A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  “Where have you been?” Had he been searching for the Spectre?

  “To Bedford and back.”

  “Bedford?” Patience noticed the open window. She swung around to face him. “How did you get in here?” When she’d woken and seen him, he’d been standing in the moonlight looking down at Myst.

  Vane glanced back at her. “Through the window.”

  He turned back to the fire; Patience turned back to the window. “Through the . . . ?” She looked out—and down. “Good Lord—you might have been killed!”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How did you get in? I’m sure I locked this window.”

  “Myst opened it.”

  Patience turned to stare at her cat, curled in her favorite position atop a small table to one side of the fire. Myst was observing Vane with feline approval—he was, after all, creating a nice blaze.

  He was also creating utter confusion.

  “What’s going on?” Patience arrived back before the hearth just as Vane rose. He turned to her, and reached for her, helping her the last step into his arms.

  Muted by nothing more than fine lawn, his touch seared her. Patience gasped. She looked up. “What—”

  Vane sealed her lips with his, and drew her fully against him. Her lips parted instantly; inwardly Patience cursed. Hi
s tongue, his lips, his hands, all started to weave their magic. She made a wild mental grab—for shock, surprise, anger, even witless distraction—anything that would give her the strength to distance herself from . . . this.

  From the drugging wonder of his kiss, the immediate yearning that swelled within her. She knew precisely what was happening, knew precisely where he was leading her. And was powerless to prevent it. Not while all of her body—and all of her heart—was madly in alt at the prospect.

  When not even hauteur would come to her aid, she gave up all resistance and kissed him back. Hungrily. Had it only been this morning she’d had her last taste of him? If so, she was addicted. Beyond recall.

  Her hands slid up, over his shoulders; her fingers found their way into his thick hair. Breasts swelling, nipples sensitive against the hard wall of his chest, Patience abruptly drew back, desperate for air.

  She gasped as his lips slid down her throat, then fastened hotly over the spot where her pulse thundered. She shuddered and closed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

  Her words were a thread of silver in the moonlight. His answer was deep as the deepest shadows.

  “You offered to be my inamorata, remember?”

  It was as she’d thought; he wasn’t going to let her go yet. He hadn’t finished with her, had not yet had his fill of her. Eyes closed tight, Patience knew she should fight. Instead, her willful heart sang. “Why did you go to Bedford?” Had he gone in search of information, or because . . .

  “Because I lost my senses. I found them and came back.”

  Patience was very glad he, busy branding her throat with his lips, couldn’t see the smile that curved hers—soft, gentle—utterly besotted. His words confirmed her reading of his character, his reactions; he had indeed been hurt and angry—furious enough to leave her. She would have thought a great deal less of him if, after all she’d said in the conservatory, he hadn’t felt that way. As for the need that had brought him back to her—the desire and passion she sensed flowing so hotly in his veins—that, she could only be grateful for.

  He raised his head, his lips returned to hers. One hand caressing his lean cheek, Patience welcomed him back. The kiss deepened; desire and passion blended and swelled. When next he lifted his head, they were both heated through—both very aware of what it was that shimmered hotly about them.

  Their gazes locked. They were both breathing rapidly, both totally focused.

  Feeling the touch of cooler air below her throat, Patience looked down. And saw Vane’s fingers quickly, deliberately, slipping free the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown. She studied the sight for an instant, aware of the throbbing in her blood, of the beat that seemed to vibrate about them. As his fingers passed the point between her breasts, and moved lower, she drew in a shuddering breath.

  And closed her eyes. “I won’t be your whore.”

  Vane heard the tremor in her voice. He regretted the word, but . . . He glanced at her face, then looked down, watching the small white buttons slide between his fingers, watching the halves of her nightgown slowly open, revealing her soft, sumptuous body.

  “I asked you to be my wife, you offered to be my lover. I still want you as my wife.” Her eyes flew open. He met her gaze, his face set, etched with passion, hard with determination. “But if I can’t have you as my wife, then I’ll have you as my lover.” Forever, if need be.

  Her gown was open to her waist. He slid one hand inside, palm sliding possessively around her hip, fingers sinking into soft flesh as he drew her to him. He took her lips, her mouth—a second later, he felt the shudder that passed through her, her achingly sweet surrender.

  He felt her fingers at his nape; they slid into his hair. Her lips were soft, pliant, eager to appease—he feasted, on them, on her mouth, on the warmth she so freely offered. She pressed herself to him. Inside her gown, he slid his hand down her back, to stroke, then cup the smooth swell of her bottom. The lower half of her gown was still fastened, restricting his reach; withdrawing his hand, Vane drew back from their kiss.

  Patience blinked dazedly. He caught her hand and towed her the few steps to the chair. He sat, then caught her other hand, too, and drew her to stand between his knees. She watched, her breathing ragged, as he quickly unfastened the rest of her gown.

  Then the two halves fell free. Slowly, almost reverently, Vane reached up and parted the gown fully, pushing it back to bare her rounded shoulders. To bare her entirely to his gaze. Chest tightening, groin aching, he looked his fill. Her body glowed ivory in the moonlight, her breasts proud mounds tipped with rose pink buds, her waist narrow, indented, the swell of her hips smooth as silk. Her belly was gently rounded, tapering to the fine thatch of bronzy curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleek thighs that had already clasped him once.

  Vane drew a shuddering breath and reached for her.

  His burning palms sliding over her back, urging her forward, broke the spell that had held Patience. On a gasp, she let him draw her near; she had to grasp his shoulders to steady herself. He looked up, the invitation in his eyes very clear. Patience bent her head and kissed him, longingly, openly, giving all she had to give.

  She was his—she knew it. There was no reason she couldn’t indulge him, and herself, in this way. No reason she couldn’t let her body say what she would never say in words.

  After a long, lengthy, satisfying kiss, his lips slid from hers to trace the curve of her throat, to heat the blood pulsing just under her skin. Patience tipped her head back to give him better access; her fingers sank into his shoulders, his tightened about her waist as he took full advantage. He held her steady as his lips drifted lower, over the ripening swells of her breasts. She drew a deep breath, murmuring appreciatively when the movement pressed her flesh more firmly to his lips.

  Her murmur ended on a gasp as his teeth grazed one tightly furled nipple, then he took it into his mouth, and she felt her bones melt. One of her hands slid from shoulder to nape, then her fingers slid higher, to convulsively clutch his head as he laved her breasts, teasing the now aching peaks, soothing one moment, then tantalizing the next, easing her back one minute, then whipping her to an excruciating peak of feeling.

  Her breathing was desperate long before his mouth moved on, lower, to explore the tender hollows of her waist, to feast on the sensitive cusp of her belly. His hands, palms hot and hard, fastened about her hips, supporting her. Then his tongue, hot and slick, probed her navel—the ragged hiss of her breathing fractured.

  As his tongue delved, the rhythm evocatively familiar, she swayed and gasped his name. He didn’t answer. Instead, he trailed lingering hot kisses down her quivering belly. And into the soft curls at its base.

  “Vane!”

  Her shocked protest carried little conviction; by the time it passed her lips, she was already arching, straining up on her toes, knees parting, limbs pliant, hips tilting as she instinctively offered herself for the next heated caress.

  It came—a kiss so intimate she could barely cope with the shattering sensation. He followed it with more, not ruthless but relentless, not forceful but insistent. Then his tongue slid between his lips, and between hers.

  For one, crystal moment, Patience was sure he’d pushed her too far and she would die—die of the glory sizzling down her nerves, of the distilled excitement searing every vein. It was too much—at the very least, she’d lose her wits.

  His tongue slid lazily across her throbbing flesh—and high became higher, tight became tighter. Hot as a brand, it flicked and swirled, dipped and delved—and her limbs liquefied. Heat soared and roared through her.

  She didn’t die, and she didn’t crumple to the ground in a witless heap. Instead, she clutched him to her, and lost any hope of pretending the truth was not real—that she wouldn’t be his, be anything he wished.

  He filled his palms with her, cupped her and supported her, held her steady as he tasted her. Explored her with his tongue, teased and tantalized her until she was sobbing.


  Sobbing with urgency, moaning with need.

  He was hungry—she let him feast; he was thirsty—she urged him to drink. Whatever he asked, she gave, even if he used no words, and she had only instinct to guide her. He took all she offered, and confidently opened further doors, walking in and claiming all as his unquestionable right. He kept her there, his, undeniably his, in a dizzying world of bright sensation, of nerve-tingling realization, of soul-stealing intimacy.

  Fingers clenched in his hair, eyes closed, glory exploding, a golden haze on the inside of her lids, Patience shuddered and surrendered—to the welling heat, to the beckoning culmination.

  With one last, lingering lick, savoring the tart taste of her, the indescribably erotic tang of her sinking to his bones, Vane drew back. One hand beneath the full swell of her bottom, and her convulsive grasp on his hair kept Patience upright. His gaze roaming her flushed face, he flicked the two buttons that closed his trousers undone.

  She was already high, floating, pleasured to her toes; he had every intention of pleasuring her more.

  It was the work of an experienced minute to ready himself, then he clapsed her thighs and urged her knees onto the chair, sliding along on either side of his hips. The chair was an old one, low, deep and comfortable—made for just this.

  Dazed, she followed his unspoken instructions, clearly unsure but eager to learn. He knew her body was ready—achingly empty, yearning for him to fill her. As her thighs slid past his hips, he grasped hers and drew her to him, then drew her down.

  He sank into her—and saw her eyes close, lids falling as her breath expelled in a soft, long-drawn sigh. Her body stretched, her softness accommodating his hardness. Then she shifted, pressing deeper, to take more of him, to impale herself more completely.