A Rake's Vow (22 page)

Masters blinked. “Her Ladyship’s unwell, sir—Miss Debbington is presently with Mrs. Henderson sorting menus and going over the household accounts, it being the day for those.”

“I see.” Vane stared unseeing at the empty doorway. “And just how long do menus and household accounts take?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir—but they’ve only just begun, and Her Ladyship usually takes all morning.”

Vane drew a deep breath—and held it. “Thank you, Masters.”

Slowly, he moved out from behind the table and headed for the door.

He was past cursing. He paused in the hall, then, his face setting like stone, he turned on his heel and strode for the stables. In lieu of talking with Patience, and the likely aftermath, he’d have to settle for a long, hard ride—on a horse.

He caught her in the stillroom.

Pausing with his hand on the latch of the half-open door, Vane grinned, grimly satisfied. It was early afternoon; many of the household would be safely napping—the rest would at least be somnolent. Within the stillroom, he could hear Patience humming softly—other than the rustling of her gown, he could hear no other sound. He’d finally found her alone and in the perfect location. The stillroom, tucked away on the ground floor of one wing, was private, and contained no daybed,
chaise
, or similar piece of furniture.

In his present state, that was just as well. A gentleman should not, after all, go too far with the lady he intended making his wife before informing her of that fact. The absence of any of the customary aids to seduction should make coming to the point easy, after which they could retire to some place of greater comfort, so he could be comfortable again.

The thought—of how he would ease the discomfort that had dogged him for the past days—wound his spring a notch tighter. Jaw set, he drew a deep breath. Setting the door wide, he stepped over the threshold.

Patience whirled. Her face lit up. “Hello. Not riding?”

Scanning the dimly lit stillroom, Vane slowly closed the door. And slowly shook his head. “I went out this morning.” The last time he’d been in here, he’d been nine years old—the room had appeared much more spacious. Now . . . Ducking a dangling sheaf of leaves, he edged around the table running down the center of the narrow room. “How’s Minnie?”

Patience smiled, gloriously welcoming, and dusted her hands. “Just a sniffle—she’ll be better soon, but we want to keep an eye on her. Timms is sitting with her at present.”

“Ah.” Dodging more branches of drying herbs, carefully avoiding a rack of large bottles, Vane eased down the aisle between the central table and the side counter at which Patience was working. He only just fitted. The fact registered, but dimly; his senses had focused on Patience. His eyes locked on hers as he closed the distance between them. “I’ve been chasing you for days.”

Desire roughened his voice; he saw the same emotion flare in her eyes. He reached for her—in precisely the same moment she stepped toward him. She ended in his arms, her hands sliding up to frame his face, her face lifting to his.

Vane was kissing her before he knew what he—they—were about. It was the first time in his extensive career he’d misstepped, lost the thread of his predetermined plot. He’d intended
speaking
first, making the declaration he knew he should make; as Patience’s lips parted invitingly under his, as her tongue boldly tangled with his, all thought of speech fled from his head. Her hands left his face to slide and lock over his shoulders, bringing her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his, the soft fullness of her belly caressing the aching ridge distorting the front of his breeches.

Need burst upon him—his, and, to his utter amazement, hers. His own lust he was used to controlling; hers was something else again. Vibrant, gloriously naive, eager in its innocence, it held a power far stronger than he’d expected. And it drew something from him—something deeper, stronger, a compulsion driven by something much more powerful than mere lust.

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, slowly 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.