A Rake's Vow (39 page)

F
or Patience, the next three days passed in a whirl of brief meetings, of whispered conferences, of desperate endeavors to locate Minnie’s pearls, punctuated by last-minute fittings for her new ball gown, all squeezed between the social excursions necessary to keep all Minnie’s household under observation. Beneath the frenetic rush ran a sense of gathering excitement, a swelling thrill of anticipation.

Highlighted whenever she met Vane, whenever they exchanged glances, whenever she sensed the weight of his personal, highly passionate, regard.

There was no hiding it, no sidestepping it; the desire between them grew stronger, more charged, with every passing day. She didn’t know whether to blame him, or herself.

By the time she climbed the imposing steps of St. Ives House and passed into the brilliantly lit hall, her nerves had wound taut, coiled tight in her stomach. She told herself it was nonsense to allow the moment to so affect her, to imagine anything great would come of the evening. This was merely a private family ball, an impromptu affair, as Honoria had been at great pains to assure her.

There was no reason—no sense—to her reaction.

“There you are!” Honoria, magnificently gowned in mulberry silk, informally greeting her guests by the door, all but pounced on Patience as she crossed the music room’s threshold. Nodding to Minnie, Timms, and the rest of their entourage, Honoria graciously waved them on, but kept hold of Patience. “I must introduce you to Devil.”

Deftly linking arms with Patience, she swept up to where a tall, dramatically dark gentleman clothed in black stood talking to two matrons. Honoria jabbed his arm. “Devil—my husband. Duke of St. Ives.”

The man turned, took in Patience, then slanted Honoria a mildly inquiring glance.

“Patience Debbington,” his spouse supplied. “Minnie’s niece.”

Devil smiled, first at his wife, then at Patience. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Debbington.” He bowed gracefully. “You’ve just come up from Bellamy Hall, I hear. Vane seems to have found his stay there unexpectedly distracting.”

The smooth tones of his deep voice, distinctly familiar, rolled over, and through, Patience. She resisted the urge to blink. Vane and Devil could have been brothers—the resemblance, the autocratic cast of their features, the aggressive line of nose and jaw, was impossible to mistake. The primary difference lay in their coloring—while Vane’s hair was burnished brown, his eyes cool grey, Devil’s hair was midnight black, his large eyes a pale green. There were other differences, too, but the similarities outweighed them. From their build, their distinctive height, and, most striking of all, the wicked glint in their eyes and the totally untrustworthy lilt to their lips, they were clearly as one beneath the skin. Wolves in human form.

Very masculine, distinctly distracting form.

“How do you do, Your Grace.” Patience held out her hand, and would have sunk into the regulation deep curtsy, but Devil grasped her fingers and prevented it.

“
Not
‘Your Grace.’ ” He smiled, and Patience felt the mesmerizing power of his gaze as he raised her gloved fingers to his lips. “Call me Devil—everyone does.”

For good reason, Patience decided. Despite that, she couldn’t help but return his smile.

“There’s Louise—I must speak with her.” Honoria glanced at Patience. “I’ll catch up with you later.” Skirts swishing imperiously, she headed back to the door.

Devil grinned. He turned back to Patience—his gaze slid past her.

“Minnie’s asking after you.” Vane nodded to Patience as he halted beside her, then he returned his gaze to Devil. “She wants to relive some of our more embarrassing exploits—rather you than me.”

Devil sighed feelingly. He raised his head, looking over the swelling throng to where Minnie was holding court, enthroned on a
chaise
by the wall. “Perhaps I could impress her with the weight of my ducal demeanor?” He raised his brows at Vane, who grinned.

“You could try.”

Devil smiled. With a nod to Patience, he left them.

Patience met Vane’s gaze; instantly, she was aware of the tension that held him. A peculiar shyness gripped her. “Good evening.”

Something hot flashed through his eyes; his face hardened. He reached for her hand. She yielded it readily. He raised it, but instead of touching his lips to the backs of her gloved fingers, he reversed her hand. His eyes steady on hers, he pressed his lips to her inner wrist. Her pulse leapt beneath his caress.

“There’s someone you should meet.” His voice was low, gravelly. Placing her hand on his sleeve, he turned her.

“Hello, coz. Who’s this?”

The gentleman who blocked their way was obviously another Cynster—one with light brown hair and blue eyes. Vane sighed, and made the introductions—and kept making them as more of them appeared. They were all similar—similarly dangerous—all large, all suavely assured—all elegant. The first went by the name of Gabriel; he was followed by Lucifer, Demon, and Scandal. Patience found it impossible not to soften under their practiced smiles. She grasped the moment to regain her breath, regain her poise. The pack—she instantly labeled them as such—chatted and sparred with effortless facility. She responded easily, but remained alert. How could one claim not to have been forewarned with names like that? She kept her hand firmly anchored to Vane’s sleeve.

For his part, Vane showed no inclination to drift from her side. She told herself not to read too much into that fact. There simply might not be many ladies of the type to attract his interest in a crowd composed of family and friends.

A squeaky screech, followed by a plunk, heralded the start of the dancing. Four of the large men surrounding her hesitated; Vane did not. “Would you care to dance, my dear?”

Patience smiled her acceptance. With a gracious nod to the others, she consented to be led to the floor.

Stepping into the space rapidly clearing at the room’s center, Vane confidently drew her into his arms. When her eyes widened, he raised a brow. “You do waltz in the wilds of Derbyshire, don’t you?”

Patience lifted her chin. “Of course. I quite enjoy a good waltz.”

“
Quite enjoy
?” The first strains of a waltz swelled. Vane’s lips lifted wickedly. “Ah—but you’ve yet to waltz with a Cynster.”

With that, he drew her closer, and whirled her into the dance.

Patience had parted her lips to haughtily ask just why Cynsters were thought such exponents of the art—by the time they’d revolved thrice, she had her answer. It took her three more revolutions before she managed to suck in a breath and close her mouth. She felt like she was airborne—swooping, sweeping. Effortlessly twirling, all in strict time.

Her startled gaze fell on the mulberry gown of the lady in the couple ahead of them, who was revolving every bit as vigorously as she. Honoria—their hostess. In the arms of her husband.

A quick glance revealed that all the Cynsters who’d been politely conversing with her earlier, had claimed ladies and taken to the floor. It was easy to pick them out among the crowd; they didn’t revolve any faster than anyone else, but with greater enthusiasm, immensely greater power. Harnessed, controlled, power.

Feet flying, her skirts aswirl, compelled by the steely arms that held her, the powerful body that so effortlessly steered her, checked her, reversed her and turned her, Patience clung tight—to her wits, and to Vane.

Not that she felt in any danger of being released.

The thought brought his nearness, his strength, into sharper focus. They neared the end of the room; his hand burning like a brand through the fine silk of her gown, he drew her closer, deeper into his protective embrace. They swung into the turn; Patience dragged in a desperate breath—and felt her bodice, her breasts, shift against his coat. Her nipples constricted, excruciatingly tight.

On a muted gasp, she looked up, and her gaze collided with his, silvery grey, mesmerically intent. She couldn’t look away, could barely breathe, as the room revolved about them. Her senses narrowed, until the world she knew was encompassed within the circle of his arms.

Time stopped. All that was left was the sway of their bodies, caught in the compelling, powerful rhythm only they could hear. The violins played a minor theme; the music that played between them came from a different source.

It swelled and grew. Hips and thighs met, caressed, and parted as they shifted through the turns. The rhythm called, their bodies answered, flowing effortlessly with the dance, pulsing with the beat, heating slowly. Touching tantalizingly. Teasing and promising. When the violins ceased and their feet slowed, their music still played on.

Vane hauled in a deep breath; the moment shivered about them. He forced his arms from about Patience, caught her hand, and placed it on his sleeve, unable, even though he knew too many were watching avidly, to forgo placing his free hand over her fingers.

He felt her slight shudder, took her weight as, for an instant, she leaned more heavily on him, blinking rapidly as she struggled to pull free of the magic.

She lifted her eyes and studied his face. Coolly, a great deal more coolly than he felt, he raised a brow.

Patience straightened. Looking ahead, she put her nose in the air. “You waltz quite creditably.”

Vane chuckled through his teeth. His jaw was set against the urge to whisk her away, through one of the doors that led from the music room. He knew this house like the back of his hand. While she might not know their options, he did. But too many were watching them, and Honoria, for one, would never forgive him. Not so early in the evening, when sudden absences were too obvious.

Later. He’d already given up all thought that he could weather tonight without sating his demons. Not while she was wearing that dress.

Dashing, Minnie had termed it.

Dashed impossible, from his point of view.

He’d had every intention of toeing the line, at least until she’d accepted his offer. Now . . . There was such a thing as tempting a wolf too far.

He glanced down. Patience strolled serenely on his arm. The bronze-silk gown fitted snugly about her breasts, with only the tiniest wisps of sleeves, set off her shoulders, to distract from the glorious expanse of creamy skin, the ripe swells of her upper breasts, the delicate molding of her shoulders. The long straight skirts draped gently over her curvy hips, sleekly concealing her derriere; they fluttered elegantly about her legs, the hems ruffled to tantalizingly reveal her ankles as she walked.

While the neckline was low, there was nothing specifically outrageous about the gown. It was the combination of the woman wearing it and Celestine’s faultlessly draped fabric that was causing his problems.

Only from his vantage point was it possible to see how deeply Patience’s breasts rose and fell.

A second later, he forced himself to lift his head and look ahead.

Later.

He drew a deep breath, and held it.

“Evening, Cynster.” An elegant gentleman stepped forward from the crowd, his gaze on Patience. “Miss . . . ?” Smoothly, he looked at Vane.

Who sighed. Audibly. And nodded. “Chillingworth.” Vane glanced at Patience. “Allow me to present the earl of Chillingworth.” He looked at Chillingworth. “Miss Debbington, Lady Bellamy’s niece.”

Patience curtsied. Chillingworth smiled charmingly, and bowed, as gracefully as any Cynster.

“I take it you’ve come up to town with Lady Bellamy, Miss Debbington. Are you finding the capital to your liking?”

“Actually, no.” Patience saw no reason to prevaricate. “I fear I’m addicted to early mornings, my lord, a time the
ton
seems to eschew.”

Chillingworth blinked. He glanced swiftly at Vane, then his gaze dropped fleetingly to where Vane’s hand covered Patience’s fingers, resting on his sleeve. He raised his brows and smiled suavely at Patience. “I’m almost tempted to explain, my dear, that our apparent dismissal of the morning hours is, in fact, a natural consequence of our activities in the
later
hours. Then again . . .” He slanted a glance at Vane. “Perhaps I had better leave such explanations to Cynster, here.”

“Perhaps you had.” There was no mistaking the steel in Vane’s tone.

Fleetingly, Chillingworth grinned, but when he looked back at Patience, he was calmly serious once more. “You know, it’s really quite odd.” He smiled. “While I rarely find myself in agreement with Cynsters, one has to admit their taste in one respect resonates remarkably with mine.”

“Indeed?” Patience acknowledged the veiled compliment with an assured smile. Having dealt with Vane for three weeks, the earl, charming and undeniably handsome though he was, had no chance of ruffling her feathers.

“Indeed.” Chillingworth turned to quiz Vane. “Don’t you find that remarkable, Cynster?”

“Not at all,” Vane replied. “Some things are so blatantly obvious even you should appreciate them.” Chillingworth’s eyes sparked. Vane smoothly continued, “However, given your admittedly similar tastes, you might reflect on where following such tastes might land you.” He nodded across the room.

Both Chillingworth and Patience followed his direction, and saw Devil and Honoria by the side of the ballroom, clearly engaged in some pointed discussion. As they watched, Honoria clasped her hands about Devil’s arm and pushed to turn him down the room. The look Devil cast the ceiling, the long-suffering look he cast his wife as he acquiesced, made it clear who had won the round.

Chillingworth shook his head sadly. “Ah, how the mighty have fallen.”

“You’d best be on your guard,” Vane advised, “given that your tastes so parallel the Cynsters’, that you don’t find yourself in a situation you’re constitutionally unprepared to handle.”

Chillingworth grinned. “Ah, but I don’t suffer from the Achilles’ heel with which fate has hobbled the Cynsters.” Still grinning, he bowed to Patience. “Your servant, Miss Debbington. Cynster.” With a last nod, he went on his way, ignoring Vane’s narrow-eyed glare.

Patience looked up into Vane’s face. “What Achilles’ heel?”

Vane stirred. “Nothing. It’s just his notion of a joke.”

If it was a joke, it had had an odd effect. “Who is he?” Patience asked. “Is he a Cynster connection of sorts?”