Page 66 of The Virtues of Christmas
He grabbed the candle and led her to a door that Patience had assumed was a closet. A stairwell rose up into darkness, the air frigid.
“It’s not much,” he said, “but it’s mine and quite convenient.”
A merchant family often lived above or behind the shop. Why shouldn’t Dougal do likewise? His apartment was at the top of the stairs, his sitting room cozy, much like the one Patience had inherited. A velvet sofa sat before a brick hearth. A dry sink held china and glassware—also a pair of decanters.
“I didn’t realize you had quarters up here.”
“This apartment is part of the reason I bought the place,” Dougal said, kneeling before the cold hearth. “Starting a business calls for long hours, and the less time spent gadding about the streets, the more time spent on productive labor.”
The distinguishing feature of the room was the number of books. Shelves along one wall included classics, novels, atlases, histories, poetry, and herbals.
“You do love to read,” Patience said as Dougal coaxed a fire to life. “You speak French?”
“I was a schoolteacher. Once you have the Latin, you’ve a toehold on French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Greek. I like the look of you here, Patience, among my books and treasures.”
No longer Miss Friendly. “Show me the rest.”
He dusted his hands, replaced the fireplace screen, and bowed her through the door into the second room.
A sanctum sanctorum. In the corner stood a very large bed—neatly made, a blue and white patchwork quilt over the whole. More books graced another set of shelves, and a large desk occupied the corner nearest the windows. The table beside the bed held three books, one of them open, and on the desk the standish, stack of foolscap, and blotter sat in the same arrangement as on the desk one floor below.
A faded carpet of cabbage roses covered the floor, and a pair of large, worn slippers were positioned by the bed.
Those slippers would be exquisitely comfortable.
Patience peered behind the privacy screen and confirmed that Dougal was a tidy man, even in his private quarters. His wardrobe was similarly arranged, everything in order.
He wouldn’t expect her to pick up after him, and he’d set that example for their children.
That mattered, but still, Patience could not find the words to tell Dougal she’d marry him. She’d said yes once before—clearly, unequivocally—and hadn’t ended up married.
Perhaps instead of words, deeds might do.
She crossed the room and stood before Dougal. “I care for you a very great deal, Dougal P. MacHugh, publisher. I esteem you greatly, and circumstances have conspired to give me an opportunity to esteem you intimately as well. Take me to bed, Dougal.”
His brows rose, suggesting she’d surprised him, and then he raised her hands and kissed them, one after the other.
“Are ye sure, lass?”
“I’m sure,” Patience said, stepping into his embrace. Mrs. Horner and the professor would be scandalized, the Windham sisters might not understand, and Patience wasn’t entirely sure of her own motives, but she knew exactly where she wanted to spend the night, and with whom.
* * *
The part of Dougal that reveled in words worried that Patience hadn’t explicitly said yes to his proposal. Perhaps he should have asked permission to court her, which was how the Quality went about an engagement, except he wasn’t a true gentleman, in the strict definition of the term.
And yet, Patience was kissing him as if he were the crown prince of her every dream.
Dougal kissed her back, because shewasthe crown princess of his every dream, also the queen of his mercantile ambitions and the empress of his good fortune.
Patience shivered, and Dougal recalled that his bedroom was damned near freezing. “Come with me,” he said, leading her into the front room. “Swing the kettle over the fire, and I’ll get a blaze going in the bedroom. There’s bread, cheese, and apples in the window box. I’ll be but a moment.”
He needed that moment to regain his self-possession, then gave up the exercise for hopeless when all he could think of was Patience warming up the bed with him. He turned down the covers, traded boots for slippers, made sure the fire was off to a good start, then prepared to persuade a lady to accept his proposal.
Patience sat on the sofa, staring into the fire. “There’s much I don’t know about you,” she said. “How old are you?”
Dougal took the place beside her. “I’ll be thirty-two on St. David’s Day. What else do you want to know?”
“You don’t care how old I am?”
