Well, not quite university, but not long after.
He had been too serious of a youth to trouble with women while at Oxford. Young Patrick preferred to pour over books rather than chase girls, unlike almost all of his schoolmates. Even after he returned to Kyre, his life was too busy for pleasurable pursuits. He had an estate to run, a sister to raise, hundreds of tenants to look after, and somehow between all that, he was expected to find time for politics.
By twenty-one, he was exhausted. He was also lonely. His friends knew he needed a woman, but did not think he needed a true companion. After all, he was young, relatively handsome, and held one of the most respected titles in all of Britain. Why would he want to commit himself to one woman when he could have his pick of the most beautiful ladies in the world?
But Patrick would have none of them. He knew what those women were after—his title, or perhaps the hopes of snaring him with an illegitimate child or two. None of which benefitted him at all, yet his friends could not understand that.
He smirked up at the canvas tent roof. Most of them understood now. Almost all his friends had sacrificed their titles to women they reluctantly call their wives. Some kept secret families hidden away, the greedy mothers looking for cheques every few weeks, threatening to show up on their doorstep if the money didn’t arrive on time.
Yet, he thought of none of that when he crawled between the sheets with Lady Wolstanton. She was a few years older than him, already married to an elderly man, and had nothing to gain from taking him to bed. Everyone knew she willingly took on any man who wanted her. Hell, Patrick knew of three or four chaps personally. They assured him she was good and always discreet. All he needed to do was let her know he was interested.
Lady Wolstanton seemed all too delighted to entertain him, especially once she discovered he was a virgin. One could even say she took advantage of him, in her own way. Patrick was her pet. Her handsome little lapdog who turned himself inside out to get a taste of what his friends bragged about.
And in the end, he got his fair share.
Lady Wolstanton relished in his inexperience. In fact, she seemed to draw more pleasure from watching him fumble around in bed with her than anything else. Remembering the way he shuddered and moaned as she took him humiliated Patrick to this very day. Even alone in his tent, he struggled to push the memory away, too ashamed to relive it again. All he had wanted was a companion, but what he got was a mistress in the most literal sense of the word—someone to control him.
Yet it wasn’t a total loss. She managed to pass on a great deal of knowledge about women and lovemaking to him. When Patrick learned too much to be of any more fun to her, Lady Wolstanton sent him packing. But there were plenty more eager women to soothe the young marquess’ heart. The last of whom, Patrick had ended their affair just before Linley arrived in London.
Her timing could not have been more perfect. Patrick still had his penchant for companionship and long, comfortable romances. He wasn’t one to hop from one bed to another. He enjoyed cultivating his relationships—getting to know the girl, and allowing the girl to know him.
Patrick liked Linley from the start. He felt drawn to her, even in Morocco. When Berenice Hastings announced the presence of a young Miss Talbot-Martin at the Robeson’s ball, Patrick jumped at the chance to reunite with her. And he did not regret it. Linley proved to be just as beautiful as she was the first time he saw her. She was still her own woman. She did not try to be something she was not, even if it meant never making any friends in London.
He respected her for that. She told it like it was and would never toy with him or his emotions. Girls like Gaynor Robeson made Patrick’s skin crawl, and it turned out Linley was the antithesis of that sort of woman. Gaynor would never offer herself up to him the way Linley had last night. Would never embrace their passion as Linley had. The night before proved something that Patrick knew all along—he and Linley were partners.
Equals.
Companions.
***
In her own tent, Linley sat cross-legged on the floor. She rolled her socks into little balls and shoved them in her bag on top of the shirt she wore the night before. The shirt. The one with his lips emblazoned across the front. If it wasn’t her only other blouse, she would have saved it—unwashed—to forever remind her of their moment together.
But shirts were precious commodities in her world, so it could not be spared. A pity. She wanted something to remember him by besides a clipped-out photograph from The Bystander.