A Rake's Vow

by Stephanie Laurens

  The fingertip returned to her throat. The long journey was followed again, this time diverting to her other hip and ending above her other knee.

  Patience was not deceived. When the fingertip again came to rest below her throat, she dragged in a desperate breath. And held it.

  The fingertip slid down, with the same lazy, langorous touch. Again, it circled her navel, then, deliberately, it slid into the small hollow. And probed. Gently. Evocatively. Repetitively.

  Patience’s breath escaped in a rush. The shiver that racked her was more like a shudder; breathing became even more difficult. She licked her parched lips, and the finger eased back.

  And drifted lower.

  She tensed.

  The finger continued its leisurely descent, over the gentle swell of her belly, on, into the soft curls at its base.

  She would have moved, but the hand behind her gripped and held her steady. With unhurried deliberation, the finger parted her curls, then parted her, and slid further.

  Into the hot slickness between her thighs.

  Every nerve in her body clenched tight; every square inch of her skin glowed hot. Every last fragment of her awareness was centered on the touch of that lazily questing fingertip.

  It swirled, and she gasped; she thought her knees would buckle. For all she knew, they did, but the hand at her bottom supported her. Held her there, so she could feel every movement of that bold finger. It swirled again, and again, until her bones melted.

  Within her, fire raged; Vane certainly knew it. But he was in no hurry—his finger pressed deeper, reached farther, and circled her, much as it had circled her above.

  Breath bated, Patience waited. Waited. Knowing the moment would come when he would probe, when his finger would slide deep into her empty heat. Her breathing was so shallow she could hear the soft hiss; her lips were dry, parched, yet throbbing. Again and again, he hesitated at her entrance, only to slide away, to caress her swollen flesh, slick and throbbing with her heartbeat.

  Finally, the moment came. He circled her one last time, then paused, his finger centered on her entrance. Patience shuddered and let her head fall back.

  And he speared her, so slowly she thought she’d lose her mind. She gasped, then cried out as he reached deep.

  His answer was to close his lips about one aching nipple.

  Patience heard her responsive cry as if from a distance. Raising her hands, she clutched—and found his shoulders.

  Vane shifted so she was fully before him, so he could lave first one breast, then the other, while he sank one, then two long fingers into her scalding heat. With his other hand, he gripped the firm mounds of her bottom, knowing he’d leave bruises. If he didn’t, she’d be on the floor—and so would he. Which would result in even more bruises.

  He’d already depleted his stock of control; it had run out when he’d touched the wet heat between her thighs. He’d reckoned correctly on blind nakedness arousing her deeply—he hadn’t foreseen her blind nakedness so arousing him. But he was determined to lavish every attention on her—every ounce he was capable of giving.

  Mentally gritting his teeth, mentally girding his loins—in cast iron—he hung on. And lavished more loving on her.

  All he had to give, given as only he could.

  Patience hadn’t known her body could feel so much, so intensely. Fire seared her veins; awareness invested her skin. She was sensitive to each shifting current of air, each and every bold touch, every nuance of every caress.

  Every knowing stroke of Vane’s hard fingers drove pleasure into her and through her; every tug of his lips, every wet sweep of his tongue caught the pleasure and drove it to shattering heights.

  The pleasure grew, welled, swept and beat through her, then flared and coalesced into a familiar inner sun. Eyes closed beneath her blindfold, she gasped and waited for the sunburst to break over her, then fade. Instead, it swelled brighter, wider—and engulfed her.

  And she was part of the sun, part of the pleasure, felt it wash through her and about her, buoy her up and lift her. She drifted, afloat on a sea of sensual bliss, pleasured to her very toes.

  The sea stretched on and on; waves lapped at her senses, fed them, sated them. But still left them hungry.

  Dimly, she was aware of Vane’s hands shifting, aware of losing his intimate touch. Then he lifted her, cradling her against his chest, and carried her. To her bed. Gently, with soothing kisses that eased her parched lips, he laid her on top of her sheets. Patience waited for the blindfold to disappear. It didn’t. Instead, she felt the cool slide of her satin coverlet over her sensitized skin.

  She listened—ears straining, she heard a soft thud—one boot hitting the floor. In the dark, she smiled. Sinking into the feathers beneath her, she relaxed. And waited.

  She expected him to join her beneath the coverlet; instead, a few minutes later, the coverlet was whisked away. He came onto the bed, and stopped. It took her a moment to realize where he was.

  On his knees, straddling her thighs.

  Anticipation struck her like lightning; in an instant, her body heated anew. Tensed, tightened—quivering with expectation.

  Above her, she heard a hoarse chuckle. His hands clamped about her hips. The next instant, she felt his lips.

  On her navel.

  From there, things only got more heated.

  When, endless panting, gasping, shatteringly intimate minutes later, he finally joined with her, she was hoarse, too. Hoarse from her muted cries, from her desperate attempts to breathe. He’d driven her into a state of endless delight, her body awash with exquisite sensation, sensitive to every touch, every unerringly intimate caress.

  Now he drove into her, and drove her still further, into the heart of the sun, into the realm of glory. Patience blindly urged him on, let her body speak for her, caress him and hold him and love him as he was loving her.

  Wholeheartedly. Unreservedly. Unrestrainedly.

  The truth broke on her in the instant their sun imploded and shattered into a million shards. Glory rained about her—about them. Locked together, she felt his ecstasy as deeply as she felt hers.

  Together they rose, buoyed on the final rapturous wave; together they fell, into deeply sated release. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they floated in the realm reserved for lovers, where no mind was allowed to go.

  “Hmm-hmm.” Patience burrowed deeper into her warm bed and ignored the hand shaking her shoulder. She was in heaven, a heaven she couldn’t remember being in before, and she wasn’t interested in cutting short her stay. Even for him—he who had brought her here. There was a time for everything, especially for talking, and this was definitely not it. A warm glow lapped about her. Gratefully, she sank into it.

  Vane tried again. Fully dressed, he leaned over, and shook Patience as hard as he dared. “Patience.”

  A disgruntled noise that sounded like “glumph” was all he got out of her. Exasperated, Vane sat back, and stared at the golden brown curls showing above the coverlet, all he could see of his wife-to-be.

  As soon as he’d woken, and realized he’d have to leave, he’d tried to wake her—to tell her, simply and clearly, what he’d failed to tell her earlier. Before her passions had run away with them.

  Unfortunately, he’d come to her late, and had stretched the time out as far as he’d been able. The result was that, only two hours later, she was still deeply sunk in bliss and highly resistant to being roused.

  Vane sighed. He knew from experience that insisting on rousing her would result in an atmosphere totally inimical to the declaration he wanted to make. Which meant waking her was useless—worse than useless.

  He’d have to wait. Until . . .

  Muttering a curse, he stood, and headed for the door. He had to leave now or he’d trip over the maids. He would call and see Patience later—he’d have to do what he’d sworn he never would. Never expected he ever would.

  Lay his heart on a platter—and calmly hand it to a woman.

  Whether
he was up to it no longer mattered. Securing Patience as his wife was the only thing that did.

  Chapter 20

  Was she imagining it?

  Seated at the breakfast table the next morning, Patience carefully buttered a slice of toast. About her, the household chattered and clattered. Since breakfast was served later, in keeping with town hours, all the household attended, even Minnie and Timms. Even Edith. Even Alice.

  Patience glanced about—and ignored the conversations wafting up and down the board. She was too distracted by her inner musings to waste time on less-urgent affairs.

  She picked up her knife and reached for the butter.

  And started to spread butter. On butter. She focused on the toast—then, very precisely, laid the knife aside and picked up her teacup. And sipped.

  Langorous lassitude dragged at her limbs. Sweetly salacious thoughts dragged at her mind. Pleasured exhaustion had her in its grip; it was difficult to concentrate, but, again and again, she drew her mind back to the unexpected revelation of the night before. It required supreme effort to focus on the undercurrents that had run beneath their love-making, rather than on the lovemaking itself, but she was certain she wasn’t inventing, that the underlying intensity she’d sensed had been real. The intensity of Vane’s need, the intensity he’d brought to the act of loving her.

  Loving her.

  He’d used the words in the physical sense. For herself, she thought first in terms of the emotion, with the act the physical outpouring. Until last night, she’d assumed Vane’s meaning was strictly physical—after last night, she wasn’t so sure.

  Last night, the physical had reached new heights, intensified by some force too powerful to be confined within limbs and flesh. She’d felt it, tasted it, gloried in it—she’d come to know it in herself. Last night, she’d recognized it in him.

  Drawing a slow breath, she stared at the cruet set.

  She was certain of what she’d sensed but—and here was the rub—he was such an accomplished lover, could he conjure that, too, without it being real? Was what she’d sensed simply a facade created by his undoubted expertise?

  Setting down her teacup, she straightened. It was tempting to imagine that she might, perhaps, have misjudged, and his “love” was deeper than she’d supposed. She distrusted that conclusion. It was too neat—too self-serving. One part of her mind was trying to talk the rest into it. Into entertaining the notion that he might love her in the same way she loved him.

  As distractions went, that won the crown.

  Lips tightening, she picked up her well-buttered toast and crunched. After arriving on her threshold unheralded, he’d taken himself off the same way—before she’d had time to wake up, let alone think. But if what she thought was even half-true, she wanted to know. Now.

  She glanced at the clock; it would be hours before he called.

  “I say, can you pass the butter?”

  Setting aside her impatience, Patience handed Edmond the butter dish. Beside him, Angela smiled brightly. Idly scanning the faces opposite, Patience encountered Alice Colby’s black-eyed stare. Intensely cold, black-eyed stare.

  Alice kept staring. Patience wondered if her topknot was askew. She was about to turn to Gerrard to ask—

  Alice’s features contorted. “Scandalous!” Uttered in a voice hoarse with righteous fury, the exclamation cut across the conversations. All heads turned; all eyes, startled, fixed on Alice. Who clapped her knife down on the table. “I don’t know how you can, miss! Sitting there like a lady, taking breakfast with decent folk.” Face mottling, Alice pushed back her chair. “I, for one, do not intend to put up with it a moment longer.”

  “Alice?” From the bottom of the table, Minnie stared. “What is this nonsense?”

  “Nonsense? Hah!” Alice nodded at Patience. “Your niece is a fallen woman—do you call that nonsense?”

  Stunned silence gripped the table.

  “Fallen woman?” Whitticombe leaned forward to follow Alice’s gaze.

  The others looked, too. Patience kept her gaze steady on Alice’s; her face had frozen, luckily in a relaxed expression. She was leaning on her elbows, her hands, steady, gripping her teacup. Outwardly, she consciously exuded calm; inside, her wits whirled. How to respond? Coolly, she raised one brow, faintly incredulous.

  “Really, Alice!” Minnie frowned disapprovingly. “The things you do imagine!”

  “Imagine?” Alice sat bolt upright. “I didn’t imagine a large gentleman in the corridor in the middle of the night!”

  Gerrard shifted. “That was Vane.” He glanced at Henry and Edmond, then looked at Minnie. “He came upstairs with us when we got in.”

  “Yes. Indeed.” Distinctly pale, Edmond cleared his throat. “He . . . ah . . .” He glanced at Minnie.

  Who nodded, and looked at Alice. “See, there’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

  Alice glowered. “That doesn’t explain why he walked down the corridor to your niece’s room.”

  Timms sighed. Dramatically. “Alice, Minnie doesn’t have to explain all she does to everyone. After the disappearance of her pearls, naturally, Vane has been keeping an eye on the house. When he returned to the house late, he simply did a last watchman’s round.”

  “Naturally.” Minnie nodded, chins in unison. “Just the sort of thing he would do.” She glanced, challengingly, at Alice. “He’s very considerate in such ways. As for these aspersions you’re casting on both Patience’s and Vane’s characters, you should really be careful of making outrageous accusations without foundation.”

  Flags flew in Alice cheeks. “I know what I saw—”

  “Alice! That’s enough.” Whitticombe rose; his gaze locked with his sister’s. “You mustn’t distress people with your fantasies.”

  There was an emphasis in his words Patience didn’t understand. Alice gaped. Then her color surged. Hands clenched, she glared at her brother. “I am not—”

  “Enough!” Leaving his seat, Whitticombe quickly rounded the table. “I’m sure everyone will excuse us. You’re clearly overwrought.”

  He manhandled Alice, incoherent with rage, from her chair and locked an arm about her scrawny shoulders. With a strained smile for the rest of the company, he turned her and marched her, stiff-legged, from the room.

  Slightly dazed, Patience watched them go. And wondered how she’d weathered potential calamity without uttering a single word.

  The answer was obvious, but she didn’t understand it.

  Somewhat subdued, the rest of the household dispersed. All made a point of smiling at Patience, to show they hadn’t believed Alice’s slander.

  Retreating to her room, Patience paced. Then she heard the tap of Minnie’s cane in the corridor. An instant later, Minnie’s door opened, then shut.

  An instant after that, Patience tapped on the panels, then entered. Minnie was easing into an armchair by the windows. She beamed at Patience.

  “Well! That was a bit of unexpected excitement.”

  Patience fought not to narrow her eyes. Indeed, she fought to retain a proper degree of calm in the face of Minnie’s twinkling eyes. Timms’s smug smile.

  They knew. And that was even more scandalous, to her thinking, than the fact Vane had spent the night—a number of nights—in her bed.

  Lips thinning, Patience swept to the windows, and fell to pacing alongside Minnie. “I need to explain—”

  “No.” Minnie held up a commanding hand. “Actually, you need to keep your lips shut and concentrate on not saying anything I don’t wish to hear.”

  Patience stared at her; Minnie grinned.

  “You don’t understand—”

  “On the contrary, I understand very well.” Minnie’s impish smile surfaced. “Better than you, I’ll warrant.”

  “It’s obvious,” Timms chimed in. “But these things take time to sort themselves out.”

  They thought she and Vane would marry. Patience opened her mouth to set them right. Minnie caught her eye. Reading the stu
bborness behind Minnie’s faded blue gaze, Patience snapped her lips shut. And muttered through them, “It’s not that simple.”

  “Simple? Bah!” Minnie fluffed up her shawls. “You should be relieved. Simple and easy is never worthwhile.”

  Pacing again, Patience recalled similar words—after a moment, she placed them as Lucifer’s—to Vane. Arms folded, pacing slowly, she wrestled with her thoughts, her feelings. She should, she supposed, feel some measure of guilt, of shame. She felt neither. She was twenty-six; she’d made a rational decision to take what life offered her—she’d embarked on an affair with an elegant gentleman with her eyes fully open. And she’d found happiness—perhaps not forever, but happiness nonetheless. Bright moments of glory infused with heady joy.

  She felt no guilt, and not the slightest regret. Not even for Minnie would she deny the fulfillment she’d found in Vane’s arms.

  But honesty insisted she set the record straight—she couldn’t leave Minnie imagining wedding bells on the breeze. Drawing a deep breath, she halted by Minnie’s chair. “I haven’t accepted Vane’s proposal.”

  “Very wise.” Timms bent over her stitching. “The last thing you want is a Cynster taking you for granted.”

  “What I’m trying to say—”

  “Is that you’re far too wise to accept without being convinced. Without gaining a few meaningful assurances.” Minnie looked up at her. “My dear, you’re going about this in precisely the right way. Cynsters never give ground easily—their version of the matter is that, once seized, things, even wives, become theirs. The fact that in the instance of a wife, they might need to negotiate a trifle won’t at first enter their heads. And even when it does, they’ll try to ignore the issue as far as you’ll allow them. I’m really very proud of you, standing firm like this. Until you gain sufficient promises, sufficient concessions, you most certainly shouldn’t agree.”

  Patience stood, stock-still, for a full minute, staring into Minnie’s face. Then she blinked. “You do understand.”