These Wicked Games Page 3

  She thrust a plate of pungent fish under his nose, and Damien’s stomach churned with nausea. The little minx. How long had she known?

  “Later this morning I thought I would read to you for an hour or two from your favorite book of sermons. You take such comfort in Reverend Mumford’s spiritual guidance.”

  “Really, Patience, I’m feeling much improved.” He sat up in bed, dislodging the plump tabby sprawled across his chest. “I remember a storm…thunder…a tree.”

  Patience tutted and pushed him back against the pillow, drawing the coverlet up to his chin. “I just knew the kitties would help. You do dote on them so.”

  There was a light knock at the door. Grimm entered, bearing a gilt-edged salver. “A caller, my lady.”

  Patience plucked the calling card from the tray and squealed with delight. “Wonderful! This will be just the thing, Damien. The one person who is certain to cure your condition!”

  “And who would that be, my angel?”

  “Why, your mother, of course!”

  The Missing Missives

  BY COURTNEY MILAN

  Patience wanted love and laughter. But what is this about…letters?

  With all the men allied against her, Patience has no choice but to rally her own troops. A quick note brings the women in Damien’s family running to her side. But are they there to help—or hurt?

  “My mother?” Damien’s mouth flopped open like a fish.

  “I’ll just fetch her,” Patience said. “I’m going to take a turn in the park with your sister. But before I leave…”

  She moistened her lips and bent to give him a quick peck. But Damien curled his arm around her before she could pull away. He drank in her softness, tasting her lips. She sighed against his mouth, and he nibbled in response. She tasted of chocolate and cinnamon. He could count the number of kisses he had shared with his wife on one hand. And he would, except he needed both hands for the present task. Damien pulled his wife’s sweet form closer. Perhaps he could convince her to send his mother away—

  The sound of a throat clearing interrupted their kiss. He didn’t dare look. His mother. Now there was a cure for ardor, if ever he had heard of one. How the devil had Patience managed to entangle his oh-so-proper mother in this charade? He released his wife and opened his eyes.

  Ah. That mother. A befeathered bonnet roosted atop his aunt Viola’s gray hair like a malevolent, pink turkey. She scowled at him, seeming not the least concerned by his bruised countenance. Damien quickly rumpled the counterpane over his lap, hoping that his aunt had missed the obvious evidence of his passion.

  Patience wiggled her fingers at him and left the room.

  “Hello, ‘Mother.’ You look well.”

  “Scamp,” Aunt Viola remarked without emotion, her bonnet bobbing.

  “You’ll have to excuse my poor conversation. I seem to have mislaid my memory.”

  Aunt Vi rolled her eyes. “Do you think your wife an idiot?”

  “She seems intelligent,” Damien said. “But I can’t recall—”

  Aunt Vi pointed at his head. “If you had been hit by a tree branch, there would be scratches on your face. And bits of bark clinging to your skin. Do you really think that a blow from a branch would have caused that perfectly round bruise?”

  Damien guiltily clapped his hand to his forehead.

  “What did you do,” she continued, “have Jonathan hit you with a candlestick?”

  Damien reddened. “It was Arthur,” he confessed.

  The pink feathers quivered as Aunt Vi buried her face in her hands. “Damien, why on earth are you pretending to be an amnesiac?”

  It had seemed so logical last night, but in the cold light of morning he realized how stupid he sounded. “I couldn’t face her as myself,” he finally blurted out.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Well,” Damien announced haughtily, staring at the ceiling, “she pretended not to know me at your ball. Turnabout—it’s only fair.”

  His aunt’s eyes narrowed. “The truth, Damien. Or I swear I shall read her the sonnet you wrote me when you were eight.”

  Damien gulped. “It was just a joke,” he offered lamely.

  Aunt Viola tapped her cheek impatiently. “The sonnet, Damien.”

  His gaze dropped. “I couldn’t bear to tell her how sorry I was,” he finally whispered.

  There was a long pause. “That’ll do,” his aunt said. “It’s not too late. Get dressed. Walk—no, run to the park. And this time”—she fixed her gimlet glare on him—“this time, you tell her.”

  “Your note was the most delightful thing!” Alexis giggled. “I have never laughed so much over a single piece of paper.”

  “But I sent the note to your aunt,” Patience protested.

  “Oh, I was there.” Alexis airily waved her hand. “I often visit her in the mornings. I love morning visits to family, don’t you?”

  Patience bobbed her head. She wondered how Aunt Vi was getting along with Damien. Perhaps half an hour was a sufficient time to let the man stew.

  “In fact, I picked your missive out of the pile and read it before my aunt awoke,” Alexis confessed. “I always love being the first one to pick through the post. I can sort out which events I’d like to attend. And I adore examining the cunning invitations.” Why, oh why, was Alexis rattling on about invitations? Patience barely restrained a yawn.

  “Ooh! What an enchanting grove! Shall we walk through it? Before you came to town,” Alexis continued, “I used to spring early morning visits on my brother.”

  This topic suddenly interested Patience. “And what did you do on those early morning visits?” she inquired as they started down a path through a small section of oak trees.

  “Why, I went through his post, of course! Usually when I arrived he was still abed, nursing a sore head.” Alexis darted a glance at Patience. “He gets ever so many billets-doux from the ladies, you know.”

  Patience gritted her teeth. Perhaps the subject was not of interest at all. She could see the green on the other side of the woods. They would return as soon as they got out from under these trees. Hopefully, the man was still abed and she could spill something on him. Something hot.

  Wait. Two men stood in the grassy meadow. Damien’s back was to her, but she would recognize those shoulders anywhere. Had he come looking for her? Her heart beat faster in excitement. But Damien’s friend spoke in carrying tones, and his words froze Patience to the core.

  “I hear you’ve set Countess Fraser up at your town home in Mayfair. You must be utterly gob-smacked. It’s not the done thing, putting your Bird of Paradise among the ladies.”

  Patience froze. The ton didn’t know she was his wife. All they saw was an unknown woman coming and going from a gentleman’s home. What must they think of her?

  “Bird of Paradise?” Damien chuckled. “She’s no Bird of Paradise.” Patience’s heart lifted. Yes! He was going to publicly claim her. “With the dance she’s put me through,” Damien continued, “she’s more like a Bird of Perdition.”

  The bottom dropped out of her heart. So she was a Cyprian, and not even a loving one at that? So much for her plan. So much for her husband. And so much for love. She would not cry in public. She spun on her heel and walked quickly in the other direction. She would not cry in public. But perhaps it was a good idea to run.

  It had seemed like such a clever turn of phrase until he heard the tiny gasp. He turned in time to see Patience bolting. Alexis gave an odd little nod to his companion before following in pursuit.

  “Now you’ve put your foot in it,” joked his companion. “You’ll need to lay out a fortune in jewels.”

  Damien contemplated planting the man a facer. But Patience’s fleeing form was growing distant, and he didn’t have the time for a brawl. “She’s my wife,” he growled as he started after her. “My wife!”

  At least, he hoped she would be.

  “I might as well return to the country,” Patience said, choking back her tears a
s she slumped on the Duchess of Alderman’s settee. “You did not hear what the man said. I’ll never be able to show my face in Town again.”

  “I agree,” Alexis said warmly. “My brother can be such a pig. You might as well go.”

  “You can’t leave now,” Aunt Vi insisted. “I could thrash that unthinking idiot. Patience, you came to London last month because I told you he loved you. Do not doubt that he cares.”

  “He loves me? Let me see. First, he avoided me for three years. Then he faked a head injury to avoid talking about our relationship.”

  “My nephew has never dealt well with wounded pride. But—”

  “And,” Patience added with quiet dignity, “he never responded to a single one of my letters.”

  “Letters?” Aunt Vi straightened suddenly, shaking her head. “What is this? You wrote Damien letters?”

  “Every week,” Patience confessed.

  “The man constantly complained that you didn’t answer his correspondence.”

  It was Patience’s turn to frown. “His correspondence? I received none.”

  “But I saw the letters when I visited. Franked, and sitting with the other messages. Has someone been tampering with the post? But none of his servants would…” Aunt Viola trailed off, biting her lip.

  Something cold and clammy skittered down Patience’s spine. As if in a dream, she turned to Alexis, whose face paled and fists clenched. “‘I always love being the first one to pick through the post,’” Patience quoted, her eyes narrowing. “What else do you love doing with the post, Alexis?”

  “I—I—”

  “I’ll wager you do,” Damien drawled from the doorway. Patience lifted her head in wonderment. He leaned casually against the door frame, his eyes resting on her form. Her toes curled and her heart turned over. He smiled apologetically. He held her gaze for only a moment, but it felt like a sweet caress. But then he turned toward his sister, and something positively arctic swept across his features.

  “Alexis,” he whispered, “what on earth have you been doing these last three years?”

  Patience Makes Perfect

  BY SARA MANGEL

  “Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up.”

  —Joseph Barth

  In which the missing missives are thankfully not read, apologies are exchanged, and Damien once again finds a furry animal awaiting him in his bed…

  “Three years?” Alexis scoffed. “Neither of you bothered writing after three months.”

  “That might have been because someone was interfering with our correspondence,” Damien said dryly. Alexis blushed. “But why would you steal them in the first place?”

  “I was angry at you, for one thing, and I was curious about Patience. What kind of brother gets married without his only sister in attendance?”

  Damien groaned. “Alexis, the ceremony lasted less than fifteen minutes, and aside from the vicar, the only witnesses were Patience’s father and the solicitor who drew up the marriage contract.”

  Alexis huffed. “I still think I should have at least been invited.”

  “Come, child,” Lady Alderman said. “I’m sure your brother has a great deal he wishes to say to you, but right now I believe we should leave him alone with his wife.”

  As they were exiting the room, Patience called out, “Wait. Alexis, what did you do with the letters?”

  Alexis turned to face her. “I…I burned them. I’m so sorry.” She hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  In the hallway, Alexis and her aunt looked at each other.

  “You didn’t burn them, did you?” Viola whispered.

  “Of course not,” Alexis replied, grinning widely. Her aunt grinned back.

  Then, in tacit agreement, they pressed their ears against the door.

  “A letter every week, was it?” Damien asked, raising one eyebrow and grinning in a rather supercilious manner.

  “A letter every week for three and a half months,” she conceded, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.

  “So, a total of, let’s see, fourteen letters?” he mused.

  Patience blushed. She marched forward and poked him in the chest. “Exactly how many letters did you send me?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said thousands.”

  She made a sound of patent disbelief.

  “Hundreds?”

  Patience laughed and shook her head.

  He stepped closer and drew her into his arms. “You win. Nine.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful you wrote me at all,” she said, tracing a finger down the row of buttons on his waistcoat. “So, what did you write in those nine letters?”

  Damien thought of the scathing missives he’d penned in the anger of those first months. If his wife had ever read a single one, he would never be where he was now. It was a sobering thought. He released her and strode over to the window, staring blankly out as he sought the right words. Suddenly, he knew just what to say. Thank heaven Alexis had burned those missing missives.

  “I wrote that I was sorry,” he lied. “That I had been an idiot. That I wanted another chance to make our marriage work. That I wasn’t just marrying you for the land.” He drew in a deep breath. “That I’d fallen in love with you. That’s why I went to the park this morning, to tell you, but then everything went wrong.”

  His wife walked over to him and placed one of her small hands upon his arm. “You couldn’t have known what Alexis was doing.”

  He shook his head. “No, I was referring to what I said in the park.” He covered her hand with his. “It was a joke. A stupid joke. I don’t know why I said it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Damien.”

  “I told him you were my wife, but you had already run away. I’m sorry for leaving you all those years ago, for not trying harder to make our marriage work. I—”

  “Damien!”

  He jerked his head up and looked into his wife’s suspiciously moist eyes.

  “I’ll forgive you.” Her voice wobbled. “But only on one condition.”

  Damien pulled her close, savoring the feel of having her in his arms, where she was meant to be. “Anything,” he whispered against her silky curls.

  She pulled back slightly and met his gaze. Tears were freely coursing down her cheeks. His heart clenched to see her cry, but even with her face turning red and blotchy, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “You have to forgive me too,” she choked. “I’ve tried to lay all the blame at your door, but I—”

  He couldn’t bear to hear any more, so he silenced her with a kiss. She opened eagerly to him, and his pulse raced wildly. He brought his hands up to caress her breasts through the thin muslin of her gown. She made a little mewling sound in the back of her throat, and he was lost. He wanted—no, needed—to take her upstairs, and then he remembered where they were. He mentally cursed and reluctantly broke the kiss.

  Patience looked up at him, a dazed expression on her face. He grinned. It was a look he planned to put on her face every day for the rest of their lives. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go home.” They were some of the sweetest words he had ever uttered.

  As soon as they were inside the town house, Damien swept her up in his arms. When he finally set her down, it was on his bed. She noticed that he carefully avoided the tiger-skin rug that had felled him just days before.

  Had it really been less than a week since she’d waltzed with her husband at Aunt Viola’s ball? Less than a week for her to fall in love with her scoundrel of a husband all over again? Less than a week for those three lonely years to fade into insignificance next to the rightness of being in his arms? She couldn’t dispute that it had happened quickly, but nor could she dispute that it was love.

  She was irrefutably, irrevocably, insanely in love with her husband, and miraculously enough, it seemed he felt the same way about her. Damien kissed her, and the flames that had flared so hotly before sprang back to life. T
hey quickly shed their clothes, all modesty dissipated in their urgency, and soon they were naked under the covers.

  “I love you,” Damien said as he braced himself above her. And then he kissed her deeply, and slowly, tenderly, perfectly, made her his own.

  They clung to each other in the aftermath, content simply to hold and be held. Damien finally broke the silence. “I forgot to ask you what was in your letters?”

  Patience thought of the horrible words she’d written, the names she’d called him, the terrible accusations she’d made in her anger and hurt. If her husband had ever viewed what she’d written in those early days of their marriage, he would have sought an annulment at once. She would never have known the bliss he’d just shown her. It dawned on her that she should thank Alexis for burning those poisonous posts.

  “I told you that I was sorry,” she lied. “That I had been an idiot. That I wanted another chance to make our marriage work. That I wasn’t just marrying you for your title or your money.” She paused. “That I’d fallen in love with you.”

  “It seems we’ve wasted a lot of time,” he said, tenderly stroking her curls.

  She nodded. “We’ve a lot to make up for,” she mused, holding him close.

  He took her mouth in a possessive kiss. She responded instantly to him, body, heart, and soul. Somehow she knew it would always be this way with them.

  Damien tumbled her onto her back, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “There’s a lot to be said for this making up business,” he remarked, and then he proved that he wasn’t going to waste even a second more.

  Seven months later…

  Damien awoke on Christmas morning, and sensed at once that his wife was no longer beside him in the bed. His eyes still closed, he frowned and reached out a hand to see if the sheets were still warm from her body. Instead, he discovered a small furry body. His eyes flew open.

  There, curled up on his wife’s pillow, was a cream-colored Pomeranian puppy. Trust his wife to find a dog as fluffy as her cat. “Patience!” he roared.