A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Indeed, sir.” Patience gestured to Vane. “Allow me to make you known to Lady Bellamy’s godson.” Briefly, she introduced Vane, adding the information that he had stopped to take shelter from last night’s storm.

  “Ah.” Penwick shook Vane’s hand. “So your visit’s in the nature of a forced halt. Daresay you’ll be on your way soon. The sun’s drying the roads nicely, and there’s nothing in this backwater to compare with tonnish pursuits.”

  If Penwick had declared that he wanted him gone, he could not have been more explicit. Vane smiled, a gesture full of teeth. “Oh, I’m in no especial hurry.”

  Penwick’s brows rose; his eyes, watchful from the instant he had beheld Vane, grew harder. “Ah—on a repairing lease, I take it?”

  “No.” Vane’s gaze grew chilly, his diction more precise. “I’m merely in the way of pleasing myself.”

  That information did not please Penwick. Patience was about to step into the breach, to protect Penwick from likely annihilation, when Penwick, searching for the person to match the third horse, glanced up.

  “Great heavens! Get down from there, you scallywag!”

  Vane blinked and glanced up. Eyes glued to the horizon, the scallywag feigned deafness. Turning back, Vane heard Patience haughtily state: “It’s perfectly all right, sir. He’s looking at the views.”

  “Views!” Penwick snorted. “The sides of that mound are steep and slippery—what if he should fall?” He looked at Vane. “I’m surprised, Cynster, that you permitted young Debbington to embark on a mad scheme guaranteed to overturn his sister’s sensiblities.”

  Patience, suddenly no longer sure of Gerrard’s safety, looked at Vane.

  His gaze on Penwick, Vane slowly raised his brows. Then he turned his head and met Patience’s potentially worried gaze. “I thought Gerrard was seventeen?”

  She blinked. “He is.”

  “Well, then.” Vane sat back, shoulders relaxing. “Seventeen is more than old enough to be responsible for his own safety. If he breaks a leg on his way down, it will be entirely his own fault.”

  Patience stared at him—and wondered why her lips insisted on twitching upward. Vane’s eyes met hers; the calm, rocklike confidence she saw in the grey steadied her—and steadied her confidence in Gerrard.

  The unsuccessfully muffled laugh that drifted over their heads forced her to straighten her lips and turn to Penwick. “I’m sure Gerrard is more than capable of managing.”

  Penwick came close to scowling.

  “Here’s Edmond.” Patience looked past Penwick as Edmond urged his mount up the rise. “I thought you were trapped by your muse?”

  “Fought free of it,” Edmond informed her with a grin. He nodded at Penwick, then turned back to Patience. “Thought you might be glad of more company.”

  While Edmond’s expression remained ingenuous, Patience was left with little doubt as to his thinking. She fought an urge to glance at Vane, to see if he, too, had picked up the implication; she was quite sure he would have—the man was certainly not slow.

  That last was borne out by the purring murmur that slid past her right ear. “We’ve just been admiring the views.”

  On the instant, before she’d even turned to him, that tingling sensation washed over her again, more intense, more wickedly evocative than before. Patience caught her breath and refused to meet his eyes. She allowed her gaze to rise only as far as his lips. They quirked, then eased into a teasing smile.

  “And here’s Chadwick.”

  Patience swallowed a groan. She turned and confirmed that Henry was, indeed, trotting up to join them. Her lips set; she’d only come on the ride because none of them had been interested in riding—and now here they all were, with even Penwick thrown in, riding to her rescue!

  She didn’t need rescuing! Or protecting! She wasn’t in the slightest danger of succumbing to any “elegant gentleman’s” rakish lures. Not, she had to concede, that Vane had thrown any her way. He might be considering it, but his subtlety left the others looking like floundering puppies, yapping in their earnest haste.

  “Such a fine day—couldn’t resist the thought of a brisk ride.” Henry beamed engagingly at her; the image of a panting puppy, tongue lolling in a hopeful canine grin, impinged forcefully on Patience’s mind.

  “Now we’re all gathered,” Vane drawled, “perhaps we should ride on?”

  “Indeed,” Patience agreed. Anything to cut short this farcical gathering.

  “Gerrard, come down—your horse has forgotten why it’s out here.” Vane’s command, delivered in world-weary tones, elicited nothing more than a chuckle from Gerrard.

  He stood, stretched, nodded to Patience, then disappeared around the other side of the mound. Within minutes, he reappeared at ground level, dusting his hands. He grinned at Vane, nodded to Edmond and Henry, and ignored Penwick. Accepting his reins, he flashed Patience a smile, then swung up to the saddle. “Shall we?”

  A lift of one brow and a brief wave accompanied the question. Patience stiffened—she stared. She knew precisely where Gerrard had picked up both those little mannerisms.

  “How were the views?” Edmond paired his horse with Gerrard’s. They led the way down the rise, Gerrard responding readily, describing various vistas and expounding on the interplay of light, cloud, and haze.

  Her gaze fixed on Gerrard, Patience set her horse to follow his. Consternation ensued. With Vane holding steady on her right, Penwick and Henry jostled for the position on her left. By dint of defter management, Penwick secured the prize, leaving Henry sulking in the rear. Inwardly, Patience sighed, and made a mental note to be kind to Henry later.

  Within three minutes, she would gladly have strangled Penwick.

  “I flatter myself, Miss Debbington, that you are clearsighted enough to comprehend that I have your best interests at heart.” That was Penwick’s beginning. From there he progressed to: “I cannot but be convinced it does your sisterly sensitivities, those softer emotions with which gentlewomen are so well endowed, no good at all to be constantly abraded by the youthful but sadly inconsiderate exploits of your brother.”

  Patience kept her gaze on the fields and let Penwick’s dissertation pass her by. She knew he wouldn’t notice her abstraction. Other men always brought out the worst in Penwick—in his case, the worst was an unassailable belief in his own judgment, combined with an unshakable certainty that she not only shared his views, but was well on the way to being Mrs. Penwick. How he’d arrived at such a conclusion Patience was at a loss to understand; she’d never given him the slightest encouragement.

  His portentous pronouncements flowed past her as they ambled on. Henry fidgeted, then coughed, then butted in with: “Do you think we’ll get more rain?”

  Patience fell on the witless question with relief and used it to distract Penwick, whose other obsession, beyond the sound of his own voice, was his fields. By dint of a few artless inquiries, she set Henry and Penwick to arguing over the effect of the recent rain on the crops.

  Throughout, Vane said nothing. He didn’t have to. Patience was quite sure of his thoughts—as cynical as her own. His silence was more eloquent, more powerful, more successful in impinging on her senses, than Penwick’s pedantic statements or Henry’s garrulous chatter.

  To her right lay a sense of security, a front she did not, for the moment, need to defend. His silent presence gave her that; Patience inwardly sniffed. Yet another thing, she supposed, for which she should be grateful to him. He was proving adept at that cool, arrogant, subtle yet unrelenting maneuvering she associated with “elegant gentlemen.” She was not surprised. From the first, she’d identified him as an expert practitioner.

  Focusing on Gerrard, Patience heard him laugh. Over his shoulder, Edmond threw her a smiling glance, then reapplied himself to Gerrard. Then Gerrard made some comment, underscoring his point with the same indolent wave he’d used before.

  Patience set her teeth. There was nothing wrong, per se, with the gesture, although Vane did i
t better. At seventeen, Gerrard’s artist’s hands, although well made, had yet to gain the strength and mature form Vane Cynster’s hands possessed. When he performed that gesture, it reeked of a masculine power Gerrard had yet to attain.

  But copying gestures was one thing—Patience worried that Gerrard’s emulation would not stop there. Still, she reasoned, glancing swiftly at Vane riding quietly beside her, it was only a mannerism or two. Despite Penwick’s beliefs, she was not a female overburdened with nonsensical sensivities. She was, perhaps, more acutely conscious of Vane Cynster and his propensities, more watchful than she would be with other men. But there seemed no real reason to intervene. Yet.

  With a laugh, Gerrard broke away from Edmond; wheeling his horse, he brought his chestnut alongside Vane’s grey. “I’ve been meaning to ask”—Gerrard’s eyes shone with enthusiasm as he looked into Vane’s face—“about those greys of yours.”

  A disturbance on her other side forced Patience to glance that way, so she missed Vane’s answer. His voice was so deep that, when he was facing away from her, she couldn’t discern his words.

  The disturbance proved to be Edmond, taking advantage of Penwick’s distraction with Henry to insinuate his horse between Penwick’s and Patience’s. “There!” Edmond blithely ignored Penwick’s outraged glare. “I’ve been waiting to ask your opinion of my latest verse. It’s for the scene where the abbot addresses the wandering brothers.”

  He proceeded to declaim the recent fruits of his brain.

  Patience gritted her teeth; she felt literally torn. Edmond would expect her to comment intelligently on his work, which he took with all the seriousness he failed to devote to more worldly matters. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to know what Vane was saying to Gerrard. While one part of her mind followed Edmond’s rhymes, she strained her ears to pick up Gerrard’s words.

  “So their chests are important?” he asked.

  Rumble, rumble, rumble.

  “Oh.” Gerrard paused. “Actually, I thought weight would give a fair indication.”

  A long series of rumbles answered that.

  “I see. So if they do have good stamina . . .”

  Patience glanced to her right—Gerrard was now closer to Vane. She couldn’t even hear his half of the conversation.

  “So!” Edmond drew in a breath. “What do you think?”

  Head snapping back, Patience met his eyes. “It didn’t hold my interest—perhaps it needs more polish?”

  “Oh.” Edmond was deflated, but not cast down. He frowned. “Actually, I think you might be right.”

  Patience ignored him, edging her mare nearer Vane’s grey. Vane glanced her way; both eyes and lips appeared gently amused. Patience ignored that, too, and concentrated on his words.

  “Assuming they’re up to the weight, the next most important criterion is their knees.”

  Knees? Patience blinked.

  “High-steppers?” Gerrard suggested.

  Patience stiffened.

  “Not necessarily,” Vane replied. “A good action, certainly, but there must be power behind the stride.”

  They were still talking about carriage horses; Patience almost sighed with relief. She continued to listen, but heard nothing more sinister. Just horses. Not even wagering or the racecourses.

  Inwardly frowning, she settled back in her saddle. Her suspicions of Vane were well-founded, weren’t they? Or was she overreacting?

  “I’ll take my leave of you here.” Penwick’s acid declaration cut across Patience’s musing.

  “Indeed, sir.” She gave him her hand. “So kind of you to drop by. I’ll mention to my aunt that we saw you.”

  Penwick blinked. “Oh, yes—that is, I trust you’ll convey my regards to Lady Bellamy.”

  Patience smiled, coolly regal, and inclined her head. The gentlemen nodded; Vane’s nod held an element of menace—how he managed it, Patience couldn’t have said.

  Penwick wheeled his horse and cantered off.

  “Right then!” Free of Penwick’s trenchantly disapproving presence, Gerrard grinned. “How about a race back to the stables?”

  “You’re on.” Edmond gathered his reins. The lane to the stables lay on the other side of an open field. It was a straight run, with no fences or ditches to cause difficulty.

  Henry chuckled indulgently and flicked Patience a smile. “I suppose I’ll be in on it, too.”

  Gerrard looked at Vane.

  Who smiled. “I’ll give you a handicap—lead off.”

  Gerrard waited for no more. With a “Whoop!” he sprang his horse.

  Edmond made to give chase, as did Henry, but, as Patience tapped her heels to her mare’s sides, they moved off with her. Letting her mare have her head, Patience followed in her brother’s wake; Gerrard was forging ahead, unchallenged. The three other men held their horses back, matching the mare’s shorter strides.

  Ridiculous! What possible benefit could any of them gain by keeping to her side over one short field? Patience fought to keep a straight face, to keep from grinning and shaking her head at the sheer silliness of men. As they neared the lane, she couldn’t resist a brief glance at Vane.

  Keeping station on her right, the grey held easily in check, he met her gaze—and raised one brow in weary self-deprecation.

  Patience laughed—an answering gleam lit Vane’s eyes. The lane drew near; he glanced forward. When he looked back, the light in his eyes had hardened, sharpened.

  He edged his grey closer, crowding her mare. The mare reacted by lengthening her stride. Henry and Edmond fell behind, forced to hold back as the grey and the mare swept into the lane, only wide enough for two horses abreast.

  Then they were clattering under the arch and into the yard. Pulling up, Patience dragged in a breath and looked back; Edmond and Henry were some way behind.

  Gerrard, having won the race, laughed and set his chestnut prancing. Grisham and the grooms came running.

  Patience looked at Vane and saw him dismount—by bringing his leg over the saddlebow and sliding to the ground, landing on his feet. She blinked, and he was by her side.

  His hands closed about her waist.

  She almost gasped when he lifted her from the saddle as if she weighed no more than a child. He didn’t swing her down, but slowly lowered her to earth, setting her on her feet beside the mare. Less than a foot from him. He held her between his hands; she felt the long fingers flex about her, fingertips on either side of her spine, thumbs against her sensitive midriff. She felt . . . captured. Vulnerable. His face was a hard mask, his expression intent. Her eyes locked on his, Patience felt the cobbles beneath her feet, but her world continued to spin.

  It was he—the source of those peculiar sensations. She’d thought it must be, but she’d never felt such sensations before—and those streaking through her now were far stronger than those she’d felt earlier. It was his touch that did it—the touch of his eyes, the touch of his hands. He didn’t even need to contact bare skin to make every square inch she possessed react.

  Patience dragged in a breath. A flicker at the edge of her vision made her shift her focus. To Gerrard. She saw him dismount, exactly as Vane had done. Grinning, brimming with prideful good humor, Gerrard crossed the cobbles toward them.

  Vane turned, smoothly releasing her.

  Patience dragged in another breath and fought to steady her giddy head. She plastered a bright smile on her lips for Gerrard’s benefit—and continued to breathe deeply.

  “A wily move, Cynster.” Edmond, grinning good-naturedly, dismounted in the customary way. Patience noted it was a great deal slower than the way Vane had achieved the same end.

  Henry also dismounted; Patience got the impression he hadn’t liked seeing Vane lift her down. But he directed one of his hearty smiles at Gerrard. “Congratulations, my boy. You beat us fairly and squarely.”

  Which was laying it on a great deal too thick. Patience glanced swiftly at Gerrard, expecting some less than gracious response. Instead, her brot
her, standing beside Vane, merely raised one brow—and smiled cynically.

  Patience gritted her teeth; her jaw set. Of one thing she was quite sure—she wasn’t overreacting.

  Vane Cynster was going too far, far too fast—at least with respect to Gerrard. As for the rest—his teasing of her senses—she suspected he was merely amusing himself without any serious intent. As she was not susceptible to seduction, there seemed no reason to call him to account for that.

  Over Gerrard, however . . .

  She mulled over the situation as the horses were led away. For a few moments, all four men stood together in the center of the yard; a little to one side, she studied them—and acknowledged she could hardly blame Gerrard for choosing Vane to emulate. He was the dominant male.

  As if sensing her regard, he turned. One brow quirked, then, inherently graceful, he offered her his arm. Patience steeled herself and took it. As a group, they walked to the house; Edmond left them at the side door. They climbed the main stairs, then Gerrard and Henry turned aside, heading for their rooms. Still on Vane’s arm, Patience strolled into the gallery. Her room was down the same corridor as Minnie’s. Vane’s was on the floor below.

  There wasn’t any point voicing her disapproval unless there was a real need. Patience paused in the archway leading from the gallery, from where they would go their separate ways. Drawing her hand from Vane’s arm, she looked up, into his face. “Are you planning a long stay?”

  He looked down at her. “That,” he stated, his voice very low, “depends largely on you.”

  Patience looked into his grey eyes—and froze. Every muscle was paralyzed, all the way to her toes. The idea that he was amusing himself, without any real intent, died—slain by the look in his eyes.

  The intent in his eyes.

  It couldn’t have been clearer had he put it into words.

  Bravely, drawing on an inner reserve she hadn’t known she possessed, she lifted her chin. And forced her lips to curve, just enough for a cool smile. “I think you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

  She uttered the words softly, and saw his jaw lock. A premonition of intense danger swept her; she didn’t dare say anything more. With her smile still in place, she haughtily inclined her head. Sweeping about, she passed through the arch and into the safety of the corridor beyond.