A Rake's Vow (26 page)

He caught them before they hit. His eyes narrowed even further.

“
Do
come on,” she implored. “I’ll get the horses.” With that, she rushed to the ladder.

“
Patience
!”

That particular tone had been known to snap unruly, half-drunk soldiers to immediate attention; to Vane’s disgust, it had no discernible affect on Patience. She disappeared down the ladder as if he hadn’t spoken.

Leaving him disgusted—thoroughly and absolutely—with himself.

He’d muffed it. Completely and utterly. She was annoyed with him—piqued to her toes—and she had every right to feel so. His offer—well, he hadn’t even made it; he’d tried instead to slide around it, to arrogantly push her into agreeing without having to ask.

He’d failed. And now she was in a royal snit.

Not for an instant did he believe that she didn’t want to marry, that was merely the first excuse that had sprung to her mind—a weak excuse at that.

Swearing roundly—the only viable way he could relieve his temper—he hauled on his breeches, then reached for his shirt. He’d tried to avoid making the declaration he knew he had to make—and now it was going to be ten times worse.

Gritting his teeth, he stomped into his boots, swiped up his jacket, and stalked to the ladder.

Now he was going to have to beg.

B
egging did not come naturally.

That evening, Vane led the gentlemen back to the drawing room, feeling as if he was marching to his execution. He told himself proposing wouldn’t really be that bad.

Keeping the lid on his temper all the way back to the Hall, and then through the long afternoon, had tried him sorely. But having accepted the inevitable—Patience’s right to a formal, precisely correct proposal—he’d swallowed his ire and forced his conqueror’s instincts, which she’d very effectively raised to his surface, into line.

How long they’d toe that line was a moot point, but he was determined it would be long enough for him to propose and for her to accept him.

Strolling through the drawing-room doors, he scanned the occupants, and inwardly smiled. Patience was not present. He’d grasped the moment as the ladies were rising from the table, when they’d been close as he’d drawn back her chair, to say,
sotto voce
: “We need to meet privately.”

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?”