Sharp delight was what she knew as his hands, hard and knowing, possessed her, tracing every curve, every soft mound. One hand slid beneath her waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom. Strong fingers kneaded, caressed, and sweet fever spread, pooling in her belly, dewing her skin. The hand slid lower, tracing the long curve of the back of her thigh all the way to her knee, then slid to the front, reversing direction. To her hip, to that sensitive join where thigh met torso. One finger gently, insistently, stroked downward along the crease—she shuddered, suddenly desperate for breath.
And then he was parting her thighs, gently but firmly spreading them to lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips had gentled on hers, allowing her to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that had both of them in its grip.
Then his hand reached the end of his last caress and drifted higher, to stroke flesh that had never before been stroked, never before felt a man’s touch.
The shudder that racked her was pure excitement—distilled sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, Patience gasped and spread her thighs wider—and felt the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.
The soft folds seemed slick; he parted them. Knowing fingers found a point, a nub of flesh, and bolts of delight lanced through her. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it struck deep inside her, caught hold and grew. Pressing her head back, she broke from their kiss. He let her go. He continued to play in the softness between her thighs; Patience hauled in a too-shallow breath and fought to lift her lids.
And saw him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroked and twirled. Then one probed.
The sound that escaped her was more gasp than moan, more scream than groan. He glanced at her face; his eyes locked on hers. She felt his hand press between her thighs—and felt the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.
She gasped again, and closed her eyes. He pressed farther, deeper.
Then he stroked her—inside—deep within, where she was all slick and hot and so full of desire. So full of molten passion. A passion he stirred, deliberately inciting, stoking that inner furnace.
On a shuddering moan, Patience felt herself melt, felt her senses soar.
Vane heard her, felt her surrender—and inwardly smiled, a touch grimly. She was trying his demons to the utmost; by now, most women new to the game would have gone over the edge, or, more likely, been so overcome by need that they would be begging him to take them. Not Patience. She’d let him bare her completely, without any maidenly confusion—she seemed to enjoy writhing naked beneath him as much as he enjoyed having her do so. And now, when even accomplished ladies might be expected to break, she was floating—taking all he lavished on her and waiting for more.
He gave her more, learning her intimately, filling his male senses with her feminine secrets. Slowly, he drove her upward, turning the wheel of the rack of sensual excitement with practiced ease.
Still, she didn’t break. She gasped, moaned, and arched—and her eager body begged for yet more. Her needs were not those of the ladies he was accustomed to; as he took her further still, that was brought home beyond doubt. Patience was older, more mature, more sure of her own self. She was not, he realized, the innocent he had labeled her—strictly speaking, she didn’t, in fact, have very much of that commodity. She knew enough to know what they were doing, and to have made her decision.
And it was that that was different. Her character and its consequences. She was straightforward, assured, used to taking what experiences life had to offer. To picking and choosing among the fruits of life’s tree. And she’d chosen. Deliberately. This—and him.
That was what was different.
Vane looked at her—at her face lightly flushed with desire, at her eyes, glinting gold from beneath heavy lids. And couldn’t breathe.
From sheer lust—from sheer need. The need to be inside her.
The need to claim her as his.
With a soft oath, he drew his hands from her and shrugged free of his jacket and shirt. His boots took an impatient minute, then he stood to strip off his breeches. He could feel her gaze on him, trailing down his back. He flung his breeches aside and glanced over his shoulder. She lay naked, asprawl in the hay, calmly waiting. Simmering.
Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; her skin was gently flushed.
Naked, fully aroused, he turned to her.
Not a single hint of shock showed in her face—the face of a Fragonard wanton. Her gaze slid down, over him, then slowly rose to his face.
She lifted her arms. To him.
Vane went to her—covered her—took her lips in a searing kiss and eased himself into her. She was hot and tight; she tensed as he tested her maidenhead. And cried out as, with one well-judged thrust, he breached it. He held still, for one long, achingly tense moment, then she eased about him. Instinct claimed him—he thrust powerfully, deep into her body—and claimed her.
His reins broke—his demons took charge. Driving him, driving her, in a frenzied mating.
Far beyond thought, beyond reason, beyond anything except feeling, Patience held tight and let their passion take her. Every sensation was new, battering in on her mind, her overloaded senses, yet she clung to each thrill, each new intimacy, determined to miss nothing, determined to feel all.
To know the sheer delight of his hard body heavy on hers, his chest hard, hair-roughened, rasping against her sensitive nipples and the soft swells of her breasts. To glory in the hardness that filled her, the steely velvet that pressed deep into her, stretching her, claiming her. To experience, with every gasp, with every desperate pant, the power with which he repeatedly drove into her, the flexing of his spine, the rhythmic fusing of their bodies. To sense her vulnerability, in her nakedness, in the weight that anchored her hips, in the blind wanting that drove her. To revel in the excitement, shamelessly hot, unquenchably erotic, that swelled, grew, built, then flooded them, a raging tide avidly seizing them.
And to feel, deep within her, the unfurling of an anchoring force, more powerful than desire, more deep, more enduring, than anything on earth. That force, all emotion, golden and silver, swelled and caught her. She gave herself up to it and bravely, eagerly, knowingly claimed it for her own.
Ecstasy filled her—eagerly, she shared it, through her lips and their hungry kisses, through the worship of her hands, her limbs, her body.
He did the same; she tasted it on his tongue, felt its heat in his body.
Whatever he needed she gave, whatever she craved, he delivered. Mouth to mouth, breasts to chest, urgent softness gripping his hardness.
On a groan, Vane straightened his arms, and managed to find support enough in the hay to lift from her. He drove himself into her, savoring every hot inch that closed about him, pausing for an instant to feel her throb about him, before withdrawing, only to thrust deeply again. And again.
Sating himself—and her.
She writhed, heated and urgent beneath him. He’d never seen anything so beautiful as her, locked in passion’s snare. She lifted and twisted, her head turning blindly from side to side as, inside, she sought release. He sank deep and pushed her higher, but still held her back from the edge—she could go higher yet. So could he.
And he wanted to watch her—so splendidly wanton, so gloriously abandoned—as she took him in and held him, as she gave herself to him for the first time. The sight stole his breath—and more. He would have her again, many times, but none would be the same as this, as vested with emotion as this moment was.
He knew when the end was upon her, felt the keen edge of tension ready to explode—and felt the hot flowering within her. He drove into it, and let go—let his body do what came naturally and sent them both over the edge. And, at the last, he watched as the explosion took her, as desire coalesced and turned her womb molten, a hot, fertile pocket for his seed.
Grittin
g his teeth, he hung on for the last second, and saw her ease. Saw the lines of her face, drawn tight with passion, soften; felt, deep inside her, the strong ripples of her release. On a silent sigh, her body softened beneath him. The expression that washed over her face was that of an angel in the presence of the divine.
Vane felt the shudders rack him. Closing his eyes, he let them—let her—take him.
It had been more—much more—than he’d expected.
Lying on his back in the hay, Patience curled into his side, her skirts and petticoats flipped over her to keep her warm as she slept, Vane tried to come to grips with that reality. He couldn’t begin to explain it, all he knew was that no other had ever been like this.
It therefore came as no surprise to discover, as his sated senses cleared, that he was once more possessed of an urgent desire.
Not the same urgent desire that had driven him for the past days, and which she’d so recently and so remarkably thoroughly sated, but a related desire—the compulsive need to secure her as his own.
As his wife.
The four-letter word had always made him flinch. In a reflexive manner, it still did. But he was not about to run counter to his fate—to what he knew, in his bones, was right.
She was the only one for him. If he was ever to marry, it had to be to her. And he wanted children—heirs. The thought of her, his son in her arms, had an instant effect on him. Uunder his breath, he swore.
He glanced sideways, at Patience’s topmost curls, and willed her to wake. Gaining her formal agreement to their marriage had just become his top priority. His most urgent priority. In accepting him as her lover, she’d already agreed informally. Once he’d made his offer and she’d said yes, they could indulge their senses as they willed. As often as they willed.
The thought intensified his growing discomfort. Gritting his teeth, he tried to think of something else.
Sometime later, Patience drifted back to consciousness. She came awake as she never had before, her body floating on a sea of golden pleasure, her mind hazed with a deep sense of golden peace. Her limbs were heavy, weighted with warm langor; her body felt buoyed, sated, replete. At peace. For long moments, no thought could pierce the glow, then, gradually, her surroundings impinged.
She was lying on her side, cocooned in warmth. Beside her, Vane lay stretched on his back, his body a hard rock to which she clung. Outside, the rain had ceased, but drips still fell from the eaves. Inside, the glow they’d created lingered, enclosing them within a heavenly world.
He had given her this—shown her the way to this state of grace. The delicious pleasure still lapped about her. Patience smiled. One hand rested on his chest; under her palm, beneath the curly brown hair, she could feel his heart beating, steady and sure. Her own heart swelled.
The emotion that poured through her was stronger than before, glowing golden and silver, so beautiful it made her heart ache, so piercingly sweet it brought tears to her eyes.
Patience closed her eyes tight. She’d been right—right to press for the knowledge, right to take this road. No matter what happened, she would treasure this moment—and all that had brought her here. No regrets. Not ever.
The intense emotion faded, sinking from her conscious mind. Lips gently curving, she shifted, and planted a warm kiss on Vane’s chest.
He looked down. Looking up, Patience smiled more deeply and, eyes closing, sank against him. “Hmm—nice.”
Nice? Looking down at her face, at the smile on her lips, Vane felt something in his chest shift. Then lock. The feeling, and the emotions that coursed, tumbled and jumbled, in its wake, were not nice at all. They shook him, and left him feeling vulnerable. Lifting one hand, he brushed back Patience’s honey gold hair; the tangled mass caught in his fingers. He started releasing the strands, gathering her pins as he went. “Once we’re married, you can feel nice every morning. And every night.”
Concentrating on her hair, he didn’t see the shock flare in Patience’s eyes as, stunned, she looked up at him. Didn’t see the shock fade into blankness. When he glanced down, she was staring at him, her expression closed, unreadable.
Vane frowned. “What is it?”
Patience drew a shuddering breath, and desperately tried to find her mental feet. She licked her lips, then focused on Vane’s face. “Marriage.” She had to pause before she could go on. “I don’t recall discussing that.” Her voice was flat, expressionless.
Vane’s frown deepened. “We’re discussing it now. I’d meant to speak earlier, but, as you well know, our attempts at rational discussion haven’t met with any great success.” He drew the last of her hair free and, raking it back with his fingers, laid it across the hay. “So.” Finding her eyes once more, he raised a cool brow. “When’s it to be?”
Patience simply stared. She was lying here, naked in his arms, her body so sated she couldn’t move, and he, suddenly, entirely without warning, wanted to discuss marriage? No, not even discuss it, but simply decide when it was to be.
The golden glow had vanished, replaced with an arctic chill. A chill colder than the grey misery outside the hay doors, colder than the breeze that had sprung up. Icy panic sent gooseflesh rippling over her limbs, then sank to her marrow. She felt the touch of cold steel—the jaws of the trap that was slowly, steadily, closing on her.
“No.” Summoning every ounce of her strength, she pressed against Vane’s chest; closing her eyes to its bare state, she struggled to sit up. She would never have made it except that he deigned to help her.
He stared—as if he couldn’t credit his hearing. “No?” He searched her face, then the shutters came down over his grey eyes. His expression leached. “No what?”
His steely accents made Patience shiver. Turning away from him, keeping her skirts over her lap, she reached for her chemise. She pulled it over her head. “I have never intended to marry. Not at all.”
A white lie, perhaps, but a position more easily defended than the unvarnished truth. Marriage had never been high on her agenda—marriage to an elegant gentleman had never figured in her plans. Marriage to Vane was simply impossible—even more so after the last hour.
His voice, coolly precise, came from behind her. “Be that as it may, I would have thought the activities of the last hour would suggest that a rearrangement of your intentions was in order.”
Tying the ribbons of her chemise, Patience pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I don’t want to marry.”
The sound he made as he sat up was derisive. “All young ladies want to marry.”
“Not me. And I’m not that young.” Patience finished pulling on her stockings. Swinging about, she grabbed her petticoats.
She heard Vane sigh. “Patience—”
“We’d better hurry—we’ve been out all morning.” Standing, she hiked up her petticoats and cinched them at her waist. Behind her, she heard the hay rustle as he rose. “They’ll worry if we don’t return for lunch.” Under cover of swiping up her skirt, she turned. Not daring to look directly at him—he was, after all, still naked—she could nevertheless see him from the corner of her eye, and prevent him from touching her. From catching hold of her.
If he did, her shaky, somewhat confused resolution might disintegrate—and the trap might slam shut on her. She could still feel his hands on her skin, sense the imprint of his body on hers. Feel the heat of him inside her.
She yanked her skirts up. “We can’t afford to dally.” In a state bordering on the frenzied, she scanned the floor for her jacket. It was lying beside his breeches. She hurried over.
Aware that he was standing, naked, hands on hips, frowning at her, she picked up her jacket, and flung his breeches at his head.
He caught them before they hit. His eyes narrowed even further.
“Do come on,” she implored. “I’ll get the horses.” With that, she rushed to the ladder.
“Patience!”
That particular tone had been known to snap unruly, half-drunk soldiers to immediate
attention; to Vane’s disgust, it had no discernible affect on Patience. She disappeared down the ladder as if he hadn’t spoken.
Leaving him disgusted—thoroughly and absolutely—with himself.
He’d muffed it. Completely and utterly. She was annoyed with him—piqued to her toes—and she had every right to feel so. His offer—well, he hadn’t even made it; he’d tried instead to slide around it, to arrogantly push her into agreeing without having to ask.
He’d failed. And now she was in a royal snit.
Not for an instant did he believe that she didn’t want to marry, that was merely the first excuse that had sprung to her mind—a weak excuse at that.
Swearing roundly—the only viable way he could relieve his temper—he hauled on his breeches, then reached for his shirt. He’d tried to avoid making the declaration he knew he had to make—and now it was going to be ten times worse.
Gritting his teeth, he stomped into his boots, swiped up his jacket, and stalked to the ladder.
Now he was going to have to beg.
Chapter 13
Begging did not come naturally.
That evening, Vane led the gentlemen back to the drawing room, feeling as if he was marching to his execution. He told himself proposing wouldn’t really be that bad.
Keeping the lid on his temper all the way back to the Hall, and then through the long afternoon, had tried him sorely. But having accepted the inevitable—Patience’s right to a formal, precisely correct proposal—he’d swallowed his ire and forced his conqueror’s instincts, which she’d very effectively raised to his surface, into line.
How long they’d toe that line was a moot point, but he was determined it would be long enough for him to propose and for her to accept him.
Strolling through the drawing-room doors, he scanned the occupants, and inwardly smiled. Patience was not present. He’d grasped the moment as the ladies were rising from the table, when they’d been close as he’d drawn back her chair, to say, sotto voce: “We need to meet privately.”