A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  Demon shrugged. “Daresay we’ll hear later.”

  With that, they both turned attentively to Patience. Who kept her gaze fixed on Mr. Aubrey-Wells, parroting his remarks as if the theater filled her mind. In reality, her mind was full of the Cynsters, several and singular.

  Elegant gentlemen, one and all. All and one.

  She should never have forgotten it, should never have let her senses shut her eyes to the reality.

  But she hadn’t lost anything, given anything she hadn’t wanted to give. She’d expected this from the first. With an effort, she suppressed a racking shiver. She’d felt surrounded by warmth and laughter; now bleak disappointment pierced her bones and froze her marrow. As for her heart, that was so cold she was sure that, at any moment, it would fracture. Shatter into frozen shards.

  Her face felt the same way.

  She let Mr. Aubrey-Wells’s discourse flow past her, and wondered what she should do. As if in answer, Gerrard’s face swam into her restricted vision.

  He smiled at her, then, more tentatively, at her escort.

  Metaphorically, Patience grabbed him. “Mr. Cynster, Mr. Cynster and Mr. Aubrey-Wells—my brother, Gerrard Debbington.”

  She gave the men the minimum of time to exchange greetings, then, smiling too brightly, beamed at them all. “I really should check on Minnie.” Mr. Aubrey-Wells looked confused; she beamed even more brightly. “My aunt, Lady Bellamy.” Taking Gerrard’s arm, she flung them another brilliant smile. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  They all bowed with ready grace, Gabriel and Demon easily outperforming Mr. Aubrey-Wells. Inwardly gritting her teeth, Patience steered Gerrard away. “Don’t you ever dare bow like that.”

  Gerrard sent her a startled look. “Whyever not?”

  “Never mind.”

  They had to tack through the crowd. The throng was at its height. Supper had yet to be served. All had arrived but few had yet departed.

  In order to get to Minnie’s chaise, they had perforce to pass by the double doors through which Vane and the beauty had disappeared. Patience had intended to sweep past, nose in the air. Instead, as they neared the innocent-looking panels, she slowed.

  When she halted a few steps from the doors, Gerrard threw her an inquiring look. Patience saw it; she took a moment before she met it.

  “You go on.” Drawing a deep breath, she straightened. Lips setting, she lifted her hand from his sleeve. “I want to check on something. Can you see Minnie into supper?”

  Gerrard shrugged. “Of course.” Smiling, he ambled on.

  Patience watched him go—then turned on her heel and marched straight to the double doors. She knew perfectly well what she was doing—even if she couldn’t formulate a single coherent thought through the haze of fury clouding her brain. How dare Vane treat her like this? He hadn’t even said good-bye. He might be an elegant gentleman to his toes, but he was going to have to learn some manners!

  Besides, the beauty was too young for him, she could barely be more than seventeen. A chit out of the schoolroom—it was scandalous.

  Her hand on the doorknob, Patience paused—and tried to think of an opening line—one suitable for the scene she might very likely stumble in upon. Nothing leapt to her tongue. Grimly, she shook aside her hesitation. If, in the heat of the moment, nothing occurred to her, she could always scream.

  Eyes narrow, she grasped the handle and turned. The door flew inward, pulled open from within. Yanked off her feet, Patience tripped on the raised threshold and fetched up against Vane’s chest.

  The impact knocked the air from her lungs; Vane’s arm, locking about her, kept her breathless. Wide-eyed and gasping, Patience looked up into his face.

  His eyes met hers. “Hel-lo.”

  His intent expression made Patience stiffen, only to realize the arm around her, steadying her, was also trapping her.

  Hard against him.

  Dazed, she glanced around; the dark shapes of huge leaves reared above the denser dark of heavy pots, grouped upon a tiled floor. Moonlight streamed through walls of long windows and panes in the ceiling, silvering paths wending between stands of palms and exotic blooms. The rich scents of earth and the warm humidity of growing things hung on the heavy air.

  She and Vane stood within the shadows, just beyond the shaft of light lancing through the open door. A yard away, enveloped in soft gloom, stood the beauty, regarding her with open curiosity.

  The beauty smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “How do you do? Miss Debbington, isn’t it?”

  “Ah—yes.” Patience looked, but could see no signs of disarray—the girl appeared neat as a pin.

  Into her total bewilderment Vane’s voice fell, like a bell tolling. “Allow me to present Miss Amanda Cynster.”

  Stunned, Patience looked up; he captured her gaze and smiled. “My cousin.”

  Patience mouthed an innocent, “Oh.”

  “First cousin,” he added.

  Amanda cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me?” With a quick nod, she slipped past, out of the door.

  Abruptly, Vane raised his head. “Remember what I said.”

  “Of course I will.” Amanda threw him a disgusted frown. “I’m going to tie him in knots, and then hoist him from his . . .” She gestured, then, with a swish of her skirts, stalked into the crowd.

  Patience reflected that Amanda Cynster sounded like a beauty who would never need rescuing.

  She, however, might.

  Vane returned his attention to her. “What are you doing here?”

  She blinked, and glanced around again—then hauled in a breath, difficult with her breasts pressed to his chest. She gestured to the room. “Someone mentioned it was a conservatory. I’ve been thinking of suggesting that Gerrard install one at the Grange. I thought I’d look in.” She peered into the leafy gloom. “Study the amenities.”

  “Indeed?” Vane smiled, the merest lifting of his long lips, and released her. “By all means.” With one hand, he pushed the door shut; with the other, he gestured to the room. “I’ll be only too pleased to demonstrate some of the benefits of a conservatory.”

  Patience cast him a swift glance and quickly stepped forward, out of his reach. She gazed at the arches forming the ceiling. “Was this room always part of the house, or was it added on?”

  Behind her, Vane slid the bolt on the doors; it engaged noiselessly. “It was, I believe, originally a loggia.” Strolling unhurriedly, he followed Patience down the main pathway, into the palm-shrouded depths.

  “Hmm, interesting.” Patience eyed a palm towering above the path, handlike leaves poised as if to seize the unwary. “Where does Honoria get such plants?” Passing beneath the palm, she trailed her fingers through delicate fern fronds surrounding the palm’s base—and threw a quick glance behind her. “Do the gardeners propagate them?”

  Pacing steadily in her wake, Vane caught her gaze. His brows rose fractionally. “I’ve no idea.”

  Patience looked ahead—and quickened her pace. “I wonder what other plants do well in such a setting. Palms like these might be a bit hard to come by in Derbyshire.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Ivies, I daresay, would do well. And cacti, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Flitting along the path, absentmindedly touching this plant or that, Patience stared ahead—and tried to spot the way out. The path wound randomly about; she was no longer entirely sure of her bearings. “Perhaps, for the Grange, an orangery might be more sensible.”

  “My mother has one.”

  The words came from just behind her. “She has?” A swift glance behind revealed Vane almost at her shoulder. Gulping in a quick breath, Patience mentally acknowledged the skittering excitement that had cinched tight about her lungs, that had started, very effectively, to draw her nerves taut. Expectation, anticipation, shivered in the moonlit dark. Breathless, wide-eyed, she lengthened her stride. “I must remember to ask Lady Horatia—oh!”

  She broke off. For one moment, she st
ood stock-still, drinking in the simple beauty of the marble fountain, the base of its pedestal wreathed in delicate fronds, that stood, glowing lambently in the soft white light, in the center of a small, secluded, fern-shrouded clearing. Water poured steadily from the pitcher of the partially clad maiden frozen forever in her task of filling the wide, scroll-lipped basin.

  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.