Page 67 of The Virtues of Christmas
“You’ve reached the age of consent. A few years one way or the other aren’t relevant. I would like to know what day you were born.”
She drew her feet up under her skirts. “The viscount valued my youth.”
Him again. “The viscount was a shallow, greedy, arrogant young fool. Cuddle up, Patience.”
The dubious glance she shot him confirmed that in addition to many other failings, the viscount hadn’t bothered to share simple affection with the woman he’d proposed to. Dougal hefted Patience into his lap and drew his grandmother’s quilt around her.
“Like so,” he said. “Cozy and friendly. Ask me more questions.”
“When will you take me to bed?”
“Your enthusiasm for this venture warms my heart, Patience. May I remind you, you haven’t eaten since noon. If we’re to put that bed to its best use, you’ll need your strength.”
She straightened enough to peer at him. “You’ll need yours too.”
“I live in that hope.” Dougal also hoped he’d be able to restrain his passion enough to please his lady, and he further hoped the snow didn’t let up for a few days, because recovering from his good fortune might take that long.
“Tell me about your family, Dougal.”
Over tea, cheese toast, and sliced apples, he obliged as Patience pulled pins from her hair. MacHugh the saddlemaker was his cousin, as was MacHugh the stationer. MacHugh the fishmonger wasn’t related as far as they could tell, but the trail was promising, three generations back on the Irish side.
Cousins Hamish, Rhona, Colin, and Edana might visit London in the spring, though Hamish had no use for city life. Dougal’s younger sister Bridget was walking out with the blacksmith’s son.
“So many people,” Patience said around a yawn. “Do you suppose the bedroom has warmed up?”
“Aye. I do admire your ability to focus on a topic, Miss Friendly.”
She was back in Dougal’s lap, a warm, lovely weight of female cuddled in his arms. She’d put away a good quantity of food, while the wind had rattled the windows and spindrifts of snow had whirled from the rooftop.
“I like this,” she said. “I like that you’re affectionate. I suspect I am too.”
Please, may it be so.“Let’s find out, shall we?”
Dougal rose with Patience in his arms and carried her to the bed. For all that she’d asked after his relations, his education, his favorite books, and whether he knew how to ride a horse, she still hadn’t officially, entirely, unequivocally accepted his proposal.
He settled her on the bed and closed the door, the better to keep in the heat. “Do you need help with your hooks and stays and whatnot?”
“Hooks, yes, but I favor jumps,” she said, pushing off the bed and giving him her back. “I have experience, you know. The viscount saw to that.”
She swept her braid away from her nape and stood before Dougal, her back to him, a tender, private part of her exposed for the most mundane reasons.
“You must not tell me the viscount’s name,” Dougal said, starting on the three thousand hooks marching down the center of her back. “Not ever.”
“You can’t call him out. He’s a titled gentleman, and he’d decline to meet you, owing to the differences in your stations. That tickles.”
“I’m not about to give some useless prat of a title a chance to injure me,” Dougal said, “but between the MacHughs, the MacQuistons—my mother was a MacQuiston—the MacDuffs, and the MacPhersons, all of whom I claim as relations, the viscount’s every debt, inane blunder, stupid wager, or expensive mistress would soon become common knowledge if you tell me his name. My competitors would pay dearly to publish that sort of tattle.”
Patience peered at Dougal over her shoulder. “You don’t publish tattlers. Why not?”
“It’s not my calling. How do you ever get dressed in the morning?”
“My housekeeper assists me, and not all my dresses are this impractical.”
Her chemise was a surprisingly frothy, frilly affair peeking up over her jumps. Dougal was not a connoisseur of lady’s underlinen, but he wanted to see Patience some fine day wearing only that chemise and a smile.
Though stockings might be a nice touch too. White silk with red garters.
“All done,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I haven’t a sheath, Patience. Do you know what that means?”
