Rakes Vow

Chapter 11

After his afternoon gallop with Gerrard, Vane strode determinedly back to the house.

He couldn't get Patience out of his mind. The taste of her, the feel of her, the evocatively heady scent of her wreathed his senses and preyed on his attention. He hadn't been this obsessed since he'd first lifted a woman's skirts, yet he recognized the symptoms. He wasn't going to be able to concentrate on anything else until he'd succeeded in putting Patience Debbington in her rightful place-on her back beneath him.

And he couldn't do that until he'd said the words, asked the question he'd known had been inevitable since she'd first landed in his arms.

In the front hall, he encountered Masters. Purposefully, Vane stripped off his gloves. "Where's Miss Debbington, Masters?"

"In the mistress's parlor, sir. She usually sits with the mistress and Mrs. Timms most afternoons."

One boot on the lowest stair, Vane considered the various excuses he could use to extract Patience from under Minnie's wing. Not one was sufficient to escape attracting Minnie's instant attention. Let alone Timms's. "Hmm." Lips setting, he swung about. "I'll be in the billiard room."

"Indeed, sir."

Contrary to Masters's belief, Patience wasn't in Minnie's parlor. Excusing herself from their usual sewing session, she'd taken refuge in the parlor on the floor below, where the daybed, now no longer needed, sat swathed in Holland covers.

So she could pace unrestricted, frowning, muttering distractedly, while she attempted to understand, to accurately comprehend, to justify and reconcile all that had happened in the music room that morning.

Her world had tilted. Abruptly. Without warning.

"That much," she waspishly informed an imperturbable Myst, curled comfortably on a chair, "is impossible to deny." That heated yet masterfully controlled kiss she and Vane had shared had been a revelation on more than one front.

Swinging about, Patience halted before the window. Folding her arms, she stared out, unseeing. The physical revelations, while unnerving enough, had been no real shock-they were, indeed, no more than her curiosity demanded. She wanted to know-he'd consented to teach her. That kiss had been her first lesson; that much was clear.

As for the rest-therein lay her problem.

"There was something else there." An emotion she'd never thought to feel, never expected to feel. "At least"-grimacing, she resumed her restless pacing-"I think there was."

The acute sense of loss she'd felt when they'd moved apart had not been simply a physical reaction-the separation had affected her on some other plane. And the compulsion to intimacy-to satisfy the hunger she sensed in him-that did not stem from curiosity.

"This is getting complicated." Rubbing a finger across her forehead in a vain attempt to erase her frown, Patience struggled to come to grips with her emotions, to clarify what she truly felt. If her feelings for Vane went beyond the physical, did that mean what she thought it meant?

"How on earth can I tell?" Spreading her hands, she appealed to Myst. "I've never felt this way before."

The thought suggested another possibility. Halting, Patience lifted her head, then, with returning confidence, drew herself up and glanced hopefully at Myst. "Perhaps I'm just imagining it?"

Myst stared, unblinking, through big blue eyes, then yawned, stretched, jumped down, and led the way to the door.

Patience sighed. And followed.

The telltale tension between them-there from the first-had intensified. Vane felt it as he held Patience's chair while she settled her skirts at the dinner table that evening. Consciousness slid under his guard, like the brush of raw silk across his body, raising hairs, leaving every pore tingling.

Inwardly cursing, he took his seat-and forced his attention to Edith Swithins. Beside him, Patience chatted easily with Henry Chadwick, with no detectable sign of confusion. As the courses came and went, Vane struggled not to resent that fact. She appeared breezily unconscious of any change in the temperature between them, while he was fighting to keep the lid on a boiling pot.

Dessert was finally over, and the ladies withdrew. Vane kept the conversation over the port to a minimum, then led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. As usual, Patience was standing with Angela and Mrs. Chadwick halfway down the long room.

She saw him coming; the fleeting flare of awareness in her eyes as he drew near was a momentary sop to his male pride. Very momentary-the instant he stopped by her side, her perfume reached him, the warmth of her soft curves tugged at his senses. Decidedly stiff, Vane inclined his head fractionally to all three ladies.

"I was just telling Patience," Angela blurted out, pouting sulkily, "that it's beyond anything paltry. The thief has stolen my new comb!"

"Your comb?" Vane flicked a glance at Patience.

"The one I bought in Northampton," Anglea wailed. "I didn't even get to wear it!"

"It may still turn up." Mrs. Chadwick tried to sound encouraging, but with her own, much more serious loss clearly in mind, she failed to soothe her daughter.

"It's unfair!" Flags of color flew in Angela's cheeks. She stamped her foot. "I want the thief caught!"

"Indeed." The single word, uttered in Vane's coolest, most bored drawl, succeeded in dousing Angela's imminent hysterics. "We would all, I fancy, like to lay our hands on this elusive, light-fingered felon."

"Light-fingered felon?" Edmond strolled up. "Has the thief struck again?"

Instantly, Angela reverted to her histrionic best; she poured out her tale to the rather more appreciative audience of Edmond, Gerrard, and Henry, all of whom joined the circle. Under cover of their exclamations, Vane glanced at Patience; she felt his gaze and looked up, meeting his eyes, a question forming in hers. Vane opened his lips, the details of an assignation on his tongue-he swallowed them as, to everyone's surprise, Whitticombe joined the group.

The garrulous recitation of the thief's latest exploit was instantly muted, but Whitticombe paid little heed. After a general nod to all, he leaned closer and murmured to Mrs. Chadwick. She immediately raised her head, looking across the room. "Thank you." Reaching out, she took Angela's arm. "Come, my dear."

Angela's face fell. "Oh, but…"

For once entirely deaf to her daughter's remonstrances, Mrs. Chadwick towed Angela to the chaise where Minnie sat.

Both Vane and Patience followed Mrs. Chadwick's progress, as did the others. Whitticombe's quiet question had them turning back to him.

"Am I to understand that something else has gone miss-ing?"

Entirely by chance, he was now facing the others, all arrayed in a semicircle, as if joined in league against him. It was not a felicitous social grouping, yet none of them-Vane, Patience, Gerrard, Edmond, or Henry-made any move to shift position, to include Whitticombe more definitely in their circle.

"Angela's new comb." Henry briefly recited Angela's description.

"Diamonds?" Whitticombe's brows rose.

"Paste," Patience corrected. "It was a… showy piece."

"Hmm." Whitticombe frowned. "It really brings us back to our earlier question-what on earth would anyone want with a garish pincushion and a cheap, somewhat tawdry, comb?"

Henry's jaw locked; Edmond shifted. Gerrard stared pugnaciously-directly at Whitticombe, who'd fixed his cold, transparently assessing gaze on him.

Beside Vane, Patience stiffened.

"Actually," Whitticombe drawled, the instant before at least three others spoke, "I was wondering if it isn't time we instituted a search?" He lifted a brow at Vane. "What do you think, Cynster?"

"I think," Vane said, and paused, his chilly gaze fixed on Whitticombe's face, until there wasn't one of the company who did not know precisely what he truly thought, "that a search will prove fruitless. Aside from the fact that the thief will certainly hear of the search before it begins, and have time aplenty to secrete or remove his cache, there's the not inconsiderable problem of our present location. The house is nothing short of a magpie's paradise, let alone the grounds. Things hidden in the ruins might never be found."

Whitticombe's gaze momentarily blanked, then he blinked. "Ah… yes." He nodded. "I daresay you're right. Things might never be found. Quite true. Of course, a search would never do. If you'll excuse me?" With a fleeting smile, he bowed and headed back across the room.

Puzzled to varying degrees, they all watched him go. And saw the small crowd gathered about the chaise. Timms waved. "Patience!"

"Excuse me." With a fleeting touch on Vane's arm, Patience crossed to the chaise, to join Mrs. Chadwick and Timms, gathered about Minnie. Then Mrs. Chadwick stood back; Patience stepped closer and helped Timms assist Minnie to her feet.

Vane watched as, her arm about Minnie, Patience helped her to the door.

Intending to follow, Mrs. Chadwick shooed Angela ahead of her, then detoured to inform the deserted group of males: "Minnie's not well-Patience and Timms will put her to bed. I'll go, too, in case they need help."

So saying, she herded a reluctant Angela out of the room and closed the door behind them.

Vane stared at the closed door-and inwardly cursed. Fluently.

"Well." Henry shrugged. "Left to our own devices, what?" He glanced at Vane. "Fancy a return match in the billiard room, Cynster?"

Edmond looked up; so did Gerrard. The suggestion obviously met with their approval. His gaze on the closed door beyond them, Vane slowly raised his brows. "Why not?" Lips firming to an uncompromising line, his eyes unusually dark, he waved to the door. "There seems little else to do tonight."

The next morning, his expression tending grim, Vane descended the main stairs.

Henry Chadwick had beaten him at billiards.

If he'd needed any confirmation of how seriously the current impasse with Patience was affecting him, that had supplied it. Henry could barely sink a ball. Yet he'd been so distracted, he'd been even less able to sink anything, his mind totally engrossed with the where, the when, and the how-and the likely sensations-of sinking into Patience.

Striding across the front hall, his boots ringing on the tiles, he headed for the breakfast room. It was past time he and Patience talked.

And after that…

The table was half-full; the General, Whitticombe, and Edgar were all there, as was Henry, blithely gay with a wide grin on his face. Vane met it without expression. He helped himself to a large and varied breakfast, then took his seat to wait for Patience.

To his relief, Angela did not appear; Henry informed him that Gerrard and Edmond had already broken their fast and gone out to the ruins.

Vane nodded, and continued to eat-and wait.

Patience didn't appear.

When Masters and his minions appeared to clear the table, Vane rose. Every muscle felt locked, every sinew taut and tight. "Masters-where is Miss Debbington?"

His accents, while even, held more than a hint of cold steel.

Masters blinked. "Her Ladyship's unwell, sir-Miss Debbington is presently with Mrs. Henderson sorting menus and going over the household accounts, it being the day for those."

"I see." Vane stared unseeing at the empty doorway. "And just how long do menus and household accounts take?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say, sir-but they've only just begun, and Her Ladyship usually takes all morning."

Vane drew a deep breath-and held it. "Thank you, Masters."

Slowly, he moved out from behind the table and headed for the door.

He was past cursing. He paused in the hall, then, his face setting like stone, he turned on his heel and strode for the stables. In lieu of talking with Patience, and the likely aftermath, he'd have to settle for a long, hard ride-on a horse.

He caught her in the stillroom.

Pausing with his hand on the latch of the half-open door, Vane grinned, grimly satisfied. It was early afternoon; many of the household would be safely napping-the rest would at least be somnolent. Within the stillroom, he could hear Patience humming softly-other than the rustling of her gown, he could hear no other sound. He'd finally found her alone and in the perfect location. The stillroom, tucked away on the ground floor of one wing, was private, and contained no daybed, chaise, or similar piece of furniture.

In his present state, that was just as well. A gentleman should not, after all, go too far with the lady he intended making his wife before informing her of that fact. The absence of any of the customary aids to seduction should make coming to the point easy, after which they could retire to some place of greater comfort, so he could be comfortable again.

The thought-of how he would ease the discomfort that had dogged him for the past days-wound his spring a notch tighter. Jaw set, he drew a deep breath. Setting the door wide, he stepped over the threshold.

Patience whirled. Her face lit up. "Hello. Not riding?"

Scanning the dimly lit stillroom, Vane slowly closed the door. And slowly shook his head. "I went out this morning." The last time he'd been in here, he'd been nine years old-the room had appeared much more spacious. Now… Ducking a dangling sheaf of leaves, he edged around the table running down the center of the narrow room. "How's Minnie?"

Patience smiled, gloriously welcoming, and dusted her hands. "Just a sniffle-she'll be better soon, but we want to keep an eye on her. Timms is sitting with her at present."

"Ah." Dodging more branches of drying herbs, carefully avoiding a rack of large bottles, Vane eased down the aisle between the central table and the side counter at which Patience was working. He only just fitted. The fact registered, but dimly; his senses had focused on Patience. His eyes locked on hers as he closed the distance between them. "I've been chasing you for days."

Desire roughened his voice; he saw the same emotion flare in her eyes. He reached for her-in precisely the same moment she stepped toward him. She ended in his arms, her hands sliding up to frame his face, her face lifting to his.

Vane was kissing her before he knew what he-they-were about. It was the first time in his extensive career he'd misstepped, lost the thread of his predetermined plot. He'd intended speaking first, making the declaration he knew he should make; as Patience's lips parted invitingly under his, as her tongue boldly tangled with his, all thought of speech fled from his head. Her hands left his face to slide and lock over his shoulders, bringing her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his, the soft fullness of her belly caressing the aching ridge distorting the front of his breeches.

Need burst upon him-his, and, to his utter amazement, hers. His own lust he was used to controlling; hers was something else again. Vibrant, gloriously naive, eager in its innocence, it held a power far stronger than he'd expected. And it drew something from him-something deeper, stronger, a compulsion driven by something much more powerful than mere lust.

Heat rose between them; in desperation, Vane tried to lift his head. He only succeeded in altering the angle of their kiss. Deepening it. The failure-so totally unprecedented-jerked him to attention. Their reins had well and truly slipped from his grasp-Patience now held them-and she was driving far too fast.

He forced himself to draw back from their kiss. "Patience-"

She covered his lips with hers.

Vane closed his hands about her shoulders; he felt the wrench deep in his soul as he again pulled away. "Dammit woman-I want to talk to you!"

"Later." Eyes glinting from beneath heavy lids, Patience drew his head back to hers.

Vane fought to hold back. "Will you just-"

"Shut up." Stretching upward, pressing herself even more flagrantly against him, Patience brushed her lips against his. "I don't want to talk. Just kiss me-show me what comes next."

Which wasn't the wisest invitation to issue to a painfully aroused rake. Vane groaned as her tongue slid deep into his mouth, as he instinctively met it. The duel that followed was too heated for him to think; a haze of hot passion clouded his senses. The counter at his back made escape impossible, even if he could have summoned the strength.

She held him trapped in a net of desire-and with every kiss the strands grew stronger.

Patience gloried in their kiss, in the sudden revelation that she'd been waiting for just this-to experience again the heady thrill of desire sliding through her veins, to sense again the seductive lure of that elusive something-that emotion she had not yet named, as it wound about her-about them-and drew her deeper.

Deeper into his arms, deeper into passion. To where the desire to fulfill the craving she sensed beneath his expertise became a compulsion, a poignantly sweet urge swelling deep within her.

She could taste it on her tongue, in their kiss; she could feel it-a slow throb-gradually building in her blood.

This was excitement. This was experience. This was precisely what her curious soul craved.

Above all, she needed to know.

Vane's hands on her hips urged her closer; hard, demanding, they slid down, grasping her firmly, fingers sinking deep as he lifted her against him. His rigid staff rode against her, impressing her softness with the hard evidence of his need. His evocative rocking motion sent heat pulsing through her; his staff was a brand-a brand with which he would claim her.

Their lips parted briefly, so they could haul in gasping breaths before need fused their lips again. An aching, spi-raling urgency flowed through them, gaining in strength, flooding their senses. She sensed it in him-and knew it in her.

And together they strove, feeding the swelling compulsion, both driven by it. The wave rose and reared over them-then it broke. And they were caught in the rush, in the furious swirling urgency, tossed and tousled until they gasped and clung. Waves-of desire, passion, and need-beat upon them, forcing awareness of the emptiness within, of the burning need to fill it, to achieve completeness on the mortal plane.

"Miss?"

The tap on the door had them flying apart. The door opened; a maid looked in. She spied Patience, turning toward her in the dim light; to all appearances, Patience had been facing the counter, her hands in a pile of herbs. The maid held up a pannier full of lavender spikes. "What should I do with these now?"

Her pulse thundering in her ears, Patience struggled to focus on the question. She gave mute thanks for the lack of lighting-the maid hadn't yet seen Vane, leaning negligently on the counter four feet away. "Ah-" She coughed, then had to moisten her lips before she could speak. "You'll need to strip the leaves and snip off the heads. We'll use the leaves and heads for the scented bags, and the stalks we'll use to freshen rooms."

The maid nodded eagerly and moved to the central table.

Patience turned back to the counter. Her head was still whirling; her breasts rose and fell. She knew her lips were swollen-when she licked them again, they felt hot. Her pounding heartbeat suffused her entire body; she could feel it in her fingertips. She'd sent the maid to gather lavender; it needed to be processed immediately. A point on which she'd lectured the maid.

If she sent the maid away…

She glanced at Vane, silent and still in the shadows. Only she, close as she was, could see the way his chest rose and fell, could see the light that glowed like hot embers in his eyes. One burnished lock of hair had fallen across his forehead; as she watched, he straightened and brushed it back. And inclined his head. "I'll catch up with you later, my dear."

The maid started and looked up. Vane viewed her blandly. Reassured, the maid smiled and returned to the lavender.

From the corner of her eye, Patience watched Vane retreat, watched the door close slowly behind him. As the latch clicked shut, she closed her eyes. And fought, unsuccessfully, to quell the shudder that racked her-of anticipation. And need.

The tension between them had turned raw. Taut as a wire, heightened to excruciating sensitivity.

Vane felt it the instant Patience appeared in the drawing room that evening; the glance she threw him made it clear she felt it, too. But they had to play their parts, fill their expected roles, hiding the passion that shimmered, white-hot, between them.

And pray that no one else noticed.

Touching in any way, however innocuous, was out of the question; they artfully avoided it-until, in accepting a platter from Vane, Patience's fingers brushed his.

She nearly dropped the platter; Vane only just stifled his curse.

Jaw locked, he endured, as did she.

At last they were back in the drawing room. Tea had been drunk and Minnie, wreathed in shawls, was about to retire. Vane's mind was a blank; he had not a single clue as to what topics had been discussed over the past two hours. He did, however, recognize opportunity when he saw it.

Strolling to the chaise, he raised a brow at Minnie. "I'll carry you up."

"An excellent idea!" Timms declared.

"Humph!" Minnie sniffed, but, worn down by her cold, reluctantly acquiesced. "Very well." As Vane gathered her, shawls and all, into his arms, she grudgingly admitted: "Tonight, I feel old."

Vane chuckled and set himself to tease her into her usual, ebullient frame of mind. By the time they reached her room, he'd succeeded well enough to have her commenting on his arrogance.

"Far too sure of yourselves, you Cynsters."

Grinning, Vane lowered her into her usual chair by the hearth. Timms bustled up-she'd followed close on his heels.

So had Patience.

As Vane stood back, Minnie waved dismissively. "I don't need anyone but Timms-you two can go back to the drawing room."

Patience exchanged a fleeting glance with Vane, then looked at Minnie. "If you're sure…?"

"I'm sure. Off you go."

They went-but not back to the drawing room. It was already late-neither felt any desire for aimless chat.

They did, however, feel desire. It flowed restlessly about them, between them, fell, an ensorcelling web, over them. As he strolled by Patience's side, by unspoken agreement escorting her to her chamber, Vane accepted that dealing with that desire, with what now shimmered between them, would fall to him, would be his responsiblity.

Patience, despite her propensity to grab the reins, was an innocent.

He reminded himself of that fact as they halted outside her door. She looked up at him-inwardly Vane sternly reiterated the conclusion he'd reached after the debacle of the stillroom. Until he'd said the words society dictated he should say, he and she should not meet alone except in the most formal of settings.

Outside her bedchamber door in the cool beginning of the night did not qualify; inside her bedchamber-where his baser self wished to be-was even less suitable.

Jaw setting, he reminded himself of that.

She searched his eyes, his face. Then, slowly but not hesitantly, she lifted a hand to his cheek^ lightly tracing downward to his chin. Her gaze dropped to his lips.

Beyond his volition, Vane's gaze lowered to her lips, to the soft rose-tinted curves he now knew so well. Their shape was etched in his mind, their taste imprinted on his senses.

Patience's lids fluttered down. She stretched upward on her toes.

Vane couldn't have drawn back from the kiss-couldn't have avoided it-had his life depended on it.

Their lips touched, without the heat, without the driving compulsion that remained surging in their souls. Both held it back, denying it, content for one timeless moment simply to touch and be touched. To let the beauty of the fragile moment stretch, to let the magic of their heightened awareness wash over them.

It left them quivering. Yearning. Curiously breathless, as if they'd been running for hours, curiously weak, as if they'd been battling for too long and nearly lost.

It was an effort to lift his heavy lids. Having done so, Vane watched as Patience, even more slowly, opened her eyes.

Their gazes met; words were superfluous. Their eyes said all they needed to say; reading the message in hers, Vane forced himself to straighten from the doorframe which at some point he'd leaned against. Ruthlessly relocating his impassive mask, he raised one brow. "Tomorrow?" He needed to see her in a suitably formal setting.

Patience lightly grimaced. "That will depend on Minnie."

Vane's lips twisted, but he nodded. And forced himself to step away. "I'll see you at breakfast."

He swung on his heel and walked back up the corridor. Patience stood at her door and watched him leave.

Fifteen minutes later, a woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders, Patience curled up in the old wing chair by her hearth and stared moodily into the flames. After a moment, she tucked her feet higher, beneath the hem of her nightgown, and, propping one elbow on the chair's arm, sank her chin into her palm.

Myst appeared, and, after surveying the possibilities, jumped up and took possession of her lap. Absentmindedly, Patience stroked her, gaze locked on the flames as her fingers slid over the pert grey ears and down the curving spine.

For long minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft crackling of the flames and Myst's contented purr. Neither distracted Patience from her thoughts, from the realization she could not escape.

She was twenty-six. She might have lived in Derbyshire, but that wasn't quite the same as a nunnery. She'd met gentlemen aplenty, many of them of similar ilk to Vane Cynster. Many of those gentlemen had had some thoughts of her. She, however, had never had thoughts of them. Never before had she spent hours-not even minutes-thinking about any particular gentleman. One and all, they'd failed to fix her interest.

Vane commanded her attention at all times. When they were in the same room, he commanded her awareness, effortlessly held her senses. Even when apart, he remained the focus of some part of her mind. His face was easy to conjure; he appeared regularly in her dreams.

Patience sighed, and stared at the flames.

She wasn't imagining it-imagining that her reaction to him was different, special, that he engaged her emotions at some deeper level. That wasn't imagination, it was fact.

And there was no point whatever in refusing to face facts-that trait was alien to her character. No point in pretense, in avoiding the thought of what would have occurred if he had not been so honorable and had asked, by word or deed, to enter this room tonight.

She would have welcomed him in, without fluster or hesitation. Her nerves might have turned skittish, but that would have been due to excitement, to anticipation, not uncertainty.

Country-bred, she was fully cognizant of the mechanism of mating; she was not ignorant on that front. But what caught her, held her-commanded her curiosity-was the emotions that, in this case, with Vane, had, in her mind, become entangled with the act. Or was it the act that had become entangled with the emotions?

Whatever, she'd been seduced-entirely and utterly, beyond recall-not by him, but by her desire for him. It was, she knew in her heart, in the depths of her soul, a most pertinent distinction.

This desire had to be what her mother had felt, what had driven her to accept Reginald Debbington in marriage and trapped her in a loveless union for all her days. She had every reason to distrust the emotion-to avoid it, reject it.

She couldn't. Patience knew that for fact, the emotion ran too strong, too compulsively within her, for her to ever be free of it.

But it, of itself, brought no pain, no sadness. Indeed, if she'd been given the choice, even now she would admit that she'd rather have the experience, the excitement, the knowledge, than live the rest of her life in ignorance.

There was, invested within that rogue emotion, power and joy and boundless excitement-all things she craved. She was already addicted; she wouldn't let it go. There was, after all, no need.

She had never truly thought of marriage; she could now face the fact that she had, indeed, been avoiding it. Finding excuse after excuse to put off even considering it. It was marriage-the trap-that had brought her mother undone. Simply loving, even if that love was unrequited, would be sweet-bittersweet maybe, but the experience was not one she would turn down.

Vane wanted her-he had not at any time tried to hide the effect she had on him, tried to screen the potent desire that glowed like hot coals in his eyes. The knowledge that she aroused him was like a grapple about her heart-a facet from some deep, heretofore unacknowledged dream.

He'd asked for tomorrow-that was in the lap of the gods, but when the time came, she would not, she knew, draw back.

She'd meet him-meet his passion, his desire, his need-and in fulfilling and satisfying him, fulfill and satisfy herself. That, she now knew, was the way it could be. It was the way she wanted it to be.

Their liaison would last for however long it might; while she would be sad when it ended, she wouldn't be caught, trapped in never-ending misery like her mother.

Smiling, wistfully wry, Patience looked down and stroked Myst's head. "He might want me, but he's still an elegant gentleman." She might wish that were not so, but it was. "Love is not something he has to give-and I'll never-hear me well-never-marry without that."

That was the crux of it-that was her true fate.

She had no intention of fighting it.