A Rake's Vow (2 page)

“You could help.” Patience Debbington blew aside the curls tangling with her eyelashes and frowned at Myst, her cat, sitting neatly in the weeds, an enigmatic expression on her inscrutable face. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

Myst merely blinked her large blue eyes. With a sigh, Patience leaned as far forward as she dared and poked among the weeds and perennials. Bent over at the waist, reaching into the flower bed, gripping its soft edge with the toes of her soft-soled shoes, was hardly the most elegant, let alone stable, position.

Not that she need worry over anyone seeing her—everyone else was dressing for dinner. Which was precisely what she should be doing—would have been doing—if she hadn’t noticed that the small silver vase which had adorned her windowsill had vanished. As she’d left the window open, and Myst often used that route to come and go, she’d reasoned that Myst must have toppled the vase in passing and it had rolled out, over the flat sill, and fallen into the flower bed below.

The fact that she had never known Myst unintentionally to knock over anything she’d pushed aside; it was better believing that Myst had been clumsy than that their mysterious thief had struck again.

“It’s not here,” Patience concluded. “At least, I can’t see it.” Still bent over, she looked at Myst. “Can you?”

Myst blinked again, and looked past her. Then the sleek grey cat rose and elegantly padded out of the flower bed.

“Wait!” Patience half turned, but immediately swung back, struggling to regain her awkward balance. “There’s a storm coming—this is
not
the time to go mousing.”

So saying, she managed to straighten—which left her facing the house, looking directly at the blank bow windows of the downstairs parlor. With the storm darkening the skies, the windows were reflective. They reflected the image of a man standing directly behind her.

With a gasp, Patience whirled. Her gaze collided with the man’s—his eyes were hard, crystalline grey, pale in the weak light. They were focused, intently, on her, their expression one she couldn’t fathom. He stood no more than three feet away, large, elegant and oddly forbidding. In the instant her brain registered those facts, Patience felt her heels sink, and sink—into the soft soil of the flower bed.

The edge crumbled beneath her feet.

Her eyes flew wide—her lips formed a helpless “Oh.” Arms flailing, she started to topple back—

The man reacted so swiftly his movement was a blur—he gripped her upper arms and hauled her forward.

She landed against him, breast to chest, hips to hard thighs. The breath was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping, mentally as well as physically. Hard hands held her upright, long fingers iron shackles about her arms. His chest was a wall of rock against her breasts; the rest of his body, the long thighs that held them braced, felt as resilient as tensile steel.

She was helpless. Utterly, completely, and absolutely helpless.

Patience looked up and met the stranger’s hooded gaze. As she watched, his grey eyes darkened. The expression they contained—intensely concentrated—sent a most peculiar thrill through her.

She blinked; her gaze fell—to the man’s lips. Long, thin yet beautifully proportioned, they’d been sculpted with a view to fascination. They certainly fascinated her; she couldn’t drag her gaze away. The mesmerizing contours shifted, almost imperceptibly softening; her own lips tingled. She swallowed, and dragged in a desperately needed breath.

Her breasts rose, shifting against the stranger’s coat, pressing more definitely against his chest. Sensation streaked through her, from unexpectedly tight nipples all the way to her toes. She caught another breath and tensed—but couldn’t stop the quiver that raced through her.

The stranger’s lips thinned; the austere planes of his face hardened. His fingers tightened about her arms. To Patience’s stunned amazement, he lifted her—easily—and carefully set her down two feet away.

Then he stepped back and swept her a negligent bow.

“Vane Cynster.” One brown brow arched; his eyes remained on hers. “I’m here to see Lady Bellamy.”

Patience blinked. “Ah . . . yes.” She hadn’t known men could move like that—particularly not men like him. He was so tall, large, lean but well muscled, yet his coordination had been faultless, the smooth grace investing the languid courtesy rendering it compelling in some ill-defined way. His words, uttered in a voice so deep she could have mistaken it for the rumble of the storm, eventually impinged on her consciousness; struggling to harness her thoughts, she gestured to the door at her right. “The first gong’s gone.”

Vane met her wide gaze, and managed not to smile wolfishly—no need to frighten the prey. The view he now had—of delectable curves filling a gown of ivory sprigged muslin in a manner he fully approved—was every bit as enticing as the view that had first held him—the gorgeous curves of her derriere clearly delineated beneath taut fabric. When she’d shifted, so had those curves. He couldn’t remember when a sight had so transfixed him, had so tantalized his rake’s senses.

She was of average height, her forehead level with his throat. Her hair, rich brown, lustrously sheening, was confined in a sleek knot, bright tendrils escaping to wreathe about her ears and nape. Delicate brown brows framed large eyes of hazel brown, their expression difficult to discern in the gloom. Her nose was straight; her complexion creamy. Her pink lips simply begged to be kissed. He’d come within a whisker of kissing them, but tasting an unknown lady before the requisite introductions was simply not good form.

His silence had allowed her to steady her wits; he sensed her growing resistance, sensed the frown gathering in her eyes. Vane let his lips curve. He knew precisely what he wanted to do—to her, with her; the only questions remaining were where and when. “And you are . . . ?”

Her eyes narrowed fractionally. She drew herself up, clasping her hands before her. “Patience Debbington.”

The shock hit him, heavy as a cannonball, and left him winded. Vane stared at her; a chill bloomed in his chest. It quickly spread, locking muscle after muscle in reactive denial. Then disbelief welled. He glanced at her left hand. No band of any sort decorated her third finger.

She
couldn’t
be unmarried—she was in her mid-twenties; no younger woman possessed curves as mature as hers. Of that, he was sure—he’d spent half his life studying feminine curves; in that sphere he was an expert. Perhaps she was a widow—potentially even better. She was studying him covertly, her gaze sliding over him.

Vane felt the touch of her gaze, felt the hunter within him rise in response to that artless glance; his wariness returned. “
Miss
Debbington?”

Looking up, she nodded—Vane almost groaned. Last chance—a spinster, impecunious, and without connections. He could set her up as his mistress.

She must have read his mind; before he could formulate the question, she answered it. “I’m Lady Bellamy’s niece.”

A crack of thunder all but drowned out her words; under cover of the noise, Vane swore beneath his breath, only just resisting the impulse to direct his ire heavenward.

Fate looked at him through clear hazel eyes.

Disapproving hazel eyes.

“If you’ll come this way”—with a wave, she indicated the nearby door, then haughtily led the way—“I’ll have Masters inform my aunt of your arrival.”

Having assimmilated the style, and thus the standing, of Minnie’s unexpected caller, Patience made no attempt to hide her opinion; dismissive contempt colored her tone. “Is my aunt expecting you?”

“No—but she’ll be pleased to see me.”

Was that subtle reproof she detected in his far-too-suave tones? Swallowing a hoity humph, Patience swept on. She felt his presence, large and intensely masculine, prowling in her wake. Her senses skittered; she clamped a firm hold on them and lifted her chin. “If you’ll wait in the parlor—it’s the first door on your right—Masters will fetch you when my aunt is ready to receive you. As I mentioned, the household is presently dressing for dinner.”

“Indeed.”

The word, uttered softly, reached her as she halted before the side door; Patience felt a cool tingle slither down her spine. And felt the touch of his grey gaze on her cheek, on the sensitive skin of her throat. She stiffened, resisting the urge to wriggle. She looked down, determined not to turn and meet his eyes. Jaw firming, she reached for the door handle; he beat her to it.

Patience froze. He’d stopped directly behind her, and reached around her to grasp the handle; she watched his long fingers slowly close about it. And stop.

She could feel him behind her, mere inches away, could sense his strength surrounding her. For one definable instant, she felt trapped.

Then the long fingers twisted; with a flick, he set the door swinging wide.

Heart racing, Patience sucked in a breath and sailed into the dim passage. Without slowing her pace, she inclined her head in regal, over-the-shoulder dismissal. “I’ll speak to Masters directly—I’m sure my aunt won’t keep you long.” With that, she swept on, down the passage and into the dark hallway beyond.

Poised on the threshold, Vane watched her retreat through narrowed eyes. He’d sensed the awareness that had flared at his touch, the quiver of consciousness she hadn’t been able to hide. For gentlemen such as he, that was proof enough of what might be.

His gaze fell on the small grey cat which had hugged Patience Debbington’s skirts; it now sat on the runner, considering him. As he watched, it rose, turned, and, tail high, started up the corridor—then stopped. Turning its head, it looked back at him. “
Meeow!
”

From its imperious tone, Vane deduced it was female.

Behind him, lightning flashed. He looked back at the darkened day. Thunder rolled—a second later, the heavens opened. Rain pelted down, sheets of heavy drops obliterating the landscape.

Fate’s message couldn’t have been clearer: escape was impossible.

His features grim, Vane closed the door—and followed the cat.

“Nothing could be more fortuitous!” Araminta, Lady Bellamy, beamed delightedly at Vane. “Of course you must stay. But the second gong will go any minute, so cut line. How is everyone?”

Propping his shoulders against the mantelpiece, Vane smiled. Wrapped in expensive shawls, her rotund figure encased in silk and lace, a frilled widow’s cap atop sprightly white curls, Minnie watched him through eyes bright with intelligence, set in a soft, lined face. She sat enthroned in her chair before the fire in her bedchamber; in its mate sat Timms, a gentlewoman of indeterminate years, Minnie’s devoted companion. “Everyone,” Vane knew, meant the Cynsters. “The youngsters are thriving—Simon’s starring at Eton. Amelia and Amanda are cutting a swath through the
ton
, scattering hearts right and left. The elders are all well and busy in town, but Devil and Honoria are still at the Place.”

“Too taken with admiring his heir, I’ll wager. Daresay that wife of his will keep him in line.” Minnie grinned, then sobered. “Still no word of Charles?”

Vane’s face hardened. “No. His disappearance remains a mystery.”

Minnie shook her head. “Poor Arthur.”

“Indeed.” Minnie sighed, then slanted an assessing glance at Vane. “And what about you and those cousins of yours? Still keeping the
ton
’s ladies on their toes?”

Her tone was all innocence; head bowed over her knitting, Timms snorted. “More like on their backs.”

Vane smiled, suavely charming. “We do our poor best.” Minnie’s eyes twinkled. Still smiling, Vane looked down and smoothed his sleeve. “I’d better go and change, but tell me—who do you have staying at present?”

“A whole parcel of odds and ends,” Timms offered.

Minnie chuckled and drew her hands free of her shawl. “Let’s see.” She counted on her fingers. “There’s Edith Swithins—she’s a distant Bellamy connection. Utterly vague, but quite harmless. Just don’t express any interest in her tatting unless you’ve an hour to spare. Then there’s Agatha Chadwick—she was married to that unfortunate character who insisted he could cross the Irish Sea in a coracle. He couldn’t, of course. So Agatha and her son and daughter are with us.”

“Daughter?”

Minnie’s gaze lifted to Vane’s face. “Angela. She’s sixteen and already a confirmed wilter. She’ll swoon away in your arms if you give her half a chance.”

Vane grimaced. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Henry Chadwick must be about your age,” Minnie mused, “but not at all in the same mold.” Her gaze ran appreciatively over Vane’s elegant figure, long muscular legs displayed to advantage in tight buckskins and top boots, his superbly tailored coat of Bath superfine doing justice to his broad shoulders. “Just setting eyes on you should do him some good.”

Vane merely raised his brows.

“Now, who else?” Minnie frowned at her fingers. “Edmond Montrose is our resident poet and dramatist. Needless to say, he fancies himself the next Byron. Then there’s the General and Edgar, who you must remember.”

Vane nodded. The General, a brusque, ex–military man, had lived at Bellamy Hall for years; his title was not a formal one, but a nickname earned by his emphatically regimental air. Edgar Polinbrooke, too, had been Minnie’s pensioner for years—Vane placed Edgar in his fifties, a mild tippler who fancied himself a gamester, but who was, in reality, a simple and harmless soul.

“Don’t forget Whitticombe,” Timms put in.

“How could I forget Whitticombe?” Minnie sighed. “Or Alice.”

Vane raised a questioning brow.

“Mr. Whitticombe Colby and his sister, Alice,” Minnie supplied. “They’re distant cousins of Humphrey’s. Whitticombe trained as a deacon and has conceived the notion of compiling the
History of Coldchurch Abbey
.” Coldchurch was the abbey on whose ruins the Hall stood.

“As for Alice—well, she’s just Alice.” Minnie grimaced. “She must be over forty and, though I hate to say it of one of my own sex, a colder, more intolerant, judgmental being it has never been my misfortune to meet.”

Vane’s brows rose high. “I suspect it would be wise if I steered clear of her.”

“Do.” Minnie nodded feelingly. “Get too close, and she’ll probably have the vapors.” She glanced at Vane. “Then again, she might just have hysterics anyway, the instant she sets eyes on you.”