He stopped before a door; frowning, Patience absent-mindedly leaned forward and opened it. Vane shouldered the door wide and carried her in.
As he had said, it was a parlor, but not one usually in use. It lay at the end of the wing housing Patience’s bedchamber, one floor down. The windows were long, reaching almost to the floor. Maids had obviously been in, throwing back dust covers, dusting ferociously, and refurbishing the huge cast-iron Empire daybed that faced the long windows. Their curtains tied back, the windows looked over the shrubbery and a section of wilderness—most of the Hall’s gardens were wilderness—to the golden brown canopies of the woods beyond. It was as pleasant a prospect as could be found in the present season. Farther to the right lay the ruins; in the distance, the grey ribbon of the Nene wound its way through lush meadows. Patience could recline on the daybed and contemplate the scenery. As the room was on the first floor, her privacy was assured.
Vane carried her to the daybed and carefully lowered her onto it. He plumped the pillows, arranging them supportively about her.
Patience lay back, watching as he settled a tapestry-covered cushion under her sore ankle. “Just what are your intentions over the Spectre?”
Vane met her gaze, then, raising one brow, strolled back to the door—and turned the key in the lock. Returning with the same long-strided prowl, he sat on the bed, beside her hip, bracing one hand on the daybed’s iron back. “The Spectre now knows that he was followed last night—that, but for your untimely accident, he might well have been caught.”
Patience had the grace to blush.
“All the household,” Vane continued, his eyes locking on hers, “the Spectre included, are coming to the realization that I know the Hall well, possibly better than they do. I’m a real threat to the Spectre—I think he’ll lie low and wait for me to depart before making another appearance.”
Patience made an effort to live up to her name; she pressed her lips tightly together.
Vane smiled understandingly. “Consequently, if we’re to lure the Spectre to reveal himself, I suspect it would be wise to let it appear that I’m still willing to entertain the notion that Gerrard—the obvious candidate—is to blame.”
Patience frowned. She studied the cool grey of his eyes, then opened her lips.
“I would suggest,” Vane said, before she could speak, “that it’s not going to hurt Gerrard to let the household think what they like, at least for the immediate future.”
Patience’s frown deepened. “You didn’t hear what they said.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “The General called him a boy.”
Vane’s brows rose. “Highly insensitive, I agree—but I think you’re underestimating Gerrard. Once he knows all the people he cares about know he’s innocent, he won’t worry over what the others think. I suspect he’ll view it as an exciting game—a conspiracy to catch the Spectre.”
Patience narrowed her eyes. “You mean that’s how you’ll present it to him.”
Vane grinned. “I’ll suggest he responds to any aspersions cast his way with scornful boredom.” He raised his brows. “Perhaps he can cultivate a superior sneer?”
Patience tried to eye him with disapproval. She was sure that, as Gerrard’s guardian, she shouldn’t approve of such plans. Yet she did; she could see Vane’s plan was the fastest way to resuscitate Gerrard’s confidence, and that, above all, was her primary concern. “You’re rather good at this, aren’t you?” And she didn’t just mean his reading of Gerrard.
Vane’s grin converted to a rakish smile. “I’m rather good at lots of things.”
His voice had lowered to a rumbling purr. He leaned closer.
Patience tried, very hard, to ignore the vise slowly closing about her chest. She kept her eyes on his, drawing ever nearer, determined that she wouldn’t—absolutely would not—allow her gaze to drop to his lips. As her heartbeat deepened, she raised one brow challengingly. “Such as?”
Kissing—he was very, very good at kissing.
By the time Patience reached that conclusion, she was utterly breathless—and utterly enthralled by the heady feelings slowly spiraling through her. Vane’s confident possession of her lips, her mouth, left her giddy—pleasurably so. His hard lips moved on hers, and she softened, not just her lips, but every muscle, every limb. Slow heat washed through her, a tide of simple delight that seemed to have no greater meaning, no deeper import. It was all pleasure, simple pleasure.
With a mental sigh, she lifted her arms and draped them over his shoulders. He shifted closer. Patience thrilled to the slow surge of his tongue against hers. Boldly, she returned the caress; the muscles beneath her hands tensed. Emboldened, she let her lips firm against his, and reveled in his immediate response. Hard transmuted to harder; lips, muscles, all became more definite, more sharply defined.
It was fascinating—she became softer—he became harder.
And behind his hardness came heat—a heat they both shared. It rose like a fever, turning the swirling pleasure hot. Beyond the caress of his lips, he hadn’t touched her, yet every nerve in her body was heating, simmering with sensation. The warm tide spread, swelled; the temperature increased.
And she was flushed, restless—wanting.
The slide of hard fingers over her breasts made her gasp—not in panic but pure shock. Shock at the shaft of sheer delight that speared through her, the sharp tingling that spread over her skin. The fingers firmed, possessively cupping her soft, oddly swollen flesh—which immediately swelled more. His hand closed, fingers kneading; her heated flesh firmed, tingling and tight.
The hot tangling of their tongues and the heat of his hand proved utterly distracting. When he stroked the peak of her breast, Patience gasped again. With something akin to amazement, her senses acutely focused on his fingertips, she marveled at her response to his touch, at the flaring heat that seared her, at the tight ruching of her nipples.
She’d never imagined such sensations existed; she could barely believe they were real. Yet the caresses continued, thrilling her, heating her—she had to wonder what else she didn’t know.
What else she had yet to experience.
With every ounce of expertise at his command, Vane deliberately drew her deeper. Her total lack of resistance would have made him wonder, if he hadn’t earlier seen the curiousity, the calm calculated intention in her eyes. She was willing, even eager—the knowledge stirred his passions powerfully. He held them in check, aware that she was no wanton, that she’d never been down this road before—and that, despite her guileless confidence, her openness—her implicit trust was a fragile thing which could all too easily be shattered by overly aggressive loving.
She was naive, innocent—she needed to be loved tenderly, coaxed to passion gently, savored slowly.
As he was savoring her now, the softness of her mouth his to enjoy, her breast firm under his fondling hand. Her innocence was refreshing—heady, addictive, entrancing.
Angling his head, Vane deepened the kiss for an instant, then drew back, releasing her lips. But not her breast.
He waited, fingers stroking the swollen mounds, first one, then the other, waiting . . . until he saw her eyes glint beneath her lashes. He caught her gaze, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his fingers to the top button of her bodice.
Patience’s eyes widened under her heavy lids; her breasts swelled as she drew in a shocked breath. The sudden release of the top button was almost a relief. Her senses reeled as his fingers moved down—to the next button; she felt every slow beat of her heart, pulsing under her skin, as, one after another, the tiny pearl rounds slipped their moorings.
And her bodice slowly opened.
For one fraught instant, she wasn’t sure what she wanted—whether she even wanted to know what came next. The hesitation lasted only a second—the second it took for Vane to slowly brush aside the soft fabric of her bodice, for his fingers to slide knowingly in.
One gentle tug, and her chemise slid down. Then came the first tantalizi
ng touch of his fingertips on her skin; Patience’s senses whirled. Aghast, agape, utterly enthralled, her every nerve tingled to his touch, to the caress of his palm, to those long, hard fingers as they closed about her breast.
Vane watched her reaction from under heavy lids, watched flaring passion light her eyes. Sparks of pure gold flashed in the hazel depths as he gently kneaded, then sent his fingers gliding over her silken skin. He knew he should kiss her, distract her, from what came next—but the compulsion to witness, to know her reaction as she learned what he would do, as he filled his senses with her, waxed strong.
Deliberately, he shifted his hand; his fingers closed confidently about one tightly budded nipple.
Patience gasped—the sweet sound filled the room. Instinctively, she arched, pressing her breast more firmly into the hard palm surrounding it, seeking relief from the sharp sensation that speared her—again and again as his fingers firmed.
Vane bent his head and his lips found hers.
Patience clung to his kiss, held to it like an anchor in her suddenly whirling world. Pure streams of heat arced through her, waves of hot pleasure sank to her bones, pooled in her loins. She clutched Vane’s shoulders, and kissed him back, suddenly desperate to know, to feel, to appease the desire throbbing in her veins.
Abruptly, he broke their kiss. He shifted, and his lips touched her throat. No longer cool, they seared like a brand as he traced the long sweep of her throat. Patience pressed her head back into the pillows and fought to catch her breath.
Only to lose it entirely a bare second later.
His lips closed about one tightly furled nipple—Patience thought she would die. Gasping desperately, she clenched her hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking deep. His lips firmed, he suckled gently—Patience felt the earth quake. The heat of his mouth shocked her—the wet sweep of his tongue scalded her. She gave a strangled cry.
That sound, keenly feminine, acutely evocative, caught and focused Vane’s attention. Focused every hunter’s instinct. Desire heightened, need escalated. His demons turned frenzied—her siren’s song lured them on. Urged him on. Compulsion swelled—tense, turbulent, powerful. Desire seethed hotly. He drew a ragged breath—
And remembered—all he’d nearly forgotten, all her wild responses had driven from his mind. This was one seduction he had to, needed to, manage perfectly—this time, there was meaning beyond the act. Seducing Patience Debbington was too important to rush—conquering her senses, her body, was only the first step. He didn’t want her just once—he wanted her for a lifetime.
Dragging in a shuddering breath, Vane caught hold of his reins and hauled his impulses up short. Something in him wailed with frustration. He shut his mind to the relentless pounding of his arousal.
And set himself to soothe hers.
He knew how. There were planes of warm desire on which women could float, neither driven, nor quiescent, but simply buoyed on a sea of pleasure. With hands and lips, mouth and tongue, he soothed her fevered flesh, took the sting from her aches, the edge from her passion, and eased her into that pleasured sea.
Patience was beyond understanding—all she knew was the peace, the calm, the profound pleasure that welled and washed through her. Content, she flowed with the tide, letting her senses stretch. The whirling that had disorientated her slowed; her mind steadied.
Full consciousness, when it came, was no shock; the continuing touch of Vane’s hands, the artful caress of his lips, his tongue, were familiar—no threat.
Then she remembered where they were.
She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. Finding breath enough to whisper was just possible. “What if someone comes in?”
Her words ended on a sigh as Vane lifted his head, lifted his lips from her breast. His voice rumbled softly through her. “The door’s locked—remember?”
Remember? With his lips brushing hers, with his fingers caressing her breast, Patience was hard-pressed to remember her own name. The peace holding her stretched, her senses slowly sank. Every muscle gradually relaxed.
Vane had noticed the dark rings under her large eyes. He wasn’t surprised to find her drifting close to sleep. Gradually, he slowed his caresses, then stopped. Carefully, he drew back, and smiled—at the soft smile that curved her kiss-bruised lips, the soft glow that lit her face.
He left her sleeping.
Patience wasn’t sure when she realized he was gone—she sleepily cracked open her lids—and saw the windows rather than him. The warm peace that pervaded her was too deep to leave; she smiled and closed her eyes again.
When she finally awoke, the morning had gone. Blinking her eyes wide, she wriggled higher on the pillows. And frowned.
Someone had left her embroidery on the table beside the daybed; dredging through her foggy memories, she vaguely recalled Timms dropping by, remembered a hand gently stroking her hair.
Remembered a hand gently stroking her breasts. Patience blinked. Other memories, other sensations, crowded into her mind. Her eyes widened. “No—that must have been a dream.” Frowning, she shook her head—but couldn’t dull the sharpness of the sensual images, rising one after another in her mind. To dispell the nagging uncertainty, she glanced down—uncertainty crystallized to fact.
Her bodice was undone.
Horrified, Patience muttered an imprecation, and rapidly did it up. “Rakes!” Frowning direfully, she glanced about. Her gaze collided with Myst’s. The small grey cat was settled comfortably on a side table, sitting on her brisket, front paws neatly tucked in.
“Have you been there all this time?”
Myst blinked her wide blue eyes—and stared steadily back.
Patience felt color rise in her cheeks—and wondered if it was possible to feel shy of a cat. Because of what a cat might have seen.
Before she could make up her mind, the door opened—Vane strolled in. The smile on his face, curving those fascinating lips, was more than enough to make Patience inwardly swear that she would not, not for anything, give him the pleasure of knowing how flustered she felt. “What’s the time?” Nonchalance laced her tones.
“Lunchtime,” replied the wolf.
Feeling very like Red Riding Hood, Patience smothered a feigned yawn, then held up her arms and waved him closer. “You may carry me down then.”
Vane’s smile deepened. With elegant ease, he lifted her into his arms.
Their entry into the dining room was noted by all. The rest of the household was already assembled about the table, with one notable exception. Gerrard’s chair was empty.
Minnie and Timms both smiled benignly as Vane settled Patience into her chair. Mrs. Chadwick inquired after her injury with matronly politeness. Patience responded to the ladies with smiles and gentle words—and totally ignored all the men.
Except Vane—she couldn’t ignore him. Even if her senses would have allowed it, he didn’t—he insisted on instituting a general conversation on mild and unprovocative topics. When, encouraged by the prevailing sense of calm, Henry, under the pretext of helping her to more ham, tried to engage her with a smile and a gentle query about her knee, Patience froze him with a reply couched in sheet ice, and felt, beneath the table, Vane’s knee jog hers. She turned and fixed him with an innocent look—he met her gaze, his eyes a flat grey, then ruthlessly drew her into the conversation.
When he lifted her into his arms at the end of the meal, Patience was in no very good mood. Not only had the undercurrents at the table abraded her nerves, but Gerrard had not appeared.
Vane carried her up to her private parlor and settled her back on the daybed.
“Thank you.” Patience wriggled and prodded at her pillows, then sank back and reached for her embroidery. She threw Vane a quick, somewhat darkling glance, then shook out the linen cloth.
Stepping back, Vane watched her pull colored silks from her bag, then turned and strolled to the window. The day had started clear, but now clouds were rolling in, greying the sky.
Glancing bac
k, he studied Patience. She sat amid the pillows and cushions, her work in her hands, bright silks strewn about her. But her hands were still; an absentminded frown had settled on her face.
Vane hesitated, then his lips firmed. He swung to face her. “If you like, I’ll go and look for him.”
He made the offer nonchalantly, leaving her the option of declining without embarrassment.
She looked up, her expression difficult to read. Then color seeped into her cheeks—and Vane knew she was recalling all she’d accused him of only two days before. But she did not look down, did not shift her gaze from his. After a further moment of consideration, she nodded. “If you would, I would be . . .”
Patience stopped, and blinked—but couldn’t stop the word that rose to her lips. “Grateful.” Her lips quirked; she looked down.
The next instant, Vane was beside her. Fingers sliding beneath her chin, he tipped her face up. He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then he stooped and touched his lips to hers. “Don’t worry—I’ll find him.”
Instinctively, she returned the kiss. Gripping his wrist, she held him back, searching his face, then squeezed and let him go.
When the door closed behind him, Patience drew a deep, very deep breath.
She’d just placed her trust in an elegant gentleman. More than that, she’d trusted him with the one thing on earth she held most dear. Had he addled her wits? Or had she simply lost them?
For a full minute, she gazed unseeing at the window, then frowned, shook her head, shook her shoulders, and picked up her embroidery. There was no point wrestling with facts. She knew Gerrard was safe with Vane—safer than with any other gentleman within Bellamy Hall, safer than with any other gentleman she’d ever met.
And, she thought, pulling her needle free, while she was on the subject of startling admissions, she might as well admit that she felt relieved as well—relieved that Vane was there, that she wasn’t, any longer, Gerrard’s sole protector.
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