Page 71 of The Virtues of Christmas
“This is not an editorial meeting, Dougal, in the name of all that is—oh, that’s lo-ve-ly.”
A woman who made her living with words did not speak in syllables, but as Dougal joined with Patience, she lost even that ability. Sighs were all she had left, along with soft moans, kisses, and all manner of caresses.
The sensation as Dougal joined with her was one of fullness, of intimacy so overwhelming and right, Patience gave up trying to label it and surrendered to the glory of being an adult female at her pleasures. Dougal’s stubborn unwillingness to hurry became a determination to cherish, and how Patience treasured him for that.
“Patience, stop thinking. Feel the rhythm,be with me.”
Dougal punctuated his words with a particular emphasis to his thrusts, and celestial choirs could not have distracted Patience from the resulting sensation. She met him the next time, went seeking that same exclamation point of arousal, and found it.
Again, and again, and again, until she was the one creating the rhythm, and all she knew was that to find where it led, she must be closer to Dougal.
Pleasure coalesced where they joined, a bright, astounding, precious sunburst. Dougal didn’t leave her hovering in view of the beautiful vista either. He stayed with her, knowing somehow exactly how to make the joy last, how to be both the breeze that held her aloft and the connection that let her fly free.
A sense of vindication gilded Patience’s repletion when the soaring moments settled gently back to reality. She’d guessed that lovemaking should have been much more than she’d been allowed to know. The viscount had betrayed her in many ways, but the self-doubt he’d created was at last allowed to die.
He’d been like those statues in the museum. Not enough clay, no real life, no individual features, so thoroughly had privilege and arrogance worn away his humanity.
This lovemaking with Dougal was real.
This was love.
Dougal slowly withdrew, and as Patience held him close, he spent where it would cause no risk of a child. He was being responsible, and yet, a part of Patience resented his self-possession. She wanted the limitless passion for him too. Wanted to be the tether that kept him safe while he soared, whether his passion was conjugal, commercial, or—she suspected he was a fine writer himself—creative.
And she could be that for him. She absolutely could be.
He lifted away from her some moments later. “I’ve made a wee mess.”
“I like it,” Patience said. “It’s a lover’s mess. It’s what consideration and keeping your word feel like and smell like.” Not exactly a fragrance, but to Patience, it was the scent of knowledge.
“God, you are ferocious.” Dougal kissed her nose and retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand. The tidying up was the work of a moment, and then he subsided to the mattress and pulled Patience into his arms.
“Are ye warm enough?”
“I’m warm enough.” At long last, she was warm enough. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about a wedding date, Dougal, and perhaps a wedding journey north in spring.”
He kissed her temple. “I’d like that. I’d love that, in fact.”
Patience couldn’t keep her eyes open, so she wrapped her arms around her beloved and surrendered to dreams in which neither Mrs. Horner nor Professor What’s His Name figuredat all.
* * *
“Patience is missing baking day,” Megan Windham said, pacing before the hearth, a newspaper rolled up in her hand. “We’ve had not even a note from her. She has shared baking day with us every year for the past dozen at least. We always finish with her lemon cake, so it’s warm for her journey home.”
“We have done holiday baking with Patience since before my come out,” Elizabeth said from a stool beside the music room’s great harp. “Which means the tradition goes back to antiquity. Perhaps yesterday’s foul weather dissuaded her.”
Elizabeth made more and more references to her age, and Megan had no idea what to do about it. Based on the look Charlotte and Anwen exchanged, they didn’t either.
“Patience knows she could have bided with us overnight,” Megan countered. “She’s stayed here before when the weather turned disagreeable.”
“The weather is glorious now,” Charlotte observed from the window. “Blindingly so. Perfect weather for a snowball fight.”
Sun on heaps of freshly fallen snow made the morning brilliant, and yet, Megan was worried. “Patience lives alone, or the next thing to it. What if she’s fallen ill? She could have sent us a note.”
“She has a housekeeper,” Charlotte said, moving away from the window. “Patience enjoys great good health, most of the time.”
She’d had a nasty lung fever the previous spring.
“We should take her some lemon cake,” Anwen said, knitting needles clicking away. “That’s not hovering, not assuming the worst. We’re being neighborly if we bring her some lemon cake.”
