A Rake's Vow (27 page)

He went on, and desire rose, flickering about her, within her. She recognized it for what it was; she heard it in his voice. Heard the passion rise, felt it, a tangible force as he appeared again beside her, looking down into her face, his features craved granite, his eyes burning darkly. When next he spoke, his voice was so deep, so low, it grated on her skin.

“You’re a gentlewoman, born and bred—the position, the requirements, are in your blood. This morning you spread yourself for me—you wanted me, and I wanted you. You gave yourself to me. You took me in—and I took you. I took your maidenhead, I took your virginity—what innocence you had, I took that, too. But that was only the penultimate act in a script carved in stone. The final act is a wedding.
Ours
.”

Patience met his gaze steadily, although it took all her will. Not once had he spoken of any softer emotion—not once had he alluded to even the existence of love, let alone suggested it might live in him. He was hard, ruthless—his nature was not soft. It was demanding, commanding, as unyielding as his body. Desire and passion were his forte; that he felt both for her was beyond doubt.

That was not enough. Not for her.

She wanted, needed, love.

She had long ago promised herself she would never marry without it. She’d spent the hour before dinner staring at a cameo portrait of her mother, remembering. The images she’d recalled were still vivid in her mind—of her mother alone, weeping, lonely, bereft of love, dying for want of it.

She lifted her chin, her eyes steady on his. “I do not wish to marry.”

His eyes narrowed to grey shards. A long minute passed; he studied her face, her eyes. Then his chest swelled; he nodded once. “If you can tell me this morning meant nothing to you, I’ll accept your dismissal.”

Not for an instant did his eyes leave hers; Patience was forced to hold his gaze while inside, her heart ached. He’d left her no choice. Lifting her chin, she struggled to draw breath—and forced herself to shrug as she looked away. “This morning was very pleasant, quite eye-opening, but . . .” Shrugging again, she swung aside and stepped away. “Not enough to commit me to marriage.”

“
Look at me, dammit
!” The command was issued through clenched teeth.

Swinging back to face him, Patience saw his fists clench—and sensed the battle he waged not to touch her. She immediately lifted her chin. “You’re making too much of it—you, of all men, should know ladies do not marry all the men with whom they share their bodies.” Her heart twisted; she forced her voice to lighten, forced her lips to curve lightly. “I have to admit this morning was very enjoyable, and I sincerely thank you for the experience. I’m quite looking forward to the next time—to the next gentleman who takes my fancy.”

For one instant, she feared she’d gone too far. There was something—a flash in his eyes, an expression that flitted over his face—that locked her breath in her throat. But then he relaxed, not completely, but much of his frightening tension—battle-ready tension—seemed to flow out of him.

She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace. She wasn’t sure which she found more unnerving—the warrior, or the predator.

“So you liked it?” His fingers, cool and steady, slid under her chin and tipped her face up to his. He smiled—but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps you should consider the fact that if you married me, you would have the pleasure you experienced this morning every day of your life?” His eyes locked on hers. “I’m perfectly prepared to swear that you’ll never want for that particular pleasure if you become my wife.”

Only desperation allowed her to keep her features still, to stop them from crumpling. Inside, she was weeping—for him, and for her. But she had to turn him from her. There were no words on earth to explain to him—proud descendant of a prideful warrior clan—that it was not in his power to give her the one thing she needed to become his wife.

The effort to lift one brow archly nearly felled her. “I suppose,” she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes, to infuse consideration into her expression, “that it might be quite nice to try it again, but I can’t see any need to marry you for that.” His eyes blanked. She was at the end of her strength and she knew it. She put her last ounce into brightening her smile, her eyes, her expression. “I daresay it would be quite exciting to be your inamorata for a few weeks.”

Nothing she could have said, nothing she could have done, would have hurt him, or shocked him, so much. Or been more certain to drive him from her. For a man like him, with his background, his honor, to refuse to be his wife but consent to be his mistress was the ultimate low blow. To his pride, to his ego, to his self-worth as a man.

Her fists clenched in her skirts so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Patience forced herself to look inquiringly at him. Forced herself not to quail when she saw the disgust flare in his eyes the instant before the steel shutters came down. Forced herself to stand firm, head still high, when his lip curled.

“I ask you to be my wife . . . and you offer to be my whore.”

The words were low, laced with contempt, bitter with an emotion she couldn’t place.

He looked at her for one long minute, then, as if nothing of any great moment had transpired, swept her an elegant bow.

“Pray accept my apologies for any inconvenience my unwelcome proposition may have caused you.” Only the ice in his tone hinted at his feelings. “As there’s nothing more to be said, I’ll bid you a good night.”

With one of his usual graceful nods, he headed for the door. He opened it, and, without glancing back, left, pulling the door gently closed behind him.

Patience held her position; for a long while, she simply stood there, staring at the door, not daring to let herself think. Then the cold reached through her gown, and she shivered. Wrapping her arms about her, she forced herself to walk, to take a calming turn around the conservatory. She held the tears back. Why on earth was she crying? She’d done what had to be done. She reminded herself sternly that it was all for the best. That the numbness enveloping her would eventually pass.

That it didn’t matter that she would never feel that golden and silver glow—or the joy of giving her love—again.

Vane was halfway across the neighboring county before he came to his senses. His greys were pacing steadily down the moonlit road, their easy action eating the last miles to Bedford, when, like Saint Paul, he was struck by a blinding revelation.

Miss Patience Debbington might not have lied, but she hadn’t told the whole truth.

Cursing fluently, Vane slowed the greys. Eyes narrowing, he tried to think. Not an exercise he’d indulged in since leaving the conservatory.

On leaving Patience, he’d gone to the shrubbery, to pace and curse in private. Much good had it done him. Never in his life had he had to cope with such damage—he’d hurt in tender places he hadn’t known he possessed. And she hadn’t even touched him. Unable to quell the cauldron of emotions that, by then, had been seething inside him, he’d fastened on strategic retreat as his only viable option.

He’d gone to see Minnie. Knowing she slept lightly, he’d scratched on her door, and heard her bid him enter. The room had been in darkness, relieved only by a patch of moonlight. He’d stopped her lighting her candle; he hadn’t wanted her, with her sharp old eyes, to see his face, read the turmoil and pain he was sure must be etched into his features. Let alone his eyes. She’d heard him out—he’d told her he’d remembered an urgent engagement in London. He would be back, he’d assured her, to deal with the Spectre and the thief in a few days. After he’d discovered how to deal with her niece, who wouldn’t marry him—he’d managed to keep that confession from his lips.

Minnie, bless her huge heart, had bidden him go, of course. And he’d gone, immediately, rousing only Masters to lock the house after him, and, of course, Duggan, presently perched behind him.

Now, however, with the moon wrapping him in her cool beams, with the night so dark about him, with his horses’ hooves the only sound breaking the echoing stillness—now, sanity had deigned to return to him.

Things didn’t add up. He was a firm believer in two and two making four. In Patience’s case, as far as he could see, two and two made fifty-three.

How, he wondered, did a woman—a gently bred lady—who had, on first sight of him, deemed him likely to corrupt her brother simply by association, come to indulge in a far from quick roll in the hay with him?

Just what had impelled her to that?

For some women, witlessness might have been the answer, but this was a woman who’d had the courage, the unfaltering determination, to warn him off in an effort to protect her brother.

And had then had the courage to apologize.

This was also a woman who’d never before lain with a man, never before so much as shared a passionate kiss. Never given herself in any way—until she’d given herself to him.

At the age of twenty-six.

And she expected him to believe . . .

With a vitriolic curse, Vane hauled on the reins. He brought the greys to a halt, then proceeded to turn the curricle. He steeled himself for the inevitable comment from Duggan. His henchman’s long-suffering silence was even more eloquent.

Muttering another curse—at his own temper and the woman who had, for some ungodly reason, provoked it—Vane set the greys pacing back to Bellamy Hall.

As the miles slid by, he went over everything Patience had said, in the conservatory and before. He still couldn’t make head or tail of it. Replaying once again their words in the conservatory, he was conscious of a towering urge to lay hands on her, put her over his knee and beat her, then shake her, and then make violent love to her. How
dared
she paint herself in such a light?

Jaw clenched, he vowed to get to the bottom of it. That there was something behind her stance he had not a doubt. Patience was sensible, even logical for a woman; she wasn’t the sort to play missish games. There’d be a reason, some point she saw as vitally important that he, as yet, couldn’t see at all.

He’d have to convince her to tell him.

Considering the possibilities, he conceded, given her first nonsensical view of him, that she might have taken some odd, not to say fanciful, notion into her head. There was, however, from whichever angle one viewed the proposition, no reason whatever that they shouldn’t wed—that she shouldn’t become his wife. From his point of view, and from that of anyone with her best interests at heart, from the viewpoint of his family, and hers, and the
ton
’s, she was perfect for the position in every way.

All he had to do was convince her of that fact. Find out what hurdle was preventing her from marrying him and overcome it. Regardless of whether in order to do so he had to act in the teeth of her trenchant opposition.

As the roofs of Northampton rose before them, Vane smiled grimly. He’d always thrived on challenges.

Two hours later, as he stood on the lawn of Bellamy Hall and looked up at the dark window of Patience’s bedchamber, he reminded himself of that fact.

It was after one o’clock; the house lay in darkness. Duggan had decided to sleep in the stables; Vane was damned if he’d do the same. But he’d personally checked all the locks throughout the Hall; there was no way inside other than by plying the front knocker—guaranteed to wake not only Masters, but the entire household.

Grimly, Vane studied Patience’s third-floor window and the ancient ivy that grew past it. It was, after all, her fault that he was out here.

By the time he was halfway up, he’d run out of curses. He was too old for this. Thankfully, the thick central stem of the ivy passed close by Patience’s window. As he neared the stone ledge, he suddenly realized he didn’t know if she was a sound or a light sleeper. How hard could he knock on the pane while clinging to the ivy? And how much noise could he make without alerting Minnie or Timms, whose rooms lay farther along the wing?

To his relief, he didn’t need to find out. He was almost up to the sill when he saw a grey shape behind the glass. The next instant, the shape shifted and stretched—Myst, he realized, reaching for the latch. He heard a scrape, then the window obligingly popped open.

Myst nudged it further with her head, and peered down.

“
Meew
!”

Uttering a heartfelt prayer to the god of cats, Vane climbed up. Pushing the window wide, he hooked an arm over the top of it and managed to get one leg over the sill. The rest was easy.

Safe on solid timber, he bent down and ran his fingers along Myst’s spine, then rubbed between her ears. She purred furiously, then, tail held high, the tip twitching, stalked off toward the fire. Vane straightened, and heard rustling from the direction of the huge four-poster bed. He was dusting leaves and twigs from his shoulders and the skirts of his greatcoat when Patience appeared out of the shadows. Her hair lay, a rippling bronze veil, over her shoulders; she clutched a shawl around her, over her fine lawn nightgown.

Her eyes were bigger than saucers. “What are you doing here?”

Vane raised his brows, and considered the way her nightgown clung to the long limbs beneath. Slowly, he let his gaze travel upward, until his eyes reached her face. “I’ve come to take you up on your offer.”

If he’d had any doubt over his reading of her, the utter blankness that swamped her expression would have dispelled it.

“Ah—” Eyes still wide, she blinked at him. “Which offer is that?”

Vane decided it was wiser not to answer. He shrugged off his greatcoat and dropped it on the window seat. His coat followed. Patience watched with increasing agitation; Vane pretended not to notice. He crossed to the hearth and crouched to tend the fire.

Hovering behind him, Patience literally wrung her hands—something she’d never done in her life before—and frantically wondered which tack to take now. Then she realized Vane was building up the fire. She frowned. “I don’t need a roaring blaze now.”

“You’ll be glad of it soon enough.”

She would? Patience stared at Vane’s broad back, and tried not to notice the play of his muscles beneath the fine linen. Tried not to think of what he might mean, what he might be planning. Then she remembered his greatcoat. Frowning, she drifted back to the window seat, stepping lightly, her feet cold on the bare boards. She ran a hand over the capes of the greatcoat—they were damp. She looked out of the window; the river mist was rolling in.