A shadow fell across her line of sight. Lord Blackwood smiled at her as she looked up, her cheeks already beginning to burn. Angry for behaving like a foolish schoolgirl at the mere sight of him, she shaded her eyes and tilted her head.

  “Are you looking for the others, your lordship?” The question was quite ridiculous because if she could see everyone, so could he. However, she could not think of anything sensible to say but the obvious.

  “No, I was looking for you,” he said, indicating a place next to her on the rug. “May I sit with you, or will I disturb the artist at work?”

  Patience laughed, although her heart thumped with slow, heavy beats and a strange breathlessness overtook her. That familiar horrible, yet somehow exciting sensation began to travel throughout her body.

  “Not at all. You are very welcome to join me.”

  He sat down next to her and smoothed down his riding breeches. He had ridden next to the carriages on their way to the park, and he looked relaxed and comfortable as he stretched out his legs on the rug. He tried to look over her shoulder at the sketch, but she covered it quickly with one hand.

  “Oh, I see,” he said with a smile. “You don’t want me to look too soon.”

  “Exactly,” said Patience, although in fact her reaction had been instinctive. “I’d like to work on it a little more.”

  She continued sketching as he sat beside her. Every now and again Mrs. Sutcliffe gave a stertorous grunt and then fell back into slumber. Patience glanced at Lord Blackwood. He caught her eye and grinned in a conspiratorial way, as if they shared a joke. He pointed to Mrs. Sutcliffe and mimicked someone sleeping. Patience wagged a reproving finger at him and then continued sketching. She had almost forgotten his presence as she became more absorbed in her work. His quiet words made her jump.

  “Idyllic here, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, keeping her eyes on the sketch. “Yes, it is.”

  “I read some information about the park. It has a very interesting history. Apparently the park was established by Edward I, also known as Longshanks, or ‘The Hammer of the Scots.’”

  Patience glanced at him. He turned his face away as he gazed ahead at the verdant scene. “And then in 1625, Charles I brought his court to Richmond Palace to escape the plague in London. He made it into a place for hunting fallow and red deer.” He turned his head back to look at her. “Of course, the deer for which the park is most renowned.”

  “Of course,” she replied. If one of the other ladies had been sitting here with him, they would have talked about recent social events. They would have exchanged witty repartee, perhaps amusing anecdotes, or even flirtatious chat. Was he discussing the historical significance of the park because he thought she was a bluestocking? Or was it because he could think of nothing else that would interest her?

  “Not many people know how much the park has to offer.” He waved one hand in front to indicate a sweeping vista. “It’s so large that it would take a person several days to explore.”

  She bent her head over her sketch, half-annoyed that he continued giving her a history lesson on the park and half-relieved he had picked a safe and neutral topic of conversation. Despite Lorna’s remark about him viewing her with admiration and respect, Patience wondered why he bothered to sit with her and engage in a conversation that must be intensely boring. He must be used to far more sparkling and light-hearted banter from the ladies in his social circle. Perhaps he was being kind and attentive because of his affection for Lorna.

  He indicated Lorna and Sophie laughing as they strolled with Viscount Birdwell and Captain Lyndon. “I think the viscount has developed an admiration for Miss Sutcliffe.”

  Patience glanced at Sophie’s mama, still sleeping peacefully. “It appears so. Mrs. Sutcliffe would possibly approve, but Mr. Capshaw won’t be too pleased.”

  Lord Blackwood put a hand up to shade his eyes as he stared in another direction. “Hmm. I’m not so sure about that. Mr. Capshaw appears to have found another muse. Look!”

  Patience followed the direction of his gaze. Mr. Capshaw’s gloomy expression had disappeared and he was engaged in an animated discussion with Miss Wicklow, who seemed to be as enchanted as he was by the conversation. He waved his arms in the air as if describing the proportions or mechanics of something. Nodding as he spoke, she clasped a small posy of daisies, which no doubt Mr. Capshaw had picked for her.

  Patience could not help smiling at the sudden change in affections. “My goodness. I hope they will suit.”

  “Mr. Capshaw is a very intelligent young man who can be quite likeable but for a tendency to take himself and life too seriously. He is either in the heights of ecstasy or the depths of gloom.” He sighed. “Such are the vagaries and moods of young people in love.”

  Love. Patience prayed with all her might that he would not ask her opinion on love.

  “What do you think of love, Miss Cherwell?”

  Patience felt herself go scarlet from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “I…er—” she squawked in confusion.

  “I know your dedicated care of your departed mama has sheltered you from life,” he said, “but you must have formed an opinion. Perhaps from books and poetry?”

  He cocked his head to one side, waiting to hear it. Patience quickly reassembled her scattered thoughts. He was not asking what she thought about love because he was interested in her opinion. This had something to do with Lorna, but she was not sure where the conversation was leading. Lorna had asked her to get to know him better. So what did it matter if she said the wrong thing? It did not matter at all what she said. This was about Lorna, not her.

  “I believe most fervently in love and the power of love,” she said in a firm voice. Mrs. Sutcliffe grunted, moved her arms as if she felt restless, and then sank back into sleep.

  “I mean,” said Patience in a lower tone, “that I believe love is the greatest goal for any person to aspire towards. To love and be loved in return.”

  His dazzling smile left her breathless. “Miss Cherwell, I am delighted and relieved to hear you express such a…a profound opinion on the subject.”

  Patience felt a sense of boldness creeping over her. No matter what she truly felt, she had his attention and she must do everything in her power to convince him that loving Lorna was the best thing for him. Of course, she must exercise utmost caution and tact so as not to tarnish Lorna’s reputation or discredit her in any way.

  “So you believe in love, sir?”

  He sighed. “Absolutely. I cannot conceive of any worthier goal for a man than to find and marry the woman who will share his life.” He gazed at her. “Sometimes that search becomes a quest that seems impossible, but he must persevere.”

  His eyes were mesmerising, and Patience dropped her gaze to avoid revealing anything of her own feelings. Lorna. She must remember he spoke about his love for Lorna.

  “But if a man truly loves the woman of his dreams, he must be bold and declare himself,” she said, lifting her chin in a defiant gesture and looking at him. “He cannot leave her wondering, guessing, thinking this or that, and perhaps coming to a wrong conclusion.”

  He nodded slowly. “You mean he must not fear rejection?”

  “Of course not!” she cried.

  Mrs. Sutcliffe, demonstrating an acute sensitivity to noise even while in a deep slumber, mumbled under her breath.

  Patience continued in a fierce whisper. “Rejection? I think not, your lordship. That man should rejoice in the knowledge that he is loved, truly loved with a burning passion that the lady might be too shy to reveal.”

  He caught her by one hand. “Too shy to reveal? Oh, Miss Cherwell, you have given me such hope. Do you think she fears this passion might not be reciprocated? Does she fear rejection?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Just think what it means if a woman displays her feelings to a man, sentiments that others might consider unseemly. They would judge her harshly.”

  “But she must not care what others think,” he said in a voice that sounded strangely hoarse, as if he struggled with some repressed emotion. “If only she knew that he reciprocates her ardour with a consuming love that he would give anything to reveal. He burns inside for her touch, her approval, her consent, and for the slightest indication that he may proceed without fear.”

  Patience gazed deep into his eyes. “He may proceed, my lord, without the slightest fear and secure in the knowledge that he is loved beyond all bounds of propriety, that the lady would give anything to find herself at one with him, joined to him irrevocably in life and love!”

  “And what about an age difference?” he whispered. “What if the man is more than a few years older than the woman he loves? Will their love endure?”

  Something squeezed her heart as his words meant the final confirmation of his adoration for young, beautiful, vivacious Lorna. Twenty years was a big gap between Lorna and Lord Blackwood. However, an age difference was not so important, not when two people loved each other. She owed it to her friend to encourage him. She had to press on, no matter if the task broke her heart.

  “What is age,” she whispered back to him, “when two minds think as one, two hearts beat as one, and two bodies are joined as one? The union of mind, body, and spirit transcends age.”

  Patience breathed hard as she spoke, and he continued to stare at her. He did not speak, and his face, already so dear to her, was as familiar to her as her own. Every detail of his features burned into her consciousness. She was floating; uplifted by a thrilling throbbing of blood in her veins, by an intense feeling that overwhelmed her. She leaned towards him in an alarmingly intimate fashion. A mere hair’s-breadth separated their faces. The tiniest movement from either of them would bring their lips together. She sat back and he released her hand.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I was captivated by the fervour, the strength contained in your reply.”

  Patience, flustered, looked around for the charcoal she had dropped. “Oh, my apologies, your lordship. I am not sure what came over me to speak so freely about…er…matters of love. I am sure you consider me forward or impudent.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I am grateful for an open, honest answer in a society where people hide their true feelings and emotions behind a meaningless repartee that reveals nothing of the person’s real sentiments.” He smiled in a warm, intimate way. “You have set my heart at rest.”

  He rose as the sound of voices floated towards them. Patience looked up to see Lorna running forward, her hands outstretched. “Oh, you must come and see the dearest little flock of ducklings that Sophie and I have found.”

  She caught Lord Blackwood by one hand and tugged him along. He looked back at Patience and gave a small shrug as if in excuse.

  Patience waved to Lorna but could not prevent a black despair stealing over her. Why did she feel this way when clearly she had achieved her goal? Lord Blackwood and Lorna strolled, arm in arm, towards the lake where the elusive ducklings had been sighted. Lorna looked up at him. Her face glowed with pleasure, or was it love? He bent his head and made some remark, which sent her into peals of laughter. She tapped his arm as if gently reprimanding him about something. He patted her hand and then covered it with his as they continued to walk. Yes, they always had so much to talk about. If he had wanted proof of Lorna’s love, then Patience had just given him the encouragement he needed to seek the ultimate consummation of that love: a proposal and marriage.

  “My goodness!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, stretching her arms as she woke up. She adjusted her bonnet and tidied her dress. “Did I nod off for a moment?”

  Patience gave her a reassuring smile, “Yes, you did, ma’am, but for no more than two or three minutes.” Mrs. Sutcliffe stared at her, eyebrows drawn together. “Five at the most.”

  “I’m relieved,” said the matron, “for I would not want anyone to think I had been remiss in my duty as chaperone.”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Patience, “and besides, from this vantage point I have kept an eye on…er…things.”

  Mrs. Sutcliffe leaned towards her and whispered, “It’s just the Capshaw boy is not what I had in mind for Sophie, and I simply don’t know how to dissuade him from trailing after her like a lovelorn schoolboy. His mama and I are old friends, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings by suggesting he is not good enough for my Sophie.”

  “You needn’t worry, ma’am. I noticed that Sophie spent most of her time with Viscount Birdwell, and she only walked in a group with him and Miss Hartley and Captain Lyndon.”

  Mrs. Sutcliffe’s face brightened. “Viscount Birdwell? Well, I never. That’s more like it.”

  “But not a word, ma’am,” said Patience. “Perhaps she encouraged Mr. Capshaw only because you did not approve of him. I think if you don’t mention Mr. Capshaw’s name again or forbid him to visit, then he will very soon fade from Sophie’s memory once she discovers the viscount is more appealing.”

  “Capital!” Mrs. Sutcliffe beamed. “Mr. Sutcliffe would far rather encourage someone of the viscount’s standing, so I’ll take your advice.” She took Patience’s hand and squeezed it in gratitude. “What a sensible girl you are, Miss Cherwell.”

  Patience smiled but she drooped inside. Sensible. Who wanted to be thought of as a sensible person when love was what one desired?

  Back home, Lorna danced about the sitting room and expounded on the unusual, interesting, or exciting things encountered at the park; of what the viscount had said and done; and of what the captain had said and done.

  “You didn’t spend much time with his lordship,” said Patience. “Except for looking at the ducklings.”

  Lorna widened her eyes. “Of course not, dear Patience. That was my whole plan for you and his lordship to get to know each other better. I saw you talking with your heads so close that I thought you might bump them together. What did you talk about?”

  Patience reddened. “Oh, this and that. Nothing in particular. He asked me my opinion on a few subjects.”

  Lorna gave her an approving smile. “Good, and I hope you told him what you thought without holding back. I so want you and him to get to know each other better.”

  Patience smiled but did not reply. She had given her opinion freely to Lord Blackwood, and broken her own heart in the process.

  Five

  Patience hesitated at the top of the stairs. A knot of tension tightened in her stomach. She still had mixed feeling about going to the ball, despite her promises to Lorna and Henrietta. Lorna, who had finished dressing first, was already inspecting the two posies lying on the hall table. One was a simple arrangement of spring flowers in delicate pastel shades of pale blue, purple, and white. The other was an elaborate confection of exotic blooms in pinks, whites, and yellows, probably hothouse plants.

  Lorna pounced on the more elaborate posy and said, “This must be the one from Lord Blackwood. It’s so…regal!” Then she picked up the smaller, more modest arrangement. “This is very charming. Did it come with the fancy one, Doris?”

  Doris, flushed with the romance of the occasion and having showed the household a Valentine card from the baker’s apprentice a few streets along, smiled at her. “Oh, no, Miss Lorna, this came separate. Someone delivered it, but he didn’t leave a note or nothing to say who it’s from.”

  Lorna laughed. “He’s not supposed to leave a note, Doris! That defeats the purpose of a Valentine. The identity of the sender should remain a secret.”

  Doris’s face fell. “Oh, but Ted Brown signed his name on his card to me. Is that all right, Miss Lorna?”

  “It’s a matter of choice, Doris, and if you’re lucky enough to know it was Ted and not perhaps Horace Jones, the butcher’s man whom you dislike so much, you won’t go thanking the wrong person.”

  Doris grimaced. “Oh, no, Miss Lorna. I can’t abide Horace Jones. He stinks of the abattoir, and he’s forever hanging about the doorstep like a grim shadow. He even offered me a regular supply of tasty pork chops if I’d step out with him, but I told him I prefer a nice fresh loaf instead.” She slowly slid the card from Ted out of her apron pocket and stroked it. “Ted has such a lovely hand, Miss Lorna. Clear and strong. He’s not so good with the poetry, but I don’t mind.”

  Lorna, laughing, looked up as Patience descended the stairs. “Aren’t we all so lucky! Even Doris received a Valentine.”

  “So I hear,” said Patience. “From Ted Brown. And I see two Valentine posies in time for his lordship’s ball. We are indeed fortunate.”

  Patience stood back to admire Lorna’s ball gown, and made a twirling motion with one hand to indicate she should turn around. She had no idea where Lorna had discovered such a beautiful dress, but she had to admit it was breathtaking. Lorna looked magnificent in a pink gown that somehow did not clash with her fiery locks. A spangled scarf draped over her arms, silver sandals adorned her dainty feet, and her hair was upswept in an elegant twist with curls tumbling onto her shoulders. A quantity of her mama’s diamonds sparkled around her neck, on her ears, and on her wrists. Although Patience thought privately that the diamonds were too much for a young woman, Lorna’s mama had clearly wanted her to wear the jewels. Then, Lorna was not the usual shy young woman one expected. Bold and adventurous in nature and, Patience suspected, indulged by her loving parents, Lorna was no insipid young ingénue.

  Everything that should have clashed somehow blended into a vibrant, glittering vision of loveliness. The posy of bright colours would make a splendid accompaniment. Lord Blackwood must feel incredible passion for Lorna to send something so glorious. Had she mentioned passion in the Valentine poem? Yes, something along the lines of “as my heart burns with passion’s flame.”

  Writing out her feelings, putting her heart’s desire to paper had been the hardest thing in the world. Light-hearted Lorna, always laughing without a care in the world, had likely never felt the pain of an enduring and unrequited love. Every loving glance Lord Blackwood sent Lorna twisted like a knife in Patience’s breast. She had felt better after composing the Valentine. Like purging oneself of a fever or an illness, her heart had lifted, as if the mere act of writing had removed a load from her. A sense of resignation replaced the gnawing ache of sadness. There was nothing left to do but wait for Lorna to announce that Lord Blackwood had made an offer she would be a fool to refuse.

 

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