Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

A rthur slept late on the day of his wedding.

He thought to take only a short nap after another successful night at the tables, but instead, he slept deeply and Taylor had to bodily shake him awake.

It was raining buckets, which Taylor insisted was a sign of good fortune, though Arthur suspected it merely meant the entire party would be wet.

Being late agitated him beyond expectation and he spoiled four cravats before Taylor impatiently insisted upon doing it for him.

"I have more of a flair with a cravat than you," he complained as the valet deftly knotted this fifth one.

"Indeed, sir, the evidence of your prowess is all around us, flung upon the floor."

Arthur grinned at Taylor, who was almost his contemporary. "Is a man not allowed to be disconcerted on his wedding day?"

Taylor arched a brow, finishing the knot with a flourish. "I might consider, sir, that such concern could be a portent."

"Everything is not a portent," Arthur said with impatience.

"But when a man who is always calm and composed has hands that shake in the morning, he either senses his own doom or has indulged overmuch."

"Attribute it to brandy, then, Taylor. I am utterly confident in this match." Despite his claim, Arthur dropped his cufflink. It scuttled under the bed and was unlikely to be retrieved in a timely fashion so he chose another pair.

This vexed him. He preferred the monogrammed silver ones with his sapphire pin.

Taylor gave his boots a last buff and fairly pushed him out the door. Everyone in the household seemed to be waiting upon him, though only one had comments to make upon his tardiness.

"Late, late, late," Lady Beckham said. "A bad sign for the future, to be sure."

"Tardiness is not a portent of doom!" Arthur protested. "I simply overslept."

Lady Beckham arched a brow and he knew that was not the best argument. "Even you know that a match to a tradesman's daughter is a poor choice, regardless of what you say of the matter…"

"But I like Miss Carruthers," Amelia protested, winning a smile from her brother.

"As do I," Arthur said with a surety that made Lady Beckham snort.

"That must explain why you spent the last week avoiding her as if she carried the plague," she said. "That must explain why you have been celebrating your final days as a bachelor as if you face your death this day." She fixed him with a look. "That must explain why you slept late as if dreading the planned event of this morning."

"I mean to become sober and sedate," Arthur insisted. If she knew the truth of his plan, he would be banished for certain. "One last hurrah hurts no one."

Lady Beckham chuckled. "Oh, I will enjoy that, to be sure. You, sober and sedate." She laughed again. "Truly, Arthur, you do not have to wed the girl."

"But I wish to do as much."

"You do not even have to wed her to avoid the other one," she continued tartly, unshakable in her view. Arthur realized Amelia was watching him with some concern.

"Mother, I wish to wed Miss Carruthers," he said with authority, but the older woman simply shook her head.

"I give you credit for constancy, at least. Do not cry to me when you regret the bond you willingly made."

They rode to the church in silence, Arthur feigning fascination in the view outside the windows. He knew Lady Beckham was waiting for his capitulation, for he felt the weight of her gaze upon him.

But he was resolute. Perhaps that was what troubled Lady Beckham.

He realized that his palms were damp within his gloves and marveled at that. Like Taylor, he was accustomed to his own surety. He was not afraid to wed Miss Carruthers, for he liked her better than any young lady he had yet encountered.

Arthur realized with a start that what troubled him was his own concern. He had spent two decades not caring a whit for anything, taking advantage of all that was offered to him, savoring his good fortune and seeking more. He did not truly care if Lady Beckham cast him out, for he had experienced twenty years of unanticipated comfort, if not luxury. He kept his secrets and confided in no one, and gave every appearance of being a reckless and shallow fool.

But he liked Patience. He could not bear to think of losing her, even at this early juncture, and he feared that if and when Lady Beckham reached the limit of her tolerance, Patience might find him less interesting than once she had.

She was practical, after all.

Had the root of his allure been his fortune—or access to one—and not himself?

What a daunting notion!

But then, if there was one person in all of England who would so confound expectation, it was Miss Patience Carruthers.

The coach halted and a footman offered Lady Beckham a hand.

"Your jacket is stained," Amelia whispered once their mother had descended and Arthur checked his cuffs with concern. They were perfect, as he expected from Taylor, as was the front and the lapels—and Amelia laughed wickedly before she, too, stepped out of the coach.

"I made you check," she whispered and Arthur grinned, pretending to reach and ruffle her hair. She ducked from his hand, then darted back to his side. "You look wonderful," she said, kissed his cheek, then stepped out.

Arthur took a breath, adjusted the rose in his buttonhole, then seized his hat and stepped out of the coach. He nodded amiably to those gathered on the steps as he strode to the church, telling himself that he would win his bride's admiration, one way or the other.

Once inside, he discovered that his bride's family outnumbered his own, which was most curious. On his side of the church stood his mother, uncle and sister. On Patience's side, were two sisters and Baron Trevelaine, two young male cousins—undoubtedly those who would inherit the publishing business one day - an uncle and aunt, and the Duke of Haynesdale. Arthur was well aware of the Duke of Haynesdale's stern eye upon him, and recalled his own insistence that it was love that drove his choice. He nodded to the vicar who cleared his throat and pointedly checked his pocket watch, then turned with everyone as his bride entered the church with her father.

Arthur's breath caught. He knew Patience was pretty—his first compliment had not been an idle one—but on this day, she looked so lovely that a lump rose in his throat at her appearance. Her dress was silk and of the perfect shade of blue to make her eyes appear even more mysterious. She had done something different with her hair, for soft golden curls framed her face, making her appear more delicate and feminine than was her usual choice. She carried a nosegay of lily-of-the-valley, the scent filling the church, and wore a modest string of pearls.

He felt, looking upon her, that marriage was a far more sacred and special bond than he had considered before, and could not evade the sense that he stood on the cusp of something entirely new. It was humbling, and it was thrilling, and his heart thumped as she stepped to his side. He hoped she felt even slightly the same.

They began a new adventure together and he could not have imagined a more steadfast companion.

He smiled when she reached his side and Patience smiled back at him, her wondrous eyes lighting and her cheeks flushing as she looked up at him. It was a sight he would never tire of seeing and he offered his hand to her, feeling a tide of satisfaction when she put her hand in his.

Clearly, he was ready to make a change.

* * *

One glimpse of Arthur standing before the parson and Patience's heart began to skip. She could not look away from him, his dark jacket making him look larger and broader, the waves of his hair as dark as midnight, his boots gleaming. When he turned, she was sure she could see the fierce blue of his eyes even at a distance and when he smiled, she blushed to her very toes. There was no one else in the chapel for her, no one save Arthur, though as she drew near, she could not help but notice that he looked tired. She would not heed the poisonous tales of Miss Grosvenor, not when she could lose herself in the intensity of his perusal.

He offered his hand and, heart in her throat, she placed hers upon his. She saw him catch his breath, she noted the quick glance he flicked her way, and she fairly felt his satisfaction. "Good morning, Miss Carruthers," he murmured, his voice sending a thrum through her. "Shall we wed?"

She smiled, not troubling to hide her delight. "Yes, Mr. Beckham, we shall."

His smile flashed, then they turned as one to the parson to join their lives together, for better or for worse.

* * *

Patience closed the door of her new room behind herself later that afternoon and took a breath. Though the day had been wondrous, she was unaccustomed to so much social activity. The solitude of her bedchamber was a welcome change, though the room was large enough to host a reception. Indeed, the space was so commodious that the silence seemed to echo. She stood for a moment and looked about herself, marvelling that this should be entirely her own.

Affluence was seductive, to be sure. She scarcely spotted a servant in this house, but every detail was attended in a timely manner. Perhaps there were other passages for the staff.

The wedding had been lovely, all the familiar words taking on a wealth of new meaning when she said them herself. Arthur had been solicitous, always at her side, his hand upon her elbow, his murmured commentary in her ear. She knew she did not imagine that he had ensured she was never left alone with his mother. His sister had been delighted and given her a hug, then had spent much of the wedding breakfast discussing fashion with Prudence. Lady Beckham had hosted a lovely breakfast at the house in Berkley Square and most guests had lingered, openly admiring the gracious home. Catherine and her husband had only attended the breakfast briefly as Catherine was tired. Catherine had pressed a letter into Patience's hand upon her departure, with a whispered "for tonight". It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Beckham.

Patience had stood in the doorway when Prudence and her father left, waving as the coach took them back to Carruthers House, feeling as if she had been left behind. She was well aware of Lady Beckham's disdain of her choice. It was Arthur whose hand landed on the back of her waist. He urged her back into the house, they made their farewells and he escorted her up the stairs.

Patience met her new maid there, a pretty girl named Gellis who had been in service in the Beckham household for some time. She had dark hair and dark eyes, as well as a lively smile, and Patience had liked her immediately. Arthur had left them alone and they had reviewed Patience's wardrobe in her new room. Gellis fussed with the fire and the lamps, then the girl had left.

It was late afternoon by the time Patience was alone.

Though the rain still drove against the windows, the room was warm and welcoming. The rugs were thick beneath her feet and a fire crackled on the hearth. The lamps glowed against the growing darkness, but the quiet only allowed all of Patience's doubts to gather and assail her.

There was no sign of Arthur and the door to his chamber was resolutely closed. Patience could not hear anyone else in the house—she might have been alone in an enormous palace—but when her gaze fell upon the boxes of her books, relief surged through her. Wentworth had seen to their delivery, of course, and she sighed once, telling herself that she should not miss home so soon as this.

There was nothing to say that the butler here was not as conscientious and efficient as Wentworth. She wondered if this house would ever feel like home, or if she would always feel like Lady Beckham's guest.

Was she as unwelcome a guest as she suspected?

Had she been mad to accept Arthur's offer? In this moment, she feared she had been. Though she had believed Arthur's promise when they made their agreement, his manner since had not been reassuring. Were the tales of his evening revels all true? If they were, how might such a man establish a reputable business? How might his promise be fulfilled? Every moment in this house, so much more lavish than the one she knew, added to her uncertainties. His mother did not like her. She was a guest in Lady Beckham's home, but there had been no mention of she and Arthur establishing their own household.

The heart of her concern was her fear that he had seen his goal achieved and hers would be forgotten. They were married, or at least had exchanged their vows, and he had not changed his habits a whit. To be sure, he was charming, but after their shopping excursion, he might have forgotten her very existence.

Had that only been to ensure that she gave a suitable appearance as his wife?

Doubt gnawed at Patience, growing as the minutes passed.

Her life had been her own, her choices hers to make within some restrictions, but now she had ceded authority to her husband and possibly his mother. What would be the expectation of her here? Would she be kept from working in her father's store? Would she be expected to become frivolous herself, a lady who only shopped and visited and left cards, or who rode in the park each morning? Patience could not bear the prospect.

And what of the night ahead? What would it be like? Would the consummation hurt? There was some intimation that it might. How much? Or would their union be as wondrous as hinted in many novels? Would she and Arthur find a magical accord like that acclaimed by poets, or would the consummation simply be a physical deed, completed without preamble or fuss?

She considered the note from Catherine but did not open it in Arthur's absence. It was addressed to both of them, after all. What was inside it? A page from the mysterious book? Patience hoped as much, with all her might.

And where was Arthur?

Patience paced the ample room. How she disliked any absence of information and detail! If only Catherine had surrendered the entire book of intimate advice! She felt in desperate need of instruction.

The boxes of her books had not been placed in the small adjacent chamber, but were beside the door to that room. Patience looked inside it to find that a new bookcase filled what had been the empty space. Her heart glowed that Arthur had remembered. Delighted, she went to examine it, running a hand over the beautifully finished wood, and admiring that there were glass-fronted doors to protect the books from dust.

"Does it meet your specifications?"

She spun to find the man in question watching her. Arthur leaned in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his breeches. His jacket had been discarded, the glint in his eyes making her feel warm. He might have been a cat for all his stealthy approach.

Patience's heart skipped a beat. "You surprised me."

"Was I not expected?"

"Of course! Are you responsible for this addition?"

"I thought you wished for one." He took a step closer and her uncertainties blossomed.

She spun to the bookcase again, avoiding Arthur's steady gaze as her heart leapt. "It is beautiful," she said, running a hand across it again. She saw that her hand trembled ever so slightly, and she told herself that she had no cause to fear him. "A fine piece of workmanship."

"It was not my plan to offer a deficient gift," he said, his tone teasing.

Patience caught her breath as he came to stand beside her and could have lost herself in the warm scent of him. The memory of his previous kisses brought heat to her cheeks. She granted him a sidelong glance, noting how imposing and utterly male he was.

Her husband.

Goodness.

"I hope the doors were a good addition," he said. The room seemed very small with Arthur so close beside her and curiously lacking in air. "They were my suggestion to the cabinetmaker."

"They are perfect." Patience caught her breath. "Books, as I am certain you know, are adversely affected by exposure to humidity or bright light, due to the lack of stability of the paper. A book protected from both light and dust will retain its original condition for a considerable period of time…" Her words faltered as she realized what she was doing. She risked another glance toward Arthur to find him smiling, just a little.

"Am I so fearful as that?" He leaned closer, his gaze locked upon her and his eyes dark. Once she met his gaze, she felt snared and could not look away.

Patience swallowed, aware that he watched her closely. "I merely meant to show my appreciation for the addition of the doors. Few would have considered them, given the expense," she managed to say.

Arthur turned to consider the bookcase himself, leaving her simultaneously relieved to have his attention diverted and missing his perusal.

The man confused her beyond all expectation! She watched him through her lashes, hating that she was essentially his possession now, and desperate for some reassurance that all would be well.

"And what is the merit of having funds if one does not acquire what one desires?" Arthur did not seem to expect a reply, which was fortuitous. His hand landed on the back of her waist, a possessive weight that sent a thrill through her—and struck her dumb. His thumb moved against her spine in a slow caress that Patience felt keenly even through all the layers of her clothing. She stared at the bookcase without seeing it and swallowed.

The man would think she was a fool.

Indeed, she felt like one. There was not a thought left in her head. Her entire being was focussed upon the slow motion of his thumb, of the waves of pleasure emanating from that spot, of the sense that time stopped and would remain thus until he chose otherwise. In a way, it was terrifying to feel herself so close to losing command of herself, to surrendering to sensation.

But that was the effect Arthur Beckham had upon her. She supposed she should become accustomed to it, even learn to trust it. The notion was startling.

"Thank you," she managed to say. "It is a delightful surprise."

"Is it such a surprise that I would see my bride pleased?" Arthur said softly and she shook her head. "I never thought to silence you with a bookcase," he teased. "What should be the result if I gave you a library?"

She felt herself flush. "I am pleased, sir…"

"Arthur," he corrected gently.

"And perhaps overwhelmed by such generosity."

"Is that it?" he whispered, then urged her closer as if he guessed otherwise. "Might a kiss be in order on this day?" he asked and she heard a challenge in his tone.

"Yes. Of course!" A wife should kiss her husband. She should kiss Arthur. She wanted to kiss Arthur.

But Patience could not initiate the embrace. Once again, she felt an unwieldy mix of emotion, anticipation and uncertainty churning together so that she could do nothing but wait.

Arthur turned her to face him, his hands fitting around her waist. She held her breath as he bent down, then his mouth closed over her own with ease. His kiss was sweet and gentle, much like the first one he had bestowed upon her in the carriage, the one that had haunted her dreams in the nights since. He did not demand but seemed to cajole her to join him.

Patience chose to surrender to his invitation. She eased a little closer to him, well aware of his heat and stillness, then stretched to her toes to lean against him. Arthur made a little growl of satisfaction and angled his head to deepen his kiss.

Goodness. She found she could only close her eyes and enjoy, her hands clutching his shirt. She had never felt such warm and welcome pleasure. His kiss was enticing and seductive. She felt as if something warm unfolded within her, something that promised far more than even this. She dared to place her hands upon Arthur's shoulders and lean against him, tilting her own head that she might kiss him back. She opened her mouth to him and sighed at the perfect caress of his tongue, the way his broad palm slid up her back, the heat of his fingers at her nape.

Oh.

He broke their kiss and looked down at her with a satisfaction that pleased her mightily. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckham," he said with a smile, his eyes glowing, and she laughed despite herself.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Beckham." Their words reminded her of Catherine's missive but before she could speak, Arthur raised his hands to remove the pins from her hair with purpose.

"I have wanted to do this since we first met," he confessed, his eyes dark and his voice low. Patience did not know what to say. "The prospect of you in disarray has haunted my dreams," he said, further astonishing her. "Patience, the siren of my visions, hair unbound, a beguiling flush upon her cheeks. Temptation personified."

Was he teasing her? Patience had never thought to haunt the dreams of any man, but Arthur was so solemn that she was tempted to believe him. "Me?" she whispered and he chuckled.

"You. Lovely, clever Patience." He stole a kiss and murmured against her throat. "I yearn to see how far this blush extends," he confessed, his fingertip sliding along the neck of her bodice.

Oh! His touch lit a line of fire that melted her knees and ignited a heat in her belly that was new and wonderful. His hand slid lower, his palm cupping her breast through her dress and Patience could not take a breath. She looked up and he captured her mouth beneath his own again, the sweet urgency of his embrace leaving her dizzy.

He whispered her name when he broke his kiss, cleared his throat and returned his attention to the task of unfastening her hair. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing. He was close, so very close. She took the opportunity to study him, to note the thickness of his dark lashes, to wonder at his thoughts. In this moment, Patience was keenly aware of the differences between them. His caress made her feel treasured and protected, even while the brush of his fingertips aroused her, a combination so alluring that she could not summon a word to her lips. When his gaze flicked to meet hers and he winked quickly, her heart jumped. She lowered her gaze to the sapphire pinned to his cravat as his hands moved through her hair. She felt unbound, unfastened, revealed, and uncertain. She trembled, wanting something she could not name.

Was it possible to err in this endeavor?

The pins from her hair landed upon the desk behind her as Arthur discarded them. She felt her hair fall to her shoulders, then his fingers slid into its length with possessive ease.

"Like honey," he whispered with a surprising reverence. He lifted the weight of her hair aside, kissing her slowly beneath her ear. She felt the quick flick of his tongue, the graze of his teeth upon her earlobe, and was certain her heart would burst when it beat so fast.

She heard herself whisper his name, her voice trembling.

"Shall we commence the hunt?" he whispered in her ear, his fingertips sliding down her back. His other hand rose to her breast, his thumb sliding across the nipple so firmly that she gasped aloud. Patience felt both hot and shivery, filled with a desperation to know more.

"The hunt?" she echoed.

Arthur smiled. He bent and nuzzled her beneath her ear, sliding his teeth across her earlobe before kissing it. Patience caught her breath, then shivered at the murmur of his words so close in her ear. "For your bewitching spot, of course," he whispered, a thread of humor in his tone.

Patience might have laughed under normal circumstance, but this was too overwhelming. "I wager you know where to seek it," she whispered and felt the breath of his laughter.

"I do." He cupped her face in his hands, smiling as he backed her into the small desk. His hips were pressed against hers, his chest almost against her breasts, a proximity that sent fire through her veins. His leg eased between hers, a move that felt outrageously intimate even though they were both fully dressed. She caught her breath at the feel of his thigh between her own, so firm and powerful. His gaze was unswerving and so hot that her mouth went dry.

Patience could not take a full breath. She hated the sudden awareness that she was no more in command of herself or her situation than a leaf blown in the wind.

Could he desire her this much? She wanted to believe his response was honest, but feared it might not be. Perhaps he could burn for a great beauty, or a rich heiress, but not for plain Patience whose price was the publication of books with his fortune.

Once she surrendered to him and this deed, she might be consumed so completely that she might as well cease to exist. There would be only her husband's expectations and demands, her duty to deliver a son, and his wishes, whatever they might be. She feared that she stood on the cusp of losing herself forever and despite the temptation, Patience could not bear that truth.

She spun away from Arthur and retreated a few steps, desperately needing to gather her thoughts. He watched her avidly, as if she were one of the fascinating beauties of the ton , and that only bolstered her sense that his fascination was feigned. No man had ever looked at her as if she held the key to every hoard of treasure known to mankind.

Certainly, no man of the ilk of Arthur Beckham had ever done as much.

"What is amiss?" he asked, leaning against the desk to watch her. His confidence, as ever, was disconcerting, and she found her words spilling forth.

"Catherine gave me a missive, addressed to the both of us," she said, knowing she sounded prim and practical but unable to help herself. "It seems a good moment to savor her good wishes for our match." The very practicality of her own suggestion helped her to regain her usual composure.

"Does it?" His tone was calm, but his eyes had narrowed slightly. "I should have thought such felicitations could wait a little while."

"Surely there is time." She knew she sounded breathless when she replied.

"Surely there is a more pressing demand."

"What might that be?" Her voice fairly squeaked.

"It is our wedding day, Patience." The way he said her name made her heart thrum in a most irrational way. "We will celebrate our union. That is our course for the immediate future." His lashes swept down as he surveyed her. When he met her gaze, his own filled with hunger, she nearly jumped. "It might take some time." He smiled a little, clearly anticipating that endeavor.

Patience caught her breath and averted her gaze. "I was thinking of the book," she lied. She thought of no such thing. She thought of Arthur's lips upon her earlobe and the resulting sense that she stood on the lip of an abyss, that she could tumble into sensation and be lost forever.

It was utterly unlike her, a temptation to madness, a sure sign that she lost command of herself already.

"The book?" he echoed. She realized he was very still and her heart fluttered.

"The one we will publish, of course. The book at the root of our entire arrangement!"

"Ah yes, the book."

"Catherine might have surrendered a part of it, to offer advice for this night."

Arthur chuckled, his expression was so wicked that Patience caught her breath. "I assure you that I have no need of advice upon matters of intimacy. I guarantee that I shall see you satisfied." He beckoned to her with one finger, his surety proving his experience to be more complete than her own. She felt she was invited by the devil himself to partake of some forbidden pleasure, and was more tempted than she had ever been before. "Come and find out, my lady."

Patience forced herself to be resolute. Such revels could wait, if indeed he meant to keep his pledge. She needed an assurance before she surrendered, a gesture of good faith, a proof of his commitment to their shared future.

Arthur waited, those eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Patience," he invited, his gaze so fixed upon her that he might read the very truth in her eyes. Patience felt her lips part. She knew she clutched a fistful of her dress. She could not look away from him.

And yet, she had to be sure.

"I must open the missive first."

He gestured for her to do as much, so watchful that she felt she entertained a powerful predator. A great cat lounged in her chamber, perhaps, prepared to pounce upon her and claim what he believed to be his due.

Her hands shook as she opened the missive. Catherine had written out what had to be part of the volume she had in her possession. Patience read it, then cleared her throat and straightened. "Here. You see? I should demand a secret of you," she said, then read the passage aloud before Arthur could respond.

* * *

Patience could not realize how very alluring she was. Arthur had never seen a lady so lovely. Her unbound hair cascaded over her shoulders and gleamed in the light of the fire. It was the hue of honey, filled with lights of gold, and so lustrous that he wanted to bury his hands in it. Her lips were ruddy and the neckline of her dress slightly askew, the sight of her neck and shoulder reminding him of the sweet taste of her skin. He had felt her shiver at his touch and easily recalled the feel of her nipple tightening to a bud beneath his hand. He had sensed her capitulation and yearned for it.

Her trepidation, however, could not be mistaken. He was certain the reading of the missive was a delay. What did she fear? Him? Pleasure? He did not know but he wanted to defend her more than he had desired anything.

He was so snared in his admiration that he did not immediately understand her words.

"Upon the matter of secrets…" Patience read. " No deed creates a stronger bond between lovers than the confession of a secret. A secret is often, by its very nature, a matter of tremendous personal importance, so the sharing of it with any other being implies a profound trust. The secret once revealed also creates a bond between confessor and recipient, one that is not readily compromised. Thus, I can only encourage any lady reading this volume to consider the possibility of her beloved having a secret, and thence to contrive to learn it. This is not, it must be noted, in order to use this secret as a threat, for that would be a breach of the entire marvel of love, but instead to gain greater understanding of the hidden depths of the lover's nature. We each have details of ourselves, dreams and visions, history and secrets, that we surrender to few others, if any at all—to become the custodian of another's secret is the sweetest burden of all." She lowered the missive, her gaze rising to his. "I would have a secret of you, sir, before we proceed."

She might have been a sphinx demanding the answer to a riddle at a crossroads. Her gaze was steady, her eyes darker than was typical. She stood straight and did not blink, challenging him to offer what she desired.

"A secret?" Arthur echoed.

"You confessed earlier that you had many of them."

"Several, to be sure, but that is not many."

"Then offer me one, as a sign of good faith."

The very prospect filled Arthur with agitation. "I see no reason to burden you thus, Patience."

"Save that I have asked you to. You did promise to share your secrets with me, which is why we wed. I ask for only one on this night, before our match is consummated and our joined future sealed."

But the last thing Arthur wished to do was surrender a secret. He was not in the habit of confiding in anyone, and he knew that until their match was consummated, their shared future was not guaranteed. "In the morning," he countered, but Patience shook her head.

"No," she said with resolve. "It must be now, and it must be a secret shared with no one else. You must show me that you desire this match, and you must do it with a deed instead of a word, since words come so readily to you."

"You ask a great deal, Patience, and for what cause? Are you afraid to keep your pledge to me?" He kept his tone light but she did not smile.

"What I fear is that you think this marriage is a diversion and a game, another wager that may or may not yield the results you desire. We have an agreement that I fear you mean to break."

"Patience! We are agreed that we will publish books, or one book in particular."

"And yet I see no indication that you intend to adhere to that agreement." She lifted her chin, her eyes blazing in challenge, and clearly had no notion of how enticing she was. It was all Arthur could do to hold his ground instead of kissing her senseless.

She would despise him if he overwhelmed her objections by touch. He understood as much instinctively. Whatever his inclinations, he had to regain her alliance with logic.

"What indication should there be?" he asked. "We have only just exchanged our vows."

"I would have hoped you might have changed your habits."

"Why should I do as much?"

"Because your habits are wasteful." Patience spoke with resolve. "To drink and gamble and cast money at every indulgence is wasteful. You have so many resources, and instead of using them for some good purpose, you seek only your own pleasure. You think solely of your own comfort and entertainment, when there is so much that could be achieved."

Arthur knew he should tell her of the funds he had collected, but he could not. The confession stuck in his throat. He had never confided in anyone in his life for fear of betrayal. He knew he should trust Patience, but in his heart, he feared the result. Change could not be accomplished so quickly as that.

After all, it sounded as if his situation was perilous. What would she do?

It did not help that he was aroused and addled, that he wanted only to kiss her again and ensure her satisfaction, then gain his own.

Patience strode away from him when he did not reply, doubtless having no inkling of how tempting he found the sight of her nape, her loosened hair, the curve of her ankles. She could have been a siren sent to guarantee he lost this debate, for his thoughts were filled with the memory of her hair in his hands.

And desire for more.

Did he dare to surrender a secret? Which one? That he was not who he claimed to be? That his life was a deceit from one end to the other? That Lady Beckham might withdraw every penny from his reach that was derived from her income and holdings? Arthur found he did not—for without the funds to publish her book, Patience might find him an unsatisfactory spouse.

It was a poor moment to realize that he was falling in love with his clever wife.

It was a worse moment to realize he would do almost anything to keep her by his side.

A secret. How unfortunate that every one of his secrets had the potential to turn her against him forever. He was snared between bad choices.

Dame Fortune, it seemed, had abandoned him at the worst possible moment.