deceived her?

Was the prospect of Miss Grosvenor so fearsome as that? Patience admitted that she did not like the other woman, and marriage was a lifetime bond, but a man was less constrained by his marriage than a woman might be. He could wed Miss Grosvenor and never see her again. They could live in separate houses. Marrying her to evade that match seemed extreme.

She supposed he simply did not like to have his choices dictated to him, and she could sympathize with that.

She considered the possibilities all of the night, then through the following morning. She dressed with care, fearing that Lady Beckham might have requested this interview because she intended to withhold her approval, and was in a state of great agitation by the time Mr. Beckham called for her. The burgundy dress was one of her favorites, and it looked well with her dark grey spencer. Prudence did her hair and they eyed the result in the mirror together.

"You might slay dragons in that dress," Prudence said.

"For the blood would not show."

They laughed together.

"She will adore you," Prudence said, with a confidence Patience did not feel.

"Perhaps only because she shares our view of Miss Grosvenor."

"He has chosen you and she dotes upon him. Everyone says as much."

Patience straightened and smiled. "You are right, of course."

"But do not lecture them upon trivia," Prudence advised in a whisper and Patience looked up with surprise. "It is what you do when you are uncertain. You choose a topic and explain it in minute detail. It is rather tedious to the unwary, if endearing to those who know you best."

"Endearing?"

"You are so inclined to hide your thoughts and it is a hint, at least, of what you feel."

Did she do that? Patience recalled her comments about June weddings the day before and grimaced. Mr. Beckham and his sister had been disconcerted. She nodded agreement at Prudence's counsel and left the room.

She descended the stairs to find Mr. Beckham in the foyer, his hat in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He looked marvelous, of course, in yet another perfectly tailored jacket she had not seen before, gleaming boots, and a perfectly tied cravat. He smiled at her appearance, a slow smile of appreciation that lit his eyes and launched a glow within Patience.

"I have a confession to make," she said, after they had exchanged greetings and were descending the steps to his waiting carriage. She waited while he gave the inevitable penny to the boy who had held the reins for him, anticipating his action, then let him hand her into the carriage.

"A confession, Miss Carruthers. I cannot wait to hear what you feel deserves such a feat."

She smiled, as she knew she was supposed to. "My sister reminded me that I am inclined to recite reams of trivia when agitated. I spoke of June weddings yesterday, which is an example of that trait."

He nodded once. "And what troubled you, if I may enquire?"

"I find myself doubting the strength of your conviction to keep our terms," she admitted and he glanced quickly at her.

"Why? I granted my word to you." He was not insulted, to her relief, merely curious. Truly, it was simplicity itself to converse with the man. If she was not careful, he would know all of her secrets without even trying to discern them. She would simply offer them up.

"But it seems beyond your nature to embark on such an endeavor. Yesterday, I saw how adept you are at living in the style that you do."

"Do you not believe that a person can willfully change his or her perspective?"

"What I doubt is that you have the will to do as much. Why would a man born to leisure choose to labor?"

He smiled. "You assume I was born to leisure." He was watching the horses and the road, and she could not discern his thoughts at all.

Her annoyance at that showed in her reply. "What else would I conclude, sir? You are the grandson of an earl. You have a generous income and can expect a considerable inheritance, by all accounts." She pressed on, determined to know. "Is Miss Grosvenor so heinous a potential bride as that?"

"Yes!" he said with surprising vigor, then laughed at Patience's evident shock. He leaned toward her. "She was, indeed, to drive me to invoke the name of another. But it was not a mere whim to choose you of all the ladies I have met in recent years." His gaze locked upon her, his eyes darkening as he looked at her. The corner of his mouth lifted in a most alluring smile, one that reminded Patience of his thrilling kiss. When his voice dropped lower in confidence, she felt the most curious and pleasurable sensation. "She might have been the impetus, Miss Carruthers, but now I cannot imagine taking another lady to my side. You are remarkable and I am honored that you have accepted me."

Patience could have drowned in his eyes. She certainly could not easily avert her gaze. She flushed that he would speak so plainly to her, and saw his smile broaden as he watched her cheeks turn pink.

"More perfect than a sunrise," he murmured and the heat rose yet more in her cheeks. He raised a gloved fingertip, touching her cheek with a reverence that made her catch her breath.

"How many sunrises have you witnessed, Mr. Beckham?" she managed to ask.

He laughed at that. "Far more than are respectable, Miss Carruthers." He leaned closer to murmur wickedly to her. "Do you think marriage will tame my errant ways?"

When he looked into her eyes with such intensity, as if he truly cared what she might say—as if he might heed whatever she said—Patience could not take a breath, let alone reply. She stared back, spellbound as he lowered his gaze to her lips.

Then another driver shouted and Mr. Beckham returned his attention to the horses.

Patience looked at the crowded street, her heart leaping, and uttered the first words that came to mind. "Did you know that London is home to over one million individuals and may soon be the largest city in the world? That city, currently, is Peking. London is already the largest port in the world." She heard Mr. Beckham chuckle beside her and fell silent. "I am doing it," she whispered in horror.

"And it is delightful. But why in this moment? Am I so fearsome as that?"

Patience chose to be bold. "On the contrary, sir. You unsettle me in a way I do not understand."

"How?"

"By your touch, your comments, your teasing." She did not speak of his kiss. "I am not accustomed to the attentions of gentlemen."

"And I am glad of it, otherwise you might have been already wed with three children or more, and I should have been compelled to make an unfortunate match."

"You would have chosen another."

"But there is no other I would prefer," he said, his hand landing upon hers for a glorious moment. "Do you regret your response?"

Patience could not lie. "No!"

He laughed, clearly content with this reply. "Then I must issue fair warning, Patience, that I will continue to tease and to touch you, ideally for all the days of the rest of our lives."

"You make this sound like a love match," Patience said before she could catch herself. He drew the horses to a halt before a fine house and turned to look at her.

"Would that be so foul a fate?" he murmured and she could only shake her head.

He bent closer and kissed her cheek. Patience took a deep breath of the welcome scent of him and found herself meeting his curious gaze. Again, his finger rose to her cheek, his stroke one of unexpected affection. His expression, for once, was serious. "Do not fear Lady Beckham or her conclusions," he advised quietly. "I cannot envision my life without you, whether she approves or not."

"But you would not risk her displeasure?"

His expression became so resolute that she doubted all of her conclusions about his nature. "I most certainly would," he said with conviction. "Never doubt it, Patience. Never."

Patience opened her mouth and closed it again, unable to evade his conviction or the thrill it sent through her. She might not believe in love or its merits as a basis for matrimony, but there was much to be said for a suitor who would not be turned aside.

And better yet, Arthur's steadfast manner offered all the fortification she needed to face his mother.

* * *

Why this girl?

Lady Beckham knew that any port could serve in a storm, and certainly she understood her son's desire to avoid a match with Miss Felicia Grosvenor, but why had he named this young woman as his fictitious fiancée?

Miss Patience Carruthers was not unattractive, nor was she plain, but neither did she make the most of the assets that had been granted to her. Her dress was pretty but she did not wear it with a confidence that marked it to be her own. It must be a garment that had passed between sisters and was deemed to be the best. Yes, she would have ordered the hem to be let down slightly for Miss Carruthers, but perhaps there was neither time nor sufficient fabric. There was nothing wrong with frugality, though in this case, it was a reminder to Lady Beckham that the Carruthers family made their way in trade.

Lady Beckham preferred to believe that she was not a snob, but that she was keenly attuned to the opinions of others. She did not mind challenging expectation with good cause, she reminded herself as she surveyed Arthur's choice, but in this case, she could not discern one.

She would have forgiven Arthur anything if he had been in love with Miss Carruthers—and she with him, of course, though Lady Beckham could not imagine any sensible woman failing to appreciate the many merits of her son.

Miss Carruthers appeared to be sensible, at least.

She was not shy, evidently, for her gaze steadily held Lady Beckham's own. She was not so young as might be ideal, though she looked sufficiently healthy to bear children.

Sadly, one could not be sure of such a detail in advance.

"But why?" she said, giving voice to her question.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Beckham."

"Why? I know why Arthur wished to avoid the fulfillment of his uncle's inappropriate wager. I am not entirely certain of his reasons for naming you as his betrothed, but what I truly wish to know is why you agreed. I doubt that you love him, yet."

Her guest smiled. "I find him most charming company."

"That is not the same thing," Lady Beckham said sharply.

"I would always hope for affection to deepen and grow in future. I understand that may happen in a marriage based upon rational agreement."

"But why did you agree?"

Miss Carruthers considered the question. She looked to her tea, then at the window. Her gaze swept over the drawing room again. Lady Beckham was certain the younger woman was aware of the cost of her surroundings and she showed a polite appreciation of it, but there was no avarice in her expression.

She was not marrying Arthur for his money, which was a relief.

"I like Mr. Beckham," she said finally, choosing one thing with which a mother could not find fault.

"I suppose you are attracted to his financial security."

The younger woman shook her head. "Not particularly. I have no ambition to be wealthy, Lady Beckham, although money certainly makes matters simpler."

"If you meant to make an arranged match, you could have done as much sooner."

Miss Carruthers smiled. "When I was in the bloom of my youth, you mean," she said, not taking umbrage. "But the fact is that I had no interest in matrimony until recently. I am content with my life and comfortable in my father's home."

"What changed?"

She frowned a little, turning her cup in its saucer. "I began to consider future possibilities. Though I would not wish for such a circumstance, my father may pass away before me and my mother is already gone. The business would become that of my uncle and my father's partner, and thence be inherited by my cousins, who are his sons."

"You could be left without comforts." Lady Beckham did admire the girl's practicality. She was not witless either.

"Indeed. It occurred to me that my older sister, Baroness Trevelaine, is the only one of us whose future is assured. Though she would be kind to myself and my younger sister, prospects are somewhat less certain than would be ideal. I had only just concluded that I should wed, if possible, to ensure my own future, when Mr. Beckham made his offer."

"I suppose you, like Arthur, believe that opportunity arrives when it is most welcome."

She shook her head. "I did not." She smiled a little, a mysterious expression which transformed her utterly. She looked lovely and radiant, her eyes shining when she thought of Arthur. "But Mr. Beckham is rather persuasive," she confessed, then lowered her gaze and sipped her tea.

Arthur had chosen her and his reasons were unclear, but Lady Beckham saw in that moment that Miss Carruthers could come to adore Arthur. If ever a man had deserved an adoring wife, it was her son.

Lady Beckham put down her teacup. "I see, and I thank you for your candor, Miss Carruthers."

"I believe honesty to be the best policy, my lady."

"Indeed. Perhaps you would like to see the room that will be yours, and recommend any changes you would like. Some details can likely be resolved before the wedding."

"I'm certain it is lovely as it is, just like the rest of your home."

Lady Beckham had some work to do, it was clear. This young lady had to learn that she could be demanding as Arthur's wife—in fact, she should be demanding and not accept whatever she was granted.

Lady Beckham supposed she could work with what was offered, in this case.

She sensed that she would have to. Arthur showed an unwelcome stubbornness when it came to this girl and as much as she preferred to have her own way, she feared the price of demanding his surrender in this matter might prove too high.

* * *

Lady Beckham's house was in Berkley Square, which was sufficiently daunting in itself. The house was one of the larger ones, and decorated with enthusiasm. Patience had to ensure that she did not gape at the paintings and draperies as she was led to the drawing room.

Lady Beckham was a large and loud woman, impeccably dressed, and with a precise method of speaking. Her hair was of a hue closer to that of her daughter, who more closely resembled her, but it appeared both children had her to thank for their blue eyes. Patience had the definite sense that her betrothed's mother liked to organize matters and also that Arthur had inherited—or been taught - her good taste. In truth, Patience was relieved for she doubted that any fête organized by herself would have every possible detail anticipated and every social convention observed. She was more likely to become distracted by a book, while Lady Beckham would derive great satisfaction, Patience guessed, in ensuring that all was perfection.

There was no cause to fear any lull in the conversation, for Lady Beckham did not require the contribution of anyone else to ensure a smooth patter of conversation. She speculated upon the anticipated weather for the day chosen for the wedding. She informed Patience of the refreshments she was ordering for the wedding breakfast. She reviewed the list of invited guests, which was so extensive that Patience could not think of anyone left uninvited, save perhaps the Prince of Wales himself.

She dared not mention as much lest Lady Beckham take it upon herself to add that name to the list.

She was informed that she would reside in this house with ‘dear Arthur', notified as to which rooms had been assigned to be her own, and guided upstairs to view them after their tea was consumed. It was a cluster of three rooms on the southeast corner of the house, with a view over the square from the main bedchamber. The room's proportions were majestic, though Patience guessed it had not been used in a while. The pillared bed was enormous, the armoire and dressing table opposite were old-fashioned but very pretty. The fireplace was of such size to ensure a cozy room in any weather, though Patience did not let her gaze linger upon the door beside it, which had to lead to Mr. Beckham's chambers.

There were no paintings hung and Lady Beckham explained that the draperies and wallcoverings had been installed when her husband had bought the house. Though the room was attractive, she had preferred the one to the west as she favored a view of the traffic entering the square and this chamber had never been used.

It was evident to Patience that she was to be more of a guest, at least initially, than lady of the house herself. She wondered about that, though truly, she would not have wanted to dislodge Lady Beckham from her customary responsibilities—or to incur the resentment of her betrothed's mother so early in their association.

Would she and Arthur ever establish a household of their own? She supposed such independence was too much to ask when his mother was so determined to oversee all details, as that lady must be the source of his finances as well.

There were two smaller rooms to the north, one on the exterior wall with a small window and a desk, as well as its own smaller fireplace. It was a room of a size more familiar to her—though in her father's house, she and Prudence shared a bedchamber of such dimensions. The north wall was entirely bare and she ran a hand over it, envisioning a bookcase there, filled with her favorites.

The third room might have been a nursery or a maid's room, and was quite empty.

"Will you be bringing your lady's maid?" Lady Beckham asked, as if already aware Patience would not.

"My sister and I rely upon the same maid. I thought Price should stay for Prudence."

Lady Beckham looked her up and down. "I will see the matter resolved, if you prefer."

"I would be delighted to defer to your experience in such matters," Patience said, sensing that Lady Beckham would like nothing better than to do as much.

As they returned to the drawing room, she reminded herself that her future would be assured by this arrangement, with or without Mr. Beckham by her side, and that it did offer the best chance of seeing Catherine's book brought to publication.

How could she contrive to read it before her own wedding?

* * *

Arthur ate three sandwiches waiting for the ladies to return from their tour of the rooms allocated to Patience. It was true that he had been dismissed, but he was not feeling particularly biddable.

He wanted to ensure that nothing damning was said to Miss Carruthers. He would not have put it past Lady Beckham to interfere however she could. Contriving that Miss Carruthers changed her mind about him might be the simplest way of putting a stop to the match.

Would Patience care if his inheritance was removed? Arthur did not know. He feared she would take a dim view of such circumstance, given their plan of publishing that book. She had already expressed concern about his finances.

He thought of his considerable earnings at the tables this week, and had a notion where they might be safely hidden.

"Arthur!" that lady declared upon her return. She feigned indignation as if making a jest over it, but he recognized that she was displeased to find him present. "I made it plain that I wished to speak with your young lady alone."

He refilled the teacup that had to belong to Miss Carruthers and offered it to her, fairly daring Lady Beckham to cast him out. "And you have had the opportunity to do as much," he said smoothly. Miss Carruthers took the cup, glancing between them, doubtless aware of much that was unsaid. "Do you like the room?" he asked her with a smile.

"It is absolutely lovely," she replied politely.

"But…" he invited in a murmur.

Her eyes sparkled, the sight sending triumph through him. "You will not provoke me to criticism, sir."

"There is no bookcase," he guessed with a sad shake of his head

Patience laughed and he grinned, noting how his mother watched them. "You are too perceptive."

"Give me credit for noting a detail of such import," he teased and she took her seat, smiling up at him. "Undoubtedly you have a small collection of books already and intend to bring them."

"It is the closest to a dowry I possess," Patience admitted freely. She was watching him so keenly that she must have missed Lady Beckham's quick intake of breath.

He knew he did not imagine Patience's relief that he had joined them, and the conversation was light afterwards. He had felt protective in the past toward Amelia, but his desire to defend Patience was of another magnitude altogether. He appreciated how she blossomed when he put her at ease, and could only hope that Lady Beckham would be mollified.

Instead, she sat quietly and watched them, sipping her tea at intervals, her eyes dark. A storm brewed, for Arthur knew the signs, though it took him much longer than it should have done to realize that his adopted mother was jealous.

She feared losing command of him. It made perfect sense once he had the realization, for Lady Beckham was fond of organizing all details and commanding all of the players. His loyalty might be divided now, between mother and wife, indeed it should be—and perhaps should skew more favorably to his bride.

He wondered if he should reveal that he had never been fully under her thumb.

He suspected that a measure of her displeasure was that she could not fully anticipate Patience either. While Arthur found that situation charming and most welcome, he knew Lady Beckham would despise any hint of uncertainty.

Though he gave no outward indication, he took a warning from her manner. He would have to be prepared for his situation to go awry. He would visit the bank after taking Miss Carruthers home, and move his funds to another institution. He would think of some tale or another for the banker. And he would not deposit his recent winnings in either bank, the better to be prepared for disaster. No, those would be hidden in Patience's wedding gift, thus under her care.

And he would hope that the cards favored him, each and every night, the better that he could build a nest-egg for himself and his bride. What had been freely given could be readily taken away. He had been with nothing before and he did not fear a return to that situation.

He did fear the loss of his lady or her admiration.

He would keep his promise to Patience, and that would require money.

And so, this night, he would return to the tables again.

* * *

All in all, Patience did not find much difference between being betrothed to a rakehell and the eldest unwed daughter of a prosperous bookseller. There was a veritable avalanche of calling cards when she returned home each day, but she resolved that she would not entertain the curious. She resolved to spend the days before the wedding in her father's shop, helping people to find books they would enjoy—although she did strive to learn more about the production of the books. She initiated a conversation with Old Joe, who had been operating a printing press in the shop for as long as she could remember. He was both less taciturn than his fellows and inclined to be more polite to ladies. Seemingly delighted by her curiosity, he showed Patience how the press inked the letters and printed the image on the paper, though watching the press in action at such close proximity did make her jump.

He sent her to Lewis, who picked the individual cast metal letters and composed each page for the press. She was impressed all over again by his dexterity and speed in assembly. She talked to her uncle about paper and ink, about supplies and inventory management. That was sufficient to make her head spin. She talked to her father about the binding of books, his particular passion, the security of different stitches and threads. He also spoke of the relative merit of various glues, leather suppliers and gilt inks. None of these men slowed their work as they spoke, for their tasks were familiar.

She watched in awe as Simmons smoothed the colored and prepared leather over the case of a book, gluing and clamping it to dry. He spent a day doing this, then the subsequent day finishing the dried books, adding gilt and lettering to the leather case. She watched as marbled end papers were tipped into almost completed volumes, and the edges of pages were colored, then admired each finished book.

It was fascinating, such a combination of skill and fine materials, and one that gave her a new respect for a fine volume.

She read also, perusing what medical volumes she could locate in her father's library to better learn the details of what she might expect upon her wedding night. How she wished for the book in Catherine's possession, but she would have to manage that first night without it.

There were two visits made to the shop by Miss Grosvenor that week, though she did not deign to address Patience either time. On both occasions, she made such a ruckus with her friends, gossiping and laughing, that her party was asked to hasten about their business. On both occasions, she spoke loudly of Mr. Beckham's exploits, as if to be certain Patience knew all the details.

Of Mr. Beckham himself, there was no sign. The man might have left London entirely for all Patience knew.

Miss Grosvenor, however, ensured that Patience knew Mr. Beckham was experiencing a remarkable streak of fortune at cards. He was seen several times to have danced all the night long. Mr. Beckham had been seen at this theatre and that one, at this party and that soirée, dining at this club and another. Miss Grosvenor intimated that he was visiting all of his former paramours—including even herself by her telling, a detail that made Patience doubt every word the other woman uttered. Mr. Beckham had made this clever remark or that amusing reply. Mr. Beckham had acquired a new waistcoat, two new pairs of boots, a walking stick of ebony, a quizzing glass, a collection of porcelain birds, a hunting dog and her puppies, three horses, a new carriage. Mr. Beckham had visited three courtesans in a single night, then two the following morning. The list was endless and Patience could not imagine that half of it was true.

Even the tales of Mr. Beckham's adventures were exhausting.

She wished she were able to better ignore the other young lady and her malice, but in truth, she missed Mr. Beckham. She began to fear that he was the kind of person who paid no heed to a matter once he deemed it to be resolved, which was troubling, indeed.

Was he reading the books recommended by her father? Was he savoring the final days of his freedom from nuptial bliss? Or was this how he planned to continue, now that her promise would help him evade Miss Grosvenor? She had no idea what to expect of him, save his appearance at the church—and even that, she doubted in the night.

On Wednesday, the results of their shopping expedition began to arrive, much to Prudence's delight. Each item was unpacked and remarked upon, and Prudence even tried on a number of the garments. "You must find me a Mr. Beckham," she said, admiring herself in the mirror, though Patience did not reply. "Indeed, Patience, I think it most uncharacteristic of you to fail to ensure that your generous husband-to-be had an equally handsome and appealing brother."

"You are welcome to strive to influence the choices of Lady Beckham," Patience replied then as her sister laughed. "And I wish you luck in that endeavor."

The arrival of Mr. Beckham's sister at the shop, the Friday before the wedding, was both a surprise and a delight. Prudence escorted another customer to the displayed books, leaving Patience alone with the new arrival. The girl was dressed impeccably, this time in chocolate brown and teal. To Prudence's regret, she was accompanied by an older woman of stern countenance and not her brother.

"Miss Beckham! How lovely to see you." Patience yearned to ask her visitor for details of Mr. Beckham but did not wish to appear overly curious. One of Miss Grosvenor's friends was perusing books, no doubt gathering tidings to share. Patience would give no sign of her many doubts.

"You should call me Amelia now," that girl said solemnly.

Patience smiled. "And you must call me Patience."

Amelia cast a glance at her governess who dutifully retreated a step and averted her gaze. The girl leaned closer and lowered her voice. "I did not have time to ask you all of my questions the other day, and I should like to do as much before you are married."

"Then ask me now."

"There is really only one question that matters. You simply must tell me your favorite book, and then I will know all that is of importance about you."

It was a measure of character that Patience could only respect.

"Have you a favorite?" she asked. "For I would like to know the same of you."

Amelia considered this. "There are many books I am not permitted to read." The governess earned a quick glance, one that made Patience determined to see that her husband's sister had access to all the books she might desire. "We have been reading the Lais of Marie de France and I am fond of Bisclavret ."

"The werewolf," Patience said and Amelia smiled.

"I like him," she said with enthusiasm, then cast another glance at the apparently oblivious governess. "Although there are those who insist that a man so cursed as to become an animal should not be granted a happy ending."

"He was more honorable than his own wife, who was not so cursed."

"Indeed," Amelia said with heat, evidently glad to have found common ground. "Now you."

Patience considered the possibilities. "It is difficult to choose a favorite from all the volumes I have enjoyed, but there is one novel I would recommend to you most heartily." She led her companion to the appropriate shelf and removed one volume, placing it in the girl's hand.

" Pride & Prejudice ," Amelia read, her gaze rising to Patience's own.

"A novel, published several years ago by T. Egerton, a publisher my father much admires for his editorial taste. The author's name is not known, but it is a fine novel, perhaps one of the finest of recent publication."

"I may have heard of it."

"It is a love story, the tale of a couple who seem utterly different from each other when they first meet but who find an abiding love together."

Amelia studied her. "And you are fond of such stories?"

"To be sure, my younger sister is more inclined to read romantic novels than I. She recommended this one and I liked it very well."

"Why? Because you believe in marrying for love?"

The governess drew near, disapproval in her eyes.

Patience had to be honest. "No. Because it is written well and it is clever. There is nothing salacious or immoral about it. The author is observant and has an ability to provide details about her characters that make them seem entirely real. I also like that the characters had to learn more of each other to truly fall in love." She paused, considering her own situation, then continued. "In addition, the heroine had four sisters, and none of them had much chance of wedding very well. They were comfortable and respectable, but not rich by any means, for the estate had been entailed away from her father. I could understand their circumstance well."

"Entailed away because he had five daughters but not a son," Amelia said.

"Exactly."

Amelia turned the first volume in her hands. "I wish often that I had a sister."

Patience smiled. "And so says the younger sister of the hero in this book. When the couple agree to wed, she then has a sister in the bride."

Amelia smiled just a little as her gaze lifted to Patience's own. "Then you will be my sister?"

"And you will be mine, and that is the most important detail between us. We need not be the same or agree on all matters."

"Save that Arthur is lovely," his loyal sister interjected and Patience laughed.

"He can be very charming, to be sure."

Amelia studied her. "You do believe in love, don't you, Patience?"

"While I can appreciate that love has its merit, I believe marriages should be based upon good sense rather than a fleeting attraction. Love that takes time to flower must be more vigorous than an immediate infatuation."

Visibly reassured, the younger girl gripped the book. "May I borrow this volume?"

"Of course. I hope you enjoy it."

"I shall read it first," the governess said crisply, liberating the book from the hand of her charge. "Then I too shall have your measure, Miss Carruthers."

Amelia and Patience exchanged a glance of complete understanding as the governess turned crisply away.

"I have all three volumes myself," Patience whispered. "You may borrow them from me if you keep them safe."

Amelia smiled at her, clearly delighted, then kissed her cheek. "I can see why Arthur chose you," she said, then at a call from her governess, spun away.

"You will not rout me," Prudence whispered from behind Patience. "I insist upon remaining your favorite sister."

Patience laughed. "We are three already. We can be four."

"True enough," Prudence agreed.

Patience watched Amelia leave the shop, deftly avoiding Miss Grosvenor and her friends. The girl had a composure far beyond her own. "I like her."

"You must if you mean to lend her your own books. You do not even surrender them to me."

"Because you keep them too long, then pretend they are your own and slip them onto your own bookshelves."

Prudence laughed, untroubled by her own avarice for books, and the sisters returned happily to their tasks. The Lais of Marie de France . Patience had not read them in a while and knew she did not have a copy of her own. She would take the copy from the lending library home with her, even if it was in French.