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, spiraling 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, sl
owly 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.
Chapter 12
Vane arrived early in the breakfast parlor the next morning. He served himself, then took his seat and waited for Patience to appear. The rest of the males wandered in, exchanging their usual greetings. Vane pushed back his plate and waved for Masters to pour him more coffee.
Coiled tension had him in its grip; how much longer would it be before he could release it? That, to his mind, was a point to which Patience should give her most urgent attention, yet he could hardly begrudge Minnie her aid.
When Patience failed to appear by the time they’d finished their meals, Vane inwardly sighed and fixed Gerrard with a severe glance. “I need a ride.” He did, in more ways than one, but at least he could release some of his pent-up energy in a good gallop. “Interested?”
Gerrard squinted out of the window. “I was going to sketch, but the light looks flat. I’ll come riding instead.”
Vane raised a brow at Henry. “You game, Chadwick?”
“Actually”—Henry sat back in his chair—“I’d thought to practice my angle shots. Wouldn’t do to get rusty.”
Gerrard chuckled. “It was pure luck you beat Vane last time. Anyone could tell he was a trifle out of sorts.”
A trifle out of sorts? Vane wondered if he should educate Patience’s brother on precisely how “out of sorts” he was. A blue powder wouldn’t cure his particular ache.
“Ah—but I did win.” Henry clung to his moment of victory. “I’ve no intention of letting my advantage slip.”
Vane merely smiled sa
rdonically, inwardly grateful Henry would not be accompanying them. Gerrard rarely spoke when riding, which suited his mood far better than Henry’s locquaciousness. “Edmond?”
They all looked down the table to where Edmond sat gazing at his empty plate, mumbling beneath his breath. His hair stuck out at odd angles where he’d clutched it.
Vane raised a brow at Gerrard, who shook his head. Edmond was clearly in the grip of his muse and deaf to all else. Vane and Gerrard pushed back their chairs and rose.
Patience hurried in. She paused just inside the room, and blinked at Vane, half-risen.
He immediately subsided into his chair. Gerrard turned, and saw him reseated; he also resumed his seat.
Reassured, Patience headed for the sideboard, picked up a plate, and went straight to the table. She was late; in the circumstances, she’d settle for tea and toast. “Minnie’s better,” she announced as she took her seat. Looking up the table, she met Vane’s gaze. “She spent a sound night and has assured me she doesn’t need me today.”
She swept a brief smile over Henry and Edmond, thus rendering the information general.
Gerrard grinned at her. “I suppose you’ll be off to the music room as usual. Vane and I are going for a ride.”
Patience looked at Gerrard, then stared up the table at Vane. Who stared back. Patience blinked, then reached for the teapot. “Actually, if you’ll wait a few minutes, I’ll come with you. After being cooped up these last days, I could do with some air.”
Gerrard looked at Vane, who was gazing at Patience, an unfathomable expression on his face. “We’ll wait” was all he said.
By agreement, they met in the stable yard.
After scurrying into her habit, then rushing out of the house like a hoyden, Patience was mildly irritated to find Gerrard not yet there. Vane was already atop the grey hunter. Both rider and horse were restless.
Climbing into her sidesaddle, Patience took up her reins and glanced back toward the house. “Where is he?”
Lips compressed, Vane shrugged.