A Rake's Vow (18 page)

He smiled—all wolf—and tossed her work—linen, hoop and needle—into the basket beside the daybed. Leaving her without protection.

Patience felt her eyes grow round. Vane’s smile deepened—a dangerous glint gleamed in his grey eyes. Languidly, he lifted a hand and, long fingers sliding beneath her chin, gripped it gently. Deliberately, he brushed his thumb—gently—over her lips.

They throbbed; Patience wished she had the strength to pull free of his light hold, to wrench free of his gaze.

“What I meant,” he said, his voice very deep, “was that planning without the subsequent performance is worthless.”

He meant she should have hung on to her embroidery. Too late, Patience caught his drift. He’d seen through her plan to use her work as a shield. Breath bated, she waited for her temper to come to her aid, to rise in response to being read so effortlessly, to being affected so readily.

Nothing happened. No searing fury erupted.

The only thought in her head as she studied his grey eyes was what
he
was planning to do next.

Because she was watching, was so deep in the grey, she caught the change, the subtle shift, the flash of what looked suspiciously like satisfaction that glowed, briefly, in his eyes. His hand fell; lids lowering, he turned away.

“Tell me what you know of the Chadwicks.”

Patience stared at him—at his back as he returned to his chair. By the time he sat and faced her, she’d managed to school her features, although they felt curiously blank.

“Well”—she moistened her lips—“Mr. Chadwick died about two years ago—missing at sea.”

With the help of Vane’s prompts, she recounted, stiltedly, all she knew of the Chadwicks. As she reached the end of her knowledge, the gong sounded.

His rake’s smile returning, Vane stood and strolled toward her. “Speaking of performance, would you like me to carry you to lunch?”

She wouldn’t—narrowing her eyes at him, Patience would have given half her fortune to avoid the sensation of being scooped so easily into his arms, and carried away so effortlessly. His touch was unnerving, distracting; it made her think of things she really should not. And as for the sensation of being helpless in his arms, trapped, at his mercy, a pawn to his whim—that was even worse.

Unfortunately, she had no choice. Coolly, inwardly girding her loins, she inclined her head. “If you would.”

He grinned—and did.

The next day—the fourth and, Patience vowed, the very last day of her incarceration—she once more found herself committed to the daybed in her quiet parlor. After their usual early breakfast, Vane had carried her upstairs—he and Gerrard were to spend the day checking Northampton for any sign of items stolen from the Hall. The day was fine. The idea of a long drive, the wind whipping her hair as she sat on his box seat, behind the greys she’d already heard far too much about, had seemed like heaven. She’d been sorely tempted to ask that they put off the excursion—just for a day or so—until her knee improved sufficiently to allow her to sit in a carriage for a few hours, but, in the end, she’d held her tongue. They needed to discover who the thief was as soon as possible, and the weather, while fine today, could not be guaranteed.

Minnie and Timms had sat with her through the morning; as she couldn’t go downstairs, they’d taken lunch on trays. Then Minnie had retired for her nap. Timms had helped Minnie to her room, but hadn’t returned.

She’d finished the cloths for the drawing room. Idly examining designs, Patience wondered what project she should attempt next. Perhaps a delicate tray-piece for Minnie’s dresser?

A knock on the door had her looking up in surprise. Neither Minnie nor Timms usually knocked.

“Come in.”

The door opened tentatively; Henry’s head appeared around its edge. “Am I disturbing you?”

Patience inwardly sighed, and waved to a chair. “By all means.” She was, after all, bored.

Henry’s puppy grin split his face. Straightening his shoulders, he entered, one hand held rather obviously behind his back. He advanced on the daybed, then halted—and, like a magician, produced his gift—a collection of late roses and autumn border blooms, greenery provided by Queen Anne’s lace.

Primed, Patience widened her eyes in feigned surprise and delight. The delight waned as she focused on the ragged stems and the dangling remnants of roots. He’d ripped the flowers from the bushes and borders, not caring of the damage he did. “How—” She forced a smile to her lips. “How lovely.” She took the poor flowers from him. “Why don’t you ring for a maid so I can ask for a vase?”

Smiling proudly, Henry crossed to the bellpull and yanked it vigorously. Then, clasping his hands behind his back, he rocked on his toes. “Wonderful day outside.”

“Is it?” Patience tried not to sound wistful.

The maid arrived and returned quickly with a vase and a pair of garden shears. While Henry prattled on about the weather, Patience tended the flowers, loping off the ragged ends and roots and setting them in the vase. Finished, she set the shears aside and turned the small side table she’d worked on toward Henry. “There.” With a gracious wave, she sat back. “I do thank you for your kindness.”

Henry beamed. He opened his lips—a knock cut off his words.

Brows rising, Patience turned to the door. “Come in.”

As she’d half expected, it was Edmond. He’d brought his latest stanza. He beamed an ingenuous grin at both Patience and Henry. “Tell me what you think.”

It wasn’t just one stanza—to Patience, trying to follow the intricacies of his phrasing, it seemed more like half a canto.

Henry shifted and shuffled, his earlier brightness fading into petulance. Patience fought to stifle a yawn. Edmond prosed on.

And on.

When the next knock sounded, Patience turned eagerly, hoping for Masters or even a maid.

It was Penwick.

Patience gritted her teeth—and forced her lips to curve over them. Resigned, she held out her hand. “Good morning, sir. I trust you are well?”

“Indeed, my dear.” Penwick bowed low—too low, he nearly hit his head on the side of the daybed. Pulling back just in time, he frowned—then banished the expression to smile, far too intently, into Patience’s eyes. “I’ve been waiting to fill you in on the latest developments—the figures on production after we instituted the new rotation scheme. I know,” he said, smiling fondly down at her, “how interested you are in ‘our little patch.’ ”

“Ah—yes.” What could she say? She’d always used agriculture, and having run the Grange for so long she had a more than passing knowledge of the subject, to distract Penwick. “Perhaps—?” She glanced hopefully at Henry. Tight-lipped, his gaze was fixed, not amiably, on Penwick. “Henry was just telling me how fine the weather’s been these last few days.”

Henry obligingly followed her lead. “Should stay fine for the foreseeable future. I was talking to Grisham only this morning—”

Unfortunately, despite considerable effort, Patience could not get Henry to switch to the effect of the weather on the crops, nor could she get Penwick to, as he usually did, distract Henry and himself with such matters.

To crown all, Edmond kept taking snippets from both Henry’s and Penwick’s words and fashioning them into verse, then, across whoever was speaking, trying to engage her in a discussion of how such verses might fit with the development of his drama.

Within five minutes, the conversation descended into a three-way tug-of-war for her attention—Patience was ready to throttle whichever foolish servant it was who’d divulged her up-until-then-secret location.

At the end of ten minutes, she was ready to throttle Henry, Edmond and Penwick as well. Henry held his position and pontificated on the elements; Edmond, nothing loath, was now talking of including mythological gods as commentators on his main characters’ actions. Penwick, losing out to the chorus, puffed out his chest and portentously asked: “Where’s Debbington? Surprised he isn’t here, bearing you company.”

“Oh, he tagged along with Cynster,” Henry offhandedly informed him. “They escorted Angela and Mama to Northampton.”

Finding Patience’s gaze riveted on his face, Henry beamed at her. “Deal of sunshine, today—shouldn’t wonder if Angela doesn’t claim a turn in Cynster’s curricle.”

Patience’s brows rose. “Indeed?”

There was a note in her voice which successfully halted all conversation; the three gentlemen, suddenly wary, glanced sidelong at each other.

“I think,” Patience declared, “that I have rested long enough.” Tossing aside the rug that had lain across her lap, she pushed herself to the edge of the daybed, and carefully let down her good leg, then the damaged one. “If you would be so good as to give me your arm . . . ?”

They all rushed to help. In the end, it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought—her knee was still tender, and very stiff. Taking her full weight on that leg was out of the question.

Which made the stairs impossible. Edmond and Henry made a chair of their arms; Patience sat and held their shoulders for balance. Puffed with importance, Penwick led the way down, talking all the while. Henry and Edmond couldn’t talk—they were concentrating too much on balancing her weight down the steep stairs.

They made it to the front hall without mishap, and set her carefully on her feet on the tiles. By then Patience was having second thoughts—or rather, she
would
have entertained second thoughts, if she hadn’t been so exercised by the news that Vane had taken Angela to Northampton.

That Angela had enjoyed the drive—would even now be enjoying the drive—she herself had fantasized over, but had, for the greater good, not sought to claim.

She was not in a very good mood.

“The back parlor,” she declared. Leaning on both Henry’s and Edmond’s arms, she hobbled along between them, trying not to wince. Penwick rattled on, recounting the number of bushels “their little patch” had produced, his matrimonial assumptions waving like flags in his words. Patience gritted her teeth. Once they gained the back parlor, she would dismiss them all—and then, very carefully, massage her knee.

No one would look for her in the back parlor.

“You’re not supposed to be on your feet.”

The statement, uttered in a flat tone, filled the sudden gap where Penwick’s babble had been.

Patience looked up, then had to tip her chin higher—Vane was standing directly in front of her. He was wearing his caped greatcoat; the wind had ruffled his hair. Behind him, the side door stood open. Light streamed into the dim corridor, but didn’t reach her. He blocked it—a very large, very male figure, made even larger by the capes of his greatcoat, spread wide by his broad shoulders. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, in his eyes—she didn’t need to. She knew his face was hard, his eyes steel grey, his lips thin.

Irritation poured from him in waves; in the confines of the corridor, it was a tangible force. “I did warn you,” he said, his tones clipped, “what would happen.”

Patience opened her lips; all she uttered was a gasp.

She was no longer on her feet, she was in his arms.

“Just a minute!”

“I say—!”

“Wait—!”

The ineffectual exclamations died behind them. Vane’s swift strides had them back in the front hall before Penwick, Edmond, and Henry could do more than collectively blink.

Catching her breath, Patience glared. “Put me down!”

Vane glanced, very briefly, into her face. “No.” He started up the stairs.

Patience drew in a breath—two maids were coming down the stairs. She smiled as they passed. And then they were in the gallery. It had taken the others ten full minutes to get her downstairs; Vane had accomplished the reverse in under a minute. “The other
gentlemen
,” she acidly informed him, “were helping me to the back parlor.”

“Sapskulls.”

Patience’s breasts swelled. “I
wanted
to be in the back parlor!”

“Why?”

Why? Because then, if he came looking for her after his fine day out at Northampton with Angela, he wouldn’t have known where she was and might have been worried? “Because,” Patience tartly replied, folding her arms defensively across her breasts, “I’ve grown sick of the upstairs parlor.” The parlor he’d arranged for her. “I’m bored there.”

Vane glanced at her as he juggled her to open the door. “Bored?”

Patience looked into his eyes and wished she’d used some other word. Bored was, apparently, a red rag to a rake. “It’s not long to dinner, perhaps you should just take me to my room.”

The door swung wide. Vane stepped through, then kicked it shut behind them. And smiled. “There’s more than an hour before you need change. I’ll carry you to your room—later.”

His eyes had narrowed, silvery with intent. His voice had changed to his dangerous purr. Patience wondered if any of the other three would have the courage to follow—she couldn’t believe they would. Ever since Vane had so coldly annihilated their senseless accusations of Gerrard, both Edmond and Henry treated him with respect—the sort of respect accorded dangerous carnivores. And Penwick knew Vane disliked him—intensely.

Vane advanced on the daybed. Patience eyed it with increasing misgiving. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Tying you to the daybed.”

She tried to humph, tried to ignore the premonition tickling her spine. “Don’t be silly—you just said that as a threat.” Would it be wise to wind her arms about his neck?

He reached the back of the bed, and stopped. “I never issue threats.” His words floated down to her as she stared at the cushions. “Only warnings.”

With that, he swung her over the wrought-iron back and set her down with her spine against it. Patience immediately squirmed, trying to twist around. One large palm, splayed across her midriff, kept her firmly in place.

“And then,” Vane continued, in the same, dangerous tone, “we’ll have to see what we can do to . . . distract you.”

“Distract me?” Patience stopped her futile wriggling.

“Hmm.” His words feathered her ear. “To alleviate your boredom.”

There was enough sensual weight in the words to temporarily freeze her wits—capture them and hold them in fascinated speculation—just long enough for him to grab a scarf from the pile of mending left in the basket by the daybed, thread it through the holes in the swirls of the ornate back and cinch it tight about her waist.