A Rake's Vow

Her eyes, wide and golden, had flown to his.

  “When and where?” he’d asked, struggling to keep all command from his tone.

  She’d studied his eyes, his face, then looked down. She’d waited until the last minute, when she was about to turn and walk from him, to whisper, “The conservatory. I’ll retire early.”

  Suppressing his impatience, he forced himself to stroll to the chaise, where Minnie, as usual, sat in shawled splendor. She looked up as he neared. He raised a languid brow. “I take it you are, indeed, improved?”

  “Pish!” Minnie waved dismissively. “It was no more than a cold—there’s been far too much bother made over a mere sniffle.”

  She glanced pointedly at Timms, who humphed. “At least Patience had the sense to go up early, to make sure she took no lasting harm from getting so damp. I suppose you should go up early, too.”

  “I didn’t get that wet.” Affectionately brushing his fingers over Minnie’s hand, Vane nodded to both women. “If you need help getting upstairs, call me.”

  He knew they wouldn’t; only when she was truly ill would Minnie accept being carried. Turning from them, he strolled to where Gerrard and Edmond were teasing Henry.

  Henry pounced the instant he joined them. “Just the one we need! These two have been bending my ear with their melodrama while I’d much rather take them on at billiards. What say you to that return match?”

  “Not tonight, I fear.” Vane stifled a fictitious yawn. “After spending half the day riding, I’m for bed as soon as possible.” He made the comment unblushingly, but his body reacted to the veiled reference to his morning’s activities, and his hopes for the night.

  The others, of course, thought he was exhausted.

  “Oh, come on. You can’t be that tired.” Edmond chided. “Must be used to being up to all hours in London.”

  “Indeed,” Vane laconically agreed. “But being up is usually followed by a suitably long time prone.” Not, of course, necessarily asleep; the conversation was doing nothing for his comfort.

  “One game wouldn’t take that long,” Gerrard pleaded. “Just an hour or so.”

  Vane had no difficulty squashing a craven impulse to agree—to put off saying the inevitable words yet again. If he didn’t get it right this time, present Patience with the speech he’d spent all afternoon rehearsing, God only knew what hideous punishment fate would concoct for him. Like having to go down on bended knee. “No.” His determination made the answer definite. “You’ll have to make do without me tonight.”

  The tea trolley saved him from further remonstrance. Once the cups were replaced and Minnie, steadfastly refusing his aid, had gone upstairs, Vane found himself forced to follow, to take refuge in his room until the others reached the billiard room and settled to their game. The conservatory lay beyond the billiard room, and could be reached only by passing the billiard-room door.

  Fifteen minutes of pacing his bedchamber did nothing to improve his temper, but he had it well in hand when, having strolled silently past the billiard room, he opened the conservatory door. It opened and closed noiselessly, failing to alert Patience. Vane saw her instantly, peering out of one of the side windows through a bank of palms.

  Puzzled, he drew closer. Only when he stood directly behind her did he see what she was so intently watching—the billiard game currently in progress.

  Henry was leaning far over the table, his back to them, lining up one of his favorite shots. As they watched, he made his play, his elbow wobbling, the cue jerking.

  Vane snorted. “How the devil did he beat me?”

  With a gasp, Patience whirled. Eyes wider than wide, one hand pressed to her breast, she struggled to draw breath.

  “Get back!” she hissed. She prodded him, then flapped her hands at him. “You’re taller than the palms—they might see you!”

  Vane obligingly backed, but stopped the instant they were beyond the line of the billiard room. And let Patience, fussing and fuming, run into him.

  The impact, mild though it was, knocked what breath she’d managed to catch out of Patience. Mentally cursing, she fell back, flashing Vane a furious look as she fought to regain her composure. To calm her wretchedly leaping heart, to quell the impulse to step forward and let his arms steady her, to lift her face and let his kiss claim her.

  He’d always affected her physically. Now that she’d lain naked in his arms, the effect was ten times worse.

  Inwardly gritting her teeth, she infused impassivity into her features and drew herself up. Defensively. Clasping her hands before her, she lifted her head, and tried to find the right level. Not challenge, but assurance.

  Her nerves had been frazzled before he’d appeared—the jolt he’d just given her had scrambled them further. And worse was yet to come. She had to hear him out. There was no alternative. If he wished to offer for her, then it was only right she allow him to do so, so she could formally and definitively decline.

  He stood directly before her, a large, lean, somewhat menacing figure. She’d held him silent with her eyes. Drawing a deep breath, she raised one brow. “You wished to speak with me?”

  Vane’s instincts had been screaming that all was not as he’d thought; the tone of her question confirmed it. He studied her eyes, shadowed in the dimness. The conservatory was lit only by moonlight pouring through the glassed roof; he wished, now, that he’d insisted on some more illuminated meeting place. His eyes narrowed. “I think you know what it is I wish to say to you.” He waited for no acknowledgment, but went on, “I wish to ask for your hand in marriage. We’re well suited, in all ways. I can offer you a home, a future, a station in keeping with your expectations. As my wife, you would have an assured place in the ton, should you wish to claim it. For my part, I would be content to live mostly in the country, but that would be as you wish.”

  He paused, increasingly tense. Not a glimmer of response had lit Patience’s eyes or softened her features. Stepping closer, he took her hand, and found it cool. Raising it, he brushed a kiss across her cold fingers. Of its own accord, his voice lowered. “Should you agree to be my wife, I swear that your happiness and comfort would be my primary, and my most passionate, concern.”

  Her chin lifted slightly, but she made no answer.

  Vane felt his face harden. “Will you marry me, Patience?” The question was soft, yet steely. “Will you be my wife?”

  Patience drew a deep breath, and forced herself to hold his gaze. “I thank you for your offer. It does me more honor than I deserve. Please accept my heartfelt regrets.” Despite her conviction, a last, small, desperate hope had clung to life in her heart, but his words had slain it. He’d said all the right things, the accepted things, but not the one important thing. He hadn’t said he loved her; he’d made no promise to love her for all time. She drew a difficult breath and looked down, at his fingers lightly holding hers. “I do not wish to marry.”

  Silence—absolute and compelling—held them, then his fingers, very slowly, slid from hers.

  Vane drew a not entirely steady breath, and forced himself to step back. The conqueror within him roared—and fought to reach for her, to haul her into his arms and take her, storm her castle and force her to acknowledge that she was his—only his. Fists tightly clenched, he forced himself to take a different tack. Slowly, as he had once before, he circled her.

  “Why?” He asked the question from directly behind her. She stiffened; her head rose. Eyes narrowed, he watched one golden curl quiver by her ear. “I think, in the circumstances, I’m entitled to know that much.”

  His voice was low, sibilantly soft, lethally restrained; Patience shivered. “I’ve decided against marriage.”

  “When did you make this decision?” When she didn’t immediately respond, he suggested, “After we met?”

  Patience wished she could lie. Instead, she lifted her head. “Yes, but my decision was not solely an outcome of that. Meeting you simply clarified the matter for me.”

  Tense silence again descended. He
eventually broke it. “Now how, precisely, am I to take that?”

  Patience sucked in a desperate breath. She tensed, and would have whirled to face him, but his fingers on her nape, just the lightest touch, froze her.

  “No. Just answer me.”

  She could feel the heat of his body less than a foot away, sense the turbulence he held leashed. He could let the reins fall at any minute. Her wits whirled—giddiness threatened. It was so difficult to think.

  Which, of course, was what he wanted—he wanted her to blurt out the truth.

  Swallowing, she kept her head high. “I have never been particularly interested in marriage. I’ve grown used to my independence, to my freedom, to being my own mistress. There’s nothing marriage can offer me that I value as highly that would compensate me for giving up all that.”

  “Not even what we shared in the barn this morning?”

  She should, of course, have expected that, but she’d hoped to avoid it. Avoid facing it. Avoid discussing it. Avoid tarnishing the silver and the gold. She kept her chin high, and quietly, evenly, stated, “Not even that.”

  That, thank heaven, was true. Despite all she’d felt, all that he’d made her feel, all that her body now yearned for, having felt the power of that gold and silver emotion—love, what else could it be?—she was even more sure, even more certain, that her course was right.

  She was in love with him, as her mother had loved her father. No other power was as great, no other power so fateful. If she made the mistake of marrying him, took the easy road and gave in, she would suffer the same fate her mother had, suffer the same lonely days and the same endless, aching, soul-destroying, lonely nights. “I do not, under any circumstances, wish to marry.”

  His fury escaped him; it vibrated around her. For one instant, she thought he would seize her. She only just stopped herself from whirling and stepping away.

  “This is insane!” His anger scorched her. “You gave yourself to me this morning—or did I imagine it? Did I imagine you naked and panting beneath me? Tell me, did I imagine you writhing wantonly as I sank into you?”

  Patience swallowed, and pressed her lips tightly together. She didn’t want to discuss this morning—not any of it—but she listened. Listened as he used the golden moments to flay her, used the silvery delight like a lance to prick her to say yes.

  But to agree would be stupid—after having been warned, having seen what would happen, to knowingly accept misery—she’d never been that witless.

  And it would be misery.

  That was borne out as she listened, listened carefully, as he reminded her, in graphic detail, of all that had passed between them in the barn. He was relentless, ruthless. He knew women too well not to know where to aim his barbs.

  “Do you remember how you felt when I first slid inside you?”

  He went on, and desire rose, flickering about her, within her. She recognized it for what it was; she heard it in his voice. Heard the passion rise, felt it, a tangible force as he appeared again beside her, looking down into her face, his features craved granite, his eyes burning darkly. When next he spoke, his voice was so deep, so low, it grated on her skin.

  “You’re a gentlewoman, born and bred—the position, the requirements, are in your blood. This morning you spread yourself for me—you wanted me, and I wanted you. You gave yourself to me. You took me in—and I took you. I took your maidenhead, I took your virginity—what innocence you had, I took that, too. But that was only the penultimate act in a script carved in stone. The final act is a wedding. Ours.”

  Patience met his gaze steadily, although it took all her will. Not once had he spoken of any softer emotion—not once had he alluded to even the existence of love, let alone suggested it might live in him. He was hard, ruthless—his nature was not soft. It was demanding, commanding, as unyielding as his body. Desire and passion were his forte; that he felt both for her was beyond doubt.

  That was not enough. Not for her.

  She wanted, needed, love.

  She had long ago promised herself she would never marry without it. She’d spent the hour before dinner staring at a cameo portrait of her mother, remembering. The images she’d recalled were still vivid in her mind—of her mother alone, weeping, lonely, bereft of love, dying for want of it.

  She lifted her chin, her eyes steady on his. “I do not wish to marry.”

  His eyes narrowed to grey shards. A long minute passed; he studied her face, her eyes. Then his chest swelled; he nodded once. “If you can tell me this morning meant nothing to you, I’ll accept your dismissal.”

  Not for an instant did his eyes leave hers; Patience was forced to hold his gaze while inside, her heart ached. He’d left her no choice. Lifting her chin, she struggled to draw breath—and forced herself to shrug as she looked away. “This morning was very pleasant, quite eye-opening, but . . .” Shrugging again, she swung aside and stepped away. “Not enough to commit me to marriage.”

  “Look at me, dammit!” The command was issued through clenched teeth.

  Swinging back to face him, Patience saw his fists clench—and sensed the battle he waged not to touch her. She immediately lifted her chin. “You’re making too much of it—you, of all men, should know ladies do not marry all the men with whom they share their bodies.” Her heart twisted; she forced her voice to lighten, forced her lips to curve lightly. “I have to admit this morning was very enjoyable, and I sincerely thank you for the experience. I’m quite looking forward to the next time—to the next gentleman who takes my fancy.”

  For one instant, she feared she’d gone too far. There was something—a flash in his eyes, an expression that flitted over his face—that locked her breath in her throat. But then he relaxed, not completely, but much of his frightening tension—battle-ready tension—seemed to flow out of him.

  She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace. She wasn’t sure which she found more unnerving—the warrior, or the predator.

  “So you liked it?” His fingers, cool and steady, slid under her chin and tipped her face up to his. He smiled—but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps you should consider the fact that if you married me, you would have the pleasure you experienced this morning every day of your life?” His eyes locked on hers. “I’m perfectly prepared to swear that you’ll never want for that particular pleasure if you become my wife.”

  Only desperation allowed her to keep her features still, to stop them from crumpling. Inside, she was weeping—for him, and for her. But she had to turn him from her. There were no words on earth to explain to him—proud descendant of a prideful warrior clan—that it was not in his power to give her the one thing she needed to become his wife.

  The effort to lift one brow archly nearly felled her. “I suppose,” she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes, to infuse consideration into her expression, “that it might be quite nice to try it again, but I can’t see any need to marry you for that.” His eyes blanked. She was at the end of her strength and she knew it. She put her last ounce into brightening her smile, her eyes, her expression. “I daresay it would be quite exciting to be your inamorata for a few weeks.”

  Nothing she could have said, nothing she could have done, would have hurt him, or shocked him, so much. Or been more certain to drive him from her. For a man like him, with his background, his honor, to refuse to be his wife but consent to be his mistress was the ultimate low blow. To his pride, to his ego, to his self-worth as a man.

  Her fists clenched in her skirts so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Patience forced herself to look inquiringly at him. Forced herself not to quail when she saw the disgust flare in his eyes the instant before the steel shutters came down. Forced herself to stand firm, head still high, when his lip curled.

  “I ask you to be my wife . . . and you offer to be my whore.”

  The words were low, laced with contempt, bitter with an emotion she couldn’t place.

/>   He looked at her for one long minute, then, as if nothing of any great moment had transpired, swept her an elegant bow.

  “Pray accept my apologies for any inconvenience my unwelcome proposition may have caused you.” Only the ice in his tone hinted at his feelings. “As there’s nothing more to be said, I’ll bid you a good night.”

  With one of his usual graceful nods, he headed for the door. He opened it, and, without glancing back, left, pulling the door gently closed behind him.

  Patience held her position; for a long while, she simply stood there, staring at the door, not daring to let herself think. Then the cold reached through her gown, and she shivered. Wrapping her arms about her, she forced herself to walk, to take a calming turn around the conservatory. She held the tears back. Why on earth was she crying? She’d done what had to be done. She reminded herself sternly that it was all for the best. That the numbness enveloping her would eventually pass.

  That it didn’t matter that she would never feel that golden and silver glow—or the joy of giving her love—again.

  Vane was halfway across the neighboring county before he came to his senses. His greys were pacing steadily down the moonlit road, their easy action eating the last miles to Bedford, when, like Saint Paul, he was struck by a blinding revelation.

  Miss Patience Debbington might not have lied, but she hadn’t told the whole truth.

  Cursing fluently, Vane slowed the greys. Eyes narrowing, he tried to think. Not an exercise he’d indulged in since leaving the conservatory.

  On leaving Patience, he’d gone to the shrubbery, to pace and curse in private. Much good had it done him. Never in his life had he had to cope with such damage—he’d hurt in tender places he hadn’t known he possessed. And she hadn’t even touched him. Unable to quell the cauldron of emotions that, by then, had been seething inside him, he’d fastened on strategic retreat as his only viable option.

  He’d gone to see Minnie. Knowing she slept lightly, he’d scratched on her door, and heard her bid him enter. The room had been in darkness, relieved only by a patch of moonlight. He’d stopped her lighting her candle; he hadn’t wanted her, with her sharp old eyes, to see his face, read the turmoil and pain he was sure must be etched into his features. Let alone his eyes. She’d heard him out—he’d told her he’d remembered an urgent engagement in London. He would be back, he’d assured her, to deal with the Spectre and the thief in a few days. After he’d discovered how to deal with her niece, who wouldn’t marry him—he’d managed to keep that confession from his lips.