A Lady's Wish Read Free Page B

tempests exploded into the room, carrot-headed like their aunt and entirely unlike Patricia’s brown hair, knocking her table and sending her tools flying.
    “I did not! John is lying!”
    “I am not.” Her eldest son, six and full of the consequence due a baronet and in perfect imitation of the father he had barely known, drew himself up to his slender height and lifted his chin. “Mama, I will not have this insub— insubnordention in my house. You must send Ramsay off to school at once.”
    “Beast!” Ramsay banded his little arms about her waist and buried his face in her smock.
    Setting down the file, she stroked her hand over her younger son’s soft curls and took a thoughtful breath, the ache in her head intensifying. She looked into her elder son’s pale eyes and spoke softly.
    “John, I believe you may find it more effective to address insubordination with mercy and education about right behavior rather than threats of exile.” She bent to speak over Ramsay’s head. “And you, Ramsay, will discover that if you cease attacking your brother with your teeth he will love you more greatly and not wish to see you gone.”
    “But he—” came muffled from her waist. “He said that— that tall man with the red waistcoat was to be our new papa, and I do not like that man.”
    “Hm. I see.” Patricia returned her gaze to her eldest. “John, why did you tell your brother that?”
    “Grandmamma said it. She said a lady with two sons must have a husband and that Lord Perth is to be our new papa.”
    Pain leapt right over Patricia’s brow and down behind her eyes.
    “Well, your grandmother likes Lord Perth, that is true. But I have no plans for him to become your new papa. If I should even begin considering it, however, I will consult with you first.” She kissed Ramsay’s curls. “Will that suit you?”
    He lifted his head, his cheeks ruddy and damp. “Yes, Mama. Thank you, Mama.”
    “And you, John?”
    “Yes, Mama. I beg your pardon for telling an untruth.” But his face was too severe, too serious for a boy of six. He wished for a father. He had told Patricia this many times, from nearly the moment he could speak. Uncle Timothy was not enough, he once confided. He wished for a papa of his own.
    “Now then, Nurse must be looking for you to put you to bed. I shall be up in a trice to tuck you in.” She kissed her younger son on the top of his head and stroked her fingertips along John’s cheek. The boys turned and stumbled through a quintet of fat little tawny dogs pushing into Patricia’s workroom. Her mother-in-law appeared where her sons had been. Arrayed in bronze taffeta with a spray of black feathers jutting from a bandeau, with yet another pug in her arms, the Dowager Lady Morgan took in the scene with a pinched nose.
    “You missed another exemplary musical fete, daughter. And what have you accomplished in its stead?” She flicked a hand toward the tools scattered upon the floor. “Trinkets for worthless tarts.”
    “They are not trinkets, Mother.” She bent to retrieve the tools. “They are wedding rings, and the girls who receive them through the foundling hospital are not tarts. They are brides.” Poor brides. But poverty was something the Dowager Lady Morgan would never understand. Even were Patricia to show her the pile of bills upon her escritoire, her mother-in-law would sniff and say that ladies did not pay bills.
    Oliver had said the same thing in his letters from Spain. And his worthless solicitors had taken advantage of that. Now, of course, she simply could not pay bills.
    “Was there something you wished, Mother?” She picked up the last of her tools, scratched a pug beneath its tiny ear, then began lining up the pliers neatly.
    “Lord Perth has suggested to me that if you were to show him more encouragement he would not be adverse to making you an offer.”
    Patricia pivoted on her stool. “He suggested that to you? How remarkable.”
    “I told him he should not