A Rake's Vow

  “Hmm,” Gerrard said, entirely absorbed with his work.

  Patience studied Gerrard’s sketch.

  Vane studied her. He’d seen her the instant she’d appeared, framed by a break in the old wall. He’d known she was near an instant before that, warned by some sixth sense, by a faint ripple in the atmosphere. She drew his senses like a lodestone. Which, at present, was not helpful.

  Gritting his teeth, he fought to block his memories of the previous night from crystallizing in his mind. Every time they did, his temper took flight, which, given she was near, within easy reach, was the opposite of wise. His temper was very like a sword—once unsheathed, it was all cold steel. And it took real effort to resheathe it. Something he hadn’t yet accomplished.

  If Miss Patience Debbington was wise, she would keep her distance until he had.

  If he was wise, he’d do the same.

  His gaze, dwelling, entirely without his permission, on her curves, on the play of her skirts about her legs, dropped to inspect her ankles. She was wearing kid half boots—and her skirts were distinctly wet.

  Inwardly, Vane frowned. He stared at her wet hems. She had changed tack—he’d thought she had over breakfast, then dismissed the idea as hopeful fancy. He couldn’t see why she would have changed her mind. He’d already convinced himself there was nothing he could say to refute her accusations—they all held a grain of truth, and, if he was honest, he’d set himself up with his attempts at masterful manipulation. He’d concluded there was only one way to correct her misguided notions—he would prove them wrong, not by word, but by deed. And then he would be able to savor her confusion, and her apologies.

  Straightening, pushing away from the stone arch, Vane realized that, somehow or other, her apologies were coming early. He wasn’t about to place extra hurdles in her path. Slowly, he strolled forward.

  Patience was instantly aware of him. She glanced swiftly his way, then looked back at Gerrard’s sketch. “Will you be much longer?”

  “Hours,” Gerrard replied.

  “Well . . .” Patience lifted her head and boldly met Vane’s eyes. “I wonder, Mr. Cynster, if I could prevail on you to lend me your arm back to the house. It’s more slippery than I’d thought. Some of the stones are quite treacherous.”

  Vane raised one brow. “Indeed?” Smoothly, he offered her his arm. “I know a route back that has a number of advantages.”

  Patience shot him a suspicious look, but she placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to turn her toward the old church. Gerrard absentmindedly acknowledged their good-byes, and Patience’s sisterly admonition to return to the house in time for lunch.

  Giving her no time to think of anything further to tell Gerrard, Vane led her into the nave. The single remaining arch soared above them; within minutes they were out of Gerrard’s sight and hearing, strolling side by side down the long central aisle.

  “Thank you.” Patience made to lift her hand from his sleeve; Vane covered it with his.

  He felt her fingers jerk, then still, sensed the ripple of awareness that streaked through her. Her head came up, chin tilting, lips firming. He caught her gaze. “Your hems are wet.”

  Hazel eyes flashed. “So are my feet.”

  “Which suggests you came on this expedition for a purpose.”

  She looked forward. Vane watched, with interest, as her breasts swelled, straining the bodice of her dress.

  “Indeed. I came to aplogize.”

  The words were bitten off, uttered through clenched teeth.

  “Oh? Why?”

  Abruptly, she stopped and, eyes narrowing, faced him. “Because I believe I owe you an apology.”

  Vane smiled, directly into her eyes. He didn’t try to hide his steel. “You do.”

  Lips compressed, Patience met his gaze, then nodded. “So I apprehend.” She drew herself up, clasping her hands on the top of her parasol, tilting her chin determinedly. “I apologize.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  One long look into his grey eyes told Patience she was not going to escape lightly. She narrowed her eyes anew. “For casting unjustified aspersions on your character.”

  She could see him considering, matching that against her unwise words. Rapidly, she did the same. “And your motives,” she grudgingly added. Then she thought again. And frowned. “At least, some of them.”

  His lips twitched. “Definitely only some of them.”

  His voice had regained its purr; a shivery sensation slid down Patience’s spine.

  “Just to be clear, I take it you rescind absolutely all your unjustified claims?”

  He was teasing her; the light in his eyes was definitely untrustworthy. “Unreservedly,” Patience snapped. “There! Now what more can you want?”

  “A kiss.”

  The answer came back so fast, so definitely, Patience’s head whirled. “A kiss?”

  He merely raised one arrogant brow, as if the suggestion barely rated a blink. None-too-subtle challenge lit his eyes. Patience frowned and bit her lip. They stood in the open central aisle, nothing within yards of them. Totally unscreened, totally exposed. Hardly a site that lent itself to impropriety. “Oh, very well.”

  Swiftly, she stretched on her toes; putting one hand on his shoulder for balance, she placed a quick peck on his cheek.

  His eyes opened wide, then filled with laughter—more laughter than she could stand.

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Not that sort of kiss.”

  She didn’t need to ask what sort of kiss he wanted. Patience focused on his lips—long, lean, hard. Fascinating. They were not going to get any less fascinating. Indeed, the longer she contemplated them . . .

  Hauling in a quick breath, she held it, stretched upward, shut her eyes, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. They were as hard as she’d imagined, very like sculpted marble. Sensation flared at the brief contact; her lips tingled, then throbbed.

  Patience blinked her eyes wide as she lowered her heels to earth. And refocused on his lips. She saw the ends curve upward, heard his low, wickedly teasing laugh.

  “Still not right. Here—let me show you.”

  His hands came up to frame her face, her jaw, tilting her lips up as his descended. Of their own volition, her lids fell, then his lips touched hers. Patience couldn’t have quelled the shudder that passed through her had her life depended on it.

  Stunned, poised to resist, she mentally paused. Strong, sure, his lips covered hers, moving slowly, langorously, as if savoring her taste, her texture. There was nothing threatening in the unhurried caress. Indeed, it was beguiling, luring her senses, focusing them on the practiced slide and glide of cool lips which seemed to instinctively know how to soothe the heat rising in hers. Hers throbbed; his pressed, caressed, as if drinking in her heat, stealing it from her.

  Patience felt her lips soften; his firmed in response.

  No, no, noo. . . . Some small part of her mind tried to warn her, but she was long past listening. This was new, novel—she’d never felt such sensations before. Never known such simple delight existed.

  Her head was whirling, but not unpleasantly. His lips still seemed hard, cool—Patience couldn’t resist the temptation to return the pressure, to see if his lips would soften to hers.

  They didn’t, they only became harder. The next instant, she felt a searing heat sweep over her lips. She stilled; the questing heat returned—with the tip of his tongue, he traced her lower lip. The contact lingered, an unspoken question.

  Patience wanted more. She parted her lips.

  His tongue slid between, slowly, with his customary assured arrogance, quite certain of his welcome, confident in his expertise.

  Vane held the reins of his desire in a grip of iron and refused to let his demons loose. Deep, primal instincts urged him on; experience held him back.

  She’d never yielded her mouth to any man, never shared her lips willingly. He knew that absolutely, sensed the truth in her untutored response, read it in h
er lack of guile. But she was rising to him, her passion, her desire, answering his call, sweet as the dew on a crisp spring morning, virginal as snow on an inaccessible peak.

  He could reach her—she would be his. But there was no need for any hurry. She was untouched, unused to the demands of a man’s hands, a man’s lips, much less a man’s body; if he pressed too fast, she’d turn skittish and balk. And he’d have to work harder to bring her to his bed.

  Angling his head over hers, he kept every caress slow, every plundering stroke deliberate. Passion lay heavy, languid, almost somnolent between them; as he claimed every sweet inch of the softness she offered him, he laced the heady sensation into every caress, and let it sink into her senses.

  It would lie there, dormant, until next time he touched her, until he called it forth. He would let it rise by degrees, feed it, nurture it until it became the inescapable compulsion that would, in the end, bring her to him.

  He would savor her slowly, savor her slow surrender—all the more sweet because the end was never in doubt.

  Distant voices reached him; inwardly, he sighed, and reluctantly brought the kiss to an end.

  He raised his head. Patience’s eyes slowly opened, then she blinked, and stared straight at him. For one instant, the look on her face, in her eyes, had him puzzled—then he recognized it. Curious—she wasn’t shocked, stunned, or thrown into a maidenly fluster. She was curious.

  Vane couldn’t stop his rakish grin. Nor could he resist the temptation to brush his lips overs hers one last time.

  “What are you doing?” Patience whispered as his head bent to hers. Even at close quarters, she could still see his smile.

  “It’s called ‘kiss and make up.’ ” The curve of his lips deepened. “It’s what lovers do when they fall out.”

  A vise locked about Patience’s heart; panic—it had to be that—streaked through her. “We aren’t lovers.”

  “Yet.”

  His lips touched hers and she shivered. “We never will be.” She might be giddy, but she was quite sure of that.

  He stilled, but his confident smile didn’t waver. “Don’t wager your fortune on it.” Again, his lips brushed hers.

  Patience’s head reeled. To her relief, he straightened and drew back, looking over her head. “Here they come.”

  She blinked. “They who?”

  He looked down at her. “Your harem.”

  “My what?”

  His brows rose in unlikely innocence. “Isn’t that the correct term for a group of slaves of the opposite sex?”

  Patience dragged in a deep breath—she straightened, flicked him a warning glance, then turned. To meet Penwick, Henry, and Edmond, all striding up the aisle. Beneath her breath, Patience groaned.

  “My dear Miss Debbington.” Penwick took the lead. “I rode over expressly to ask if you would care to essay a ride?”

  Patience gave him her hand. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I fear I’ve had a surfeit of fresh air this morning.” The breeze was rising, whipping stray tendrils of hair across her forehead, teasing more strands free. Penwick directed a suspicious glance at the large presence looming by her shoulder. Half-turning, Patience saw Vane return Penwick’s brief nod with one a great deal more supercilious. “Actually,” she stated, “I was about to return indoors.”

  “Capital!” Henry pressed closer. “I wondered where you’d got to. Thought you must have come out for a walk. Be a pleasure to escort you back.”

  “I’ll come, too.” Edmond beamed an understanding smile at Patience. “I came to see how Gerrard’s doing, but he gave me my congé. So I may as well go in.”

  There would, Patience felt sure, have been a fight for the position on her right, to be the one whose arm she took, except that the position was already filled. “It seems we’re quite a party,” Vane drawled. He flicked a glance at Penwick. “Coming, Penwick? We can go by way of the stables.”

  Patience drew in a deep breath, placed her hand on Vane’s arm—and pinched him.

  He looked down at her, brows rising innocently. “I was only trying to be helpful.” He turned her. The others jostled behind them as he led her up the nave.

  The route he took was expressly designed to try her temper. More specifically, to have the others try her temper; Vane wisely kept quiet and let them make the running. With her wet feet now positively frozen from standing too long on cold stone, Patience discovered her stock of forebearance had dipped dangerously low.

  By the time they reached the stables, and she gave Penwick her hand in farewell, it was all she could do to fabricate a smile and a polite good-bye.

  Penwick squeezed her fingers. “If the rain holds off, no doubt you’ll wish to ride tomorrow. I’ll call by in the morning.”

  As if he was in charge of her rides! Patience bit her tongue on a tart rejoinder. Withdrawing her hand, she raised her brows, then haughtily turned away, refusing to fall into the trap of giving Penwick a nod—which could be construed as acceptance. One glance at Vane’s face, at the expression in his eyes, was enough to confirm he’d read the exchange clearly.

  Luckily, Henry and Edmond drifted off without pushing once they entered the house. As she and Vane climbed the stairs, Patience inwardly frowned. It was almost as if both Henry and Edmond thought they had to protect her from Vane, and Penwick, too, but, once she was in the house, they considered her safe. Even from Vane.

  She could imagine why they thought that—this was, after all, Vane’s godmother’s house. Even rakes, she understood, had lines they would not cross. But she’d already learned she couldn’t predict Vane’s rakishness—and she wasn’t at all sure where his lines lay.

  They reached the end of the gallery; the corridor to her room stretched ahead. Halting, she drew her hand from Vane’s arm and turned to face him.

  His expression mild, his eyes gently amused, he met her gaze. He read her eyes, then raised a brow, inviting her question.

  “Why did you stay?”

  He stilled; again, Patience felt the net draw tight, felt paralysis set in as his predator’s senses focused on her. It was as if the world stopped spinning, as if some impenetrable shield closed about them, so that there was nothing but her and him—and whatever it was that held them.

  She searched his eyes, but couldn’t read his thoughts beyond the fact that he was considering her, considering what to tell her. Then he lifted one hand. Patience caught her breath as he slid one finger beneath her chin; the sensitive skin came alive to his touch. He tipped her face up so that her eyes locked on his.

  He studied her, her eyes, her face, for one instant longer. “I stayed to help Minnie, to help Gerrard . . . and to get something I want.”

  He uttered the words clearly, deliberately, without any affectation. His heavy lids lifted. Patience read the truth in his eyes. The force that held them beat in on her senses. A conqueror watched her through cool grey eyes.

  Giddy, she fought for enough strength to lift her chin from his finger. Breathless, she turned and walked away to her door.

  Chapter 7

  Late that night, Patience paced before the fire in her bedchamber. About her, the house was silent, all the occupants retired to their rest. She couldn’t rest; she hadn’t even bothered to undress. There wasn’t any point—she wouldn’t fall asleep. She was getting very tired of missing out on her sleep, but . . .

  She couldn’t get her mind off Vane Cynster. He commanded her attention; he filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. She’d forgotten to eat her soup. Later, she’d tried to drink tea from an empty cup.

  “It’s all his fault,” she informed Myst, sitting, sphinx-like, on the armchair. “How am I supposed to behave sensibly when he makes declarations like that?”

  Declared they would be lovers—that he wanted her in that way. Patience slowed. “Lovers, he said—not protector and mistress.” She frowned at Myst. “Is there any pertinent distinction?”

  Myst looked steadily back.

  Patie
nce grimaced. “Probably not.” She shrugged and resumed her pacing.

  After all Vane had said and done, every precept she’d ever learned stated categorically that she avoid him. Cut him dead if need be. However . . . She halted, and stared at the flames.

  The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn’t focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice—all were constant reminders. No—she was safe. He wouldn’t succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.

  Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She’d never felt the like before.

  She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.

  Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited—she herself had ensured that was so. She’d never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she’d shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she’d expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?

  Why shouldn’t she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more—all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.

  She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.

  With Vane Cynster.

  The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.

  Patience frowned and continued to pace.

  She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route—her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut—in the gloom below, a light gleamed.