A Rake's Vow (41 page)

The area had clearly been designed to provide the lady of the house with a private, refreshing, calming retreat in which to embroider, or simply rest and gather her thoughts. In the moonlit night, surrounded by mysterious shadow and steeped in a silence rendered only more intense by the distant sighing of music and the silvery tinkle of the water, it was a hauntingly magical place.

For three heartbeats, the magic held Patience immobile.

Then, through the fine silk of her gown, she felt the heat of Vane’s body. He did not touch her, but that heat, and the flaring awareness that raced through her, had her quickly stepping forward. Hauling in a desperate breath, she gestured to the fountain. “It’s lovely.”

“Hmm,” came from close behind.

Too close behind. Patience found herself heading for a stone bench, shaded by a canopy of palms. Stifling a gasp, she veered away, toward the fountain.

The fountain’s pedestal was set on a stone disc; she stepped onto the single, foot-wide step. Beneath her soles, she felt the change from tiles to marble. One hand on the rim of the basin, she glanced down, then, nerves flickering wildly, forced herself to bend and study the plants nestling at the pedestal’s base. “These look rather exotic.”

Behind her, Vane studied the way her gown had pulled tight over the curves of her bottom—and didn’t argue. Lips lifting in anticipation, he moved in—to spring his trap.

Her heart racing, tripping in double time, Patience straightened, and went to slide around the fountain, to place it between herself and the wolf she was trapped in the conservatory with. Instead, she ran into an arm.

She blinked at it. One faultless grey sleeve enclosing solid bone well covered with steely muscle, large fist locked over the scrolled rim of the basin, it stated very clearly that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Patience whirled—and found her retreat similarly blocked. Swinging farther, she met Vane’s gaze; standing on the tiled floor, one step below her, arms braced on the rim, his eyes were nearly level with hers. She studied them, read his intent in the silvered grey, in the hardening lines of his face, the brutally sensual line of those uncompromising lips.

She couldn’t believe her eyes.

“
Here
?” The word, weak though it was, accurately reflected her disbelief.

“Right here. Right now.”

Her heart thudded wildly. Prickling awareness raced over her skin. The certainty in his voice, in the deepening tones, riveted her. The thought of what he was suggesting made her mind seize.

She swallowed, and moistened her lips, not daring to take her eyes from his. “But . . . someone might come in.”

His gaze dropped from hers, his lids veiling his eyes. “I locked the door.”

“You did?” Wildly, Patience glanced back toward the door; a tug at her bodice hauled her back, refocused her scattered wits. On the top button of her bodice, now undone. She stared at the gold-and-tortoiseshell whorl. “I thought they were just for show.”

“So did I.” Vane popped the second of the big buttons free. His fingers moved to the third and final button, below her breasts. “I must remember to commend Celestine on her farsighted design.”

The final button slid free—his long fingers slid beneath the silk. Patience sucked in a desperate breath; he had very quick fingers—with locks, and other things. On the thought, she felt the ribbons of her chemise give; the fine silk slid down.

His hand, hot and hard, closed over her breast.

Patience gasped. She swayed—and grabbed his shoulders to keep herself upright. The next second, his lips were on hers; they shifted, then settled, hard and demanding. For one instant, she stood firm, savoring the heady taste of his desire—his need of her—then she yielded, opening to him, inviting him in, brazenly delighting in his conquest.

The kiss deepened, not by degrees, but in leaps and bounds, in a blind, breathless downhill rush, a giddy pursuit of sensual delights, carnal pleasures.

Parched for air, Patience drew back on a gasp. Head back, she breathed deeply. Her breasts rose dramatically; Vane bent his head to pay homage.

She felt his hand at her waist, burning through her thin gown as he held her steady before him; she felt his lips, hot as brands, tease and tug at her nipples. Then he took the engorged flesh into the wet heat of his mouth. She tensed. He suckled—her strangled cry shivered in the moonlight.

“Ah.” His eyes glinted wickedly as he lifted his head and transferred his attention to her other breast. “You’ll have to remember. This time, no screaming.”

No screaming?
Patience clung to him, clung desperately to her wits as he feasted. His mouth, his touch, drew and fragmented her attention, stoked and fed the desire already flaring hotly within her.

But it was impossible—it had to be.

There was the bench—but it was cold and narrow and surely too hard. Then she remembered how he’d once lifted her and loved her.

“My dress—it’ll crush horribly. Everyone will guess.”

His only response was to tuck the sides of her bodice back, completely baring her breasts.

Through her next gasp, Patience managed, “I meant my skirts. We’ll never be able to . . .”

The rumbling chuckle that rolled through him left her shuddering.

“Not a single crease.” His lips brushed the crests of her breasts, now tight and aching; his teeth grazed the furled tips, and daggers pierced her flesh. “Trust me.”

His voice was deep, dark, heavy with passion. He lifted his head. His hands closed about her waist. Deliberately, he drew her to him, so her tingling breasts pressed against his coat. She gasped, and he bent his head and kissed her, kissed her until she had softened through and through, until her weakening limbs could barely support her.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way.” He breathed the words against her lips. “And I
will
have you.”

For one fractured instant, their gazes met—no pretense, no amount of guile could conceal the emotions driving them. Simple, uncomplicated. Urgent.

He turned her; Patience blinked at the fountain, pearly white in the moonlight, blinked at the barely robed maiden steadily filling the bowl. She felt Vane behind her, hot, solid—aroused. He bent his head; his lips grazed the side of her throat. Patience sank back against him, angling her head back, encouraging his caresses. She let her hands drop to her sides, to his thighs, hard as oak behind her. Spreading her fingers, she gripped the long, tensed muscles—and felt them harden even more.

He reached around her; she waited to feel his hands close about her breasts, to feel him fill his hands with her bounty.

Instead, with just the very tips of his fingers, he traced the swollen curves, circled the aching peaks. Patience shuddered—and sank deeper against him. His hands left her; she felt him reach out. She forced her eyes open. From under weighted lids, she watched as, with one hand, he traced the bare breast of the maiden, lovingly caressing the cool stone.

Leaving the maiden, his fingers trailed lightly in the clear water in the marble bowl. Then he raised the same fingers to her heated flesh—and touched her as he’d touched the maiden—delicately, evocatively. Enticingly.

Patience closed her eyes—and shivered. His fingers, cool, wet, trailed and traced—exquisite sensation lanced through her. Pressing her head back against his shoulder, she bit her lip against a moan, and flexed her fingers on his thighs.

And managed to gasp: “This is . . .”

“Meant to be.”

After a moment, she licked her parched lips. “How?”

She sensed the change in him, the surge of passion he immediately leashed. Her flaring response, the urgent need to have him take her, completely and utterly, and give himself in the same way, stole her breath.

“Trust me.” He reached around her again, moving closer; his strength flowed around her, surrounded her. His hands closed about her breasts, no longer delicately teasing but hungry. He filled his hands and kneaded; Patience felt the flames rise—in him, in her.

“Just do what I tell you. And don’t think.”

Patience mentally groaned. How? What . . . ? “Just remember my dress.”

“I’m an expert, remember? Grasp the rim of the bowl with both hands.”

Bemused, Patience did. Vane shifted behind her; the next instant, her skirts, then her petticoats, were flipped up, over her waist. Cool air washed over the backs of her thighs, over her bottom, exposed to the moonlight.

She blushed hotly—and opened her mouth on a protest.

The next second, she forgot about protest, forgot about everything, as long, knowing fingers slid between her thighs.

Unerringly, he found her, already slick and swollen. He traced, and tantalized, teased and caressed, then evocatively probed her.

Eyes closed, Patience bit her lip against a moan. He reached deep, stroking into her softness; she gasped, and gripped the marble bowl more tightly.

Then he reached around her, one large palm sliding under her dress and petticoats, gliding over her hip to splay possessively over her naked stomach. The hand shifted, fingers searching boldly through her curls. Until one found and settled against her most sensitive spot.

She couldn’t find enough breath to gasp—let alone moan or scream. Patience desperately drew air into her lungs, and felt him behind her. Felt the hot hard length of him press between her thighs. Felt the wide head nudge into her softness and find her entrance.

Slowly, he sank into her, easing her hips back, then holding her steady, bracing her as he slid fully home. And filled her.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew—and returned, pressing so deeply she rose on her toes.

Her gasp hung like shimmering silver in the moonlight, eloquent testimony to her state.

Again and again, with the same relentlessly restrained force, he filled her. Thrilled her. Loved her.

The hand at her belly didn’t shift, but simply held her steady so she could receive him, could feel, again and again, his possession, the slow repetitive penetration impinging on her mind as well as her body, on her emotions as well as her senses.

She was his and she knew it. She gave herself gladly, received him joyfully, obediently struggled to hold back her moans as he shifted and sank deeper.

Tucking her bottom firmly against his hips, he moved more forcefully within her, thrusting more deeply, more powerfully.

The tension—within him, within her, holding them so tightly—grew, swelled, coiled. Patience swallowed a gasp— and clung to sanity. And prayed for release while dazedly wondering if this time she really would lose her mind.

Again and again he filled her. The golden glimmer she now knew and desired glowed on her horizon. She tried to reach for it—to draw it nearer—tried to tighten about him and urge him on.

And suddenly realized that, in this position, her options were limited.

She was at his mercy and could do nothing to change it. With a gasp, she lowered her head, her fingers tightening on the bowl’s rim. Pleasure, relentless, passionate, rolled through her in waves, rearing every time he sank into her and stretched her. Completed her.

Patience felt a scream building—and bit her lip—hard.

Vane sank into her again and felt her quiver. He remained sunk in her heat for a fraction longer, then smoothly withdrew. And sank into her again.

He was in no hurry. Savoring the slick, scalding softness that welcomed him, the velvet glove that fitted him so well, glorying in all the heady signs of her body’s acceptance of him—the natural, abandoned way the hemispheres of her bottom, glowing ivory in the moonlight, met his body, the slick wetness that made his staff gleam, the total absence of all restraint, the completeness of her surrender—he took time to appreciate it all.

Before him, she tightened, and tensed, and helplessly squirmed.

He held her steady. And slowly filled her again. She was close to frantic. He withdrew from her, nudged her legs wider, and filled her even more deeply.

A muted squeal escaped her.

Vane narrowed his eyes, and took firm hold of his reins. “What brought you here? To the conservatory?”

After a fractured minute, Patience gasped, “I told you—the amenities.”

“Not because you saw me come in here with a lovely young lady?”

“No!” The answer came back too quickly. “Well,” Patience breathlessly temporized, “she was your cousin.”

With his free hand, Vane reached around her, filling his palm with the swollen fullness of her breast. He searched and found the tight bud of her nipple—and rolled it gently between thumb and finger, before squeezing firmly. “You didn’t know that until I told you.”

Patience valiantly swallowed her scream. “The music’s stopped—they must all be at supper.” She was so breathless, she could barely speak. “We’ll miss it all if you don’t hurry.”

She’d die if he didn’t hurry.

Hard lips caressed her nape. “The lobster patties can wait. I’d rather have you.”

To Patience’s relief, he tightened his grip on her, held her even more rigidly, as he stroked more powerfully. The flames within her roared, then fused and coalesced; the bright sun of release drew steadily nearer. Grew steadily brighter. Then he paused.

“You seem to be missing something here.”

Patience knew what she was missing. The bright sun stopped, three heartbeats away. She gritted her teeth—a scream welled in her throat—

“I told you—you’re mine. I want you—and you alone.”

The words, uttered softly, with rocklike conviction, drove all other thoughts from Patience’s head. Opening her eyes, she stared unseeing at the marble maiden, shimmering softly in the moonlight.

“There’s no other woman I want to be inside—no other woman I crave.” She felt his body tense, gather—then he thrust deep. “Only you.”

The sun crashed down on her.

Hot pleasure washed through her like a tidal wave, sweeping all before it. Her vision clouded; she was unaware that she screamed.

Shifting his hand to her lips, Vane muffled the worst of her ecstatic cry—the sound still shredded his control. His chest swelled; grimly, he struggled to contain the desire raging through him, pounding his senses, liquid fire in his loins.