Rakes Vow c-2

by Stephanie Laurens

  A scandalous, inadmissable want perhaps, but… "I'm twenty-six." Patience eyed Myst as if she'd argued. "I'm entitled to the knowledge." When Myst responded with an unblinking stare, Patience continued: "It's not as if I intend throwing my cap over the windmill. I'm not likely to forget who I am, let alone who and what he is. And neither is he. It should all be perfectly safe."

  Myst tucked her nose into her paws.

  Patience went back to frowning at the keyboard. "He won't seduce me under Minnie's roof." Of mat, she was certain. Which raised a most pertinent question. What did he want-what did he expect to gain? What was his purpose in all this-did he even have one?

  All questions for which she lacked answers. While, over the last days, Vane had not engineered any moment alone with her, she was always conscious of his gaze, always conscious of him, of his watchful presence.

  "Perhaps this is dalliance? Or some part thereof?"

  Yet more questions without answers.

  Patience gritted her teeth, then forced herself to relax. She drew in a deep breath, exhaled and drew in another, then determinedly laid her fingers on the keys. She didn't understand Vane-the elegant gentleman with unpredictable reservations-indeed, he confused her at every turn. Worse, if this was dalliance, then it apparently proceeded at his whim, under his control, entirely outside hers-and, of that, she thoroughly disapproved.

  She wasn't going to think about him anymore.

  Patience closed her eyes, and let her fingers flow over the keys.

  Delicate, hauntingly uncertain music floated out of the house. Vane heard it as he walked up from the stables. The lilting strains reached him, then wrapped about him, about his mind, sinking into his senses. They were a siren's song-and he knew precisely who was singing.

  Halting on the graveled drive before the stable arch, he listened to the moody air. It drew him-he could feel the tug as if it was physical. The music spoke-of need, of restless frustration, of underlying rebellion.

  The scrunch of gravel under his boots, brought him to his senses. Frowning, he stopped again. The music room was on the ground floor, facing away from the ruins; its windows gave onto the terrace. At least one window had to be open, or he wouldn't hear the music so clearly.

  For a long moment, he stared, unseeing, at the house. The music grew more eloquent, seeking to ensorcel him, insistently drawing him on. For one more minute, he resisted, then shook aside his hesitation. His face set, he strode for the terrace.

  When the final notes died, Patience sighed and lifted her fingers from the keys. A measure of calm had returned to her, the music had released some of her restlessness, had soothed her soul. A catharsis.

  She stood, more serene, more confident than when she'd sat. Pushing back the stool, she stepped about it and turned.

  Toward the windows. Toward the man who stood beside the open French door. His expression was set, unreadable.

  "I had thought," she said, her words deliberate, her eyes steady on his, "that you might be thinking of leaving."

  Her challenge could not have been clearer.

  "No." Vane answered without thinking; no thought was required. "Aside from unmasking the Spectre and discovering the thief, I haven't yet got that something I want."

  Contained, commanding, Patience's chin rose another notch. Vane studied her, his words echoing in his head. When he'd first coined the phrase, he hadn't appreciated exactly what it was that he wanted. Now he knew. His goal, this time, was different from the prizes he habitually lusted after. This time, he wanted a great deal more.

  He wanted her-all of her. Not just the physical her, but her devotion, her love, her heart-all the essential her, the tangible intangible of her being, her self. He wanted it all-and he wasn't going to be satisfied with anything less.

  He knew why he wanted her, too. Why she was different. But he wasn't going to think about that.

  She was his. He'd known it the instant he'd held her in his arms, that first evening with the storm lowering about them. She'd fitted-and he'd known, instinctively, immediately, at some level deeper than his bones. He hadn't come by his name by accident: he had a gift for recognizing what scent was on the breeze. An instinctive hunter, he responded to shifts in the mood, the atmosphere, taking advantage of whatever current was flowing without conscious thought.

  He'd known from the first just what was in the wind-known from the instant he'd held Patience Debbington in his arms.

  Now she stood before him, challenge lighting gold sparks in her eyes. That she was tired of their present hiatus was clear; what she envisioned replacing it was not so obvious. The only virtuous, willful women he'd interacted with were related to him; he'd never dallied with such ladies. He had no clue what Patience was thinking, how much she'd accepted. Taking a death grip on the reins of his own clamorous needs, he deliberately took the first steps to find out.

  With slow, prowling strides, he approached her.

  She didn't say a word. Instead, her eyes steady on his, she lifted one hand, one finger, and, slowly, giving him ample time to react, to stop her if he would, reached to touch his lips.

  Vane didn't move.

  The first tentative touch inwardly rocked him; he tightened his hold on his passions. She sensed the momentary turbulence. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. Then he stilled and she relaxed, and continued her tracing.

  She seemed fascinated by his lips. Her gaze dropped to them; as her finger passed over his lower lip and returned to one comer, Vane moved his head just enough to brush a kiss across her fingertip.

  Her eyes lifted again to his. Emboldened, she quested further, lifting her fingers higher to trace his cheek.

  Vane returned the caress, slowly raising one hand to run the back of his fingers along the smooth curve of her jaw, then sliding them back until his palm cupped her chin. His fingers firmed; moving to the slow, steady drumbeat only he and she could hear, he tilted her face up.

  Their gazes locked. Then he let his lids fall, knowing she did the same. In time with the slow beat, he lowered his lips to hers. >

  She hesitated for one instant, then kissed him back. He waited one beat more before demanding her mouth; she yielded it instantly. Sliding his fingers further, beneath the silken coil of hair at her nape, he raised his other hand and framed her jaw.

  He held her face steady-and slowly, systematically, moving to the compelling rhythm that held them, drove them, plundered her mouth.

  That kiss was a revelation-Patience had never imagined a simple kiss could be so bold, so heavily invested with meaning. His lips were hard; they moved over hers, parting them further, confidently managing her, ruthlessly teaching her all she was so eager to learn.

  His tongue invaded her mouth with the arrogance of a conqueror claiming victory's spoils. Unhurriedly, he visited every corner of his domain, claiming each inch, branding it as his-knowing it. After a lengthy, devastatingly thorough inspection, he settled to sample her in a different way. The slow, languid thrusting seduced her willing senses.

  She'd yielded, yet her passive surrender satisfied neither of them. Patience found herself drawn into the game-the slide of lips against lips, the sensual glide of hot tongue against tongue. She was more than willing. The promise in the heat rising, steadily building between them, and even more the tension-excitement and something more-that surged like a slow tide behind the warm glow, drew her on. The kiss stretched and time slowed-the drugging effect of shared breaths sent her wits into a slow spin.

  He drew back, breaking the kiss, letting her catch her breath. But he didn't straighten; his lips, relentlessly hard, remained mere inches from hers.

  Aware only of compulsion, of the steady driving beat in her blood, she stretched upward and touched her lips to his.

  He took her lips, her mouth, briefly, then again broke the contact.

  Patience snatched a breath and, stretching up, followed his lips with hers. She needn't have worried-he wasn't going anywhere. His fingers firmed about her jaw; his lips return
ed, harder, more demanding as he angled his head over hers.

  The kiss deepened. Patience hadn't dreamed there could be more, yet there was. Heat and hunger poured through her. She felt each caress, each bold, knowing stroke-she reveled in the hot pleasure, drank it in, and gave it back-and wanted more.

  When next their lips parted, they were both breathing rapidly. Patience opened her eyes and met his watchful gaze. Subtle invitation, and even subtler challenge, melded in the grey; she considered the sight-and considered how much more he could teach her.

  She paused. Then she stepped closer, sliding one hand, then the other, up over his broad shoulders. Her bodice touched his jacket; she moved closer still. Boldly holding his gaze, she pressed her hips to his thighs.

  The locking of his control was palpable, like the sudden clenching of a fist. The reaction reassured her, allowed her to continue to meet his grey gaze. To meet the challenge in his eyes.

  His hands had softened about her face; now they drifted away, resting briefly on her shoulders before, his gaze steady on hers, he swept them down, down her back, over her hips, drawing her fully against him.

  Patience's breath caught. Her lids fell. Wordlessly, she lifted her face, offering her lips.

  He took them, took her-as their lips fused, Patience felt his hands slide lower, deliberately tracing the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. He filled his hands, then kneaded-heat spread, prickling over her skin, leaving it fevered. Cupping her firm flesh, he molded her to him, easing her deeper into the V of his braced thighs.

  She felt the evidence of his desire, felt the hard, heavy, throbbing reality pressed against her soft belly. He held her there, senses fully awake, fully aware, for one achingly intense instant, then his tongue slowly surged, thrusting deep into the softness of her mouth.

  Patience would have gasped, but she couldn't. The evocative caress, his unhurried possession of her mouth, sent heat rolling through her. It pooled, hot and heavy, in her loins. As the kiss drew her in, drew her deeper, a heady langor spread, weighting her limbs, slowing her senses.

  But not muting them.

  She was achingly aware. Aware of the hardness that surrounded her, of the steely flex of hard muscle about her. Of her tightly furled nipples pressed hard to the wall of his chest; of the softness of her thighs held intimately against him. Of the relentless, driving passion he ruthlessly held back.

  That last was a temptation, but one so potently, preeminently dangerous not even she dared prod it.

  Not yet. There were other things she'd yet to learn.

  Like the feel of his hand on her breast-different now he was kissing her so deeply, now she was so much in contact with him. Her breast swelled, warm and tight as his fingers closed about it; the nipple was already a niched bud, excruciatingly sensitive to his knowing squeeze.

  And their kiss went on, anchoring her to her own heartbeat, to the repetitive ebb and surge of a rhythm that played at the very edge of her consciousness. The pattern swirled and deepened, but still the beat was there, a crescendo of slow-burning desire, conducted, orchestrated, so that she never lost touch, was never overwhelmed by sensation.

  He was teaching her.

  Quite when that became clear, Patience couldn't have said, but she'd accepted it as truth when the gong for lunch sounded. Distantly.

  She ignored it; so did Vane. At first. Then, with obvious reluctance, he drew back from their kiss.

  "They'll notice if we miss lunch." He murmured the words against her lips-then resumed kissing them.

  "Hmm," was all Patience cared to say.

  Three minutes later, he lifted his head. And looked down at her.

  Patience studied his eyes, his face. Not the smallest hint of apology, of triumph, even of satisfaction, showed in the grey, in the hard, angular planes. Hunger was the dominant emotion-in him and in her. She could feel it deep within her, a primal craving stirred to life by their kiss but as yet unappeased. His hunger showed in the tension holding him, the control he'd never once eased.

  His lips twisted wryly. "We'll have to go." Reluctantly, he released her.

  Equally reluctant, Patience drew back, instantly regretting the loss of his heat and the sense of intimacy that, for the last uncounted moments, they'd shared.

  There was, she discovered, nothing she wished to say. Vane offered his arm and she took it, and allowed him to lead her to the door.

  Chapter 11

  After his afternoon gallop with Gerrard, Vane strode determinedly back to the house.

  He couldn't get Patience out of his mind. The taste of her, the feel of her, the evocatively heady scent of her wreathed his senses and preyed on his attention. He hadn't been this obsessed since he'd first lifted a woman's skirts, yet he recognized the symptoms. He wasn't going to be able to concentrate on anything else until he'd succeeded in putting Patience Debbington in her rightful place-on her back beneath him.

  And he couldn't do that until he'd said the words, asked the question he'd known had been inevitable since she'd first landed in his arms.

  In the front hall, he encountered Masters. Purposefully, Vane stripped off his gloves. "Where's Miss Debbington, Masters?"

  "In the mistress's parlor, sir. She usually sits with the mistress and Mrs. Timms most afternoons."

  One boot on the lowest stair, Vane considered the various excuses he could use to extract Patience from under Minnie's wing. Not one was sufficient to escape attracting Minnie's instant attention. Let alone Timms's. "Hmm." Lips setting, he swung about. "I'll be in the billiard room."

  "Indeed, sir."

  Contrary to Masters's belief, Patience wasn't in Minnie's parlor. Excusing herself from their usual sewing session, she'd taken refuge in the parlor on the floor below, where the daybed, now no longer needed, sat swathed in Holland covers.

  So she could pace unrestricted, frowning, muttering distractedly, while she attempted to understand, to accurately comprehend, to justify and reconcile all that had happened in the music room that morning.

  Her world had tilted. Abruptly. Without warning.

  "That much," she waspishly informed an imperturbable Myst, curled comfortably on a chair, "is impossible to deny." That heated yet masterfully controlled kiss she and Vane had shared had been a revelation on more than one front.

  Swinging about, Patience halted before the window. Folding her arms, she stared out, unseeing. The physical revelations, while unnerving enough, had been no real shock-they were, indeed, no more than her curiosity demanded. She wanted to know-he'd consented to teach her. That kiss had been her first lesson; that much was clear.

  As for the rest-therein lay her problem.

  "There was something else there." An emotion she'd never thought to feel, never expected to feel. "At least"-grimacing, she resumed her restless pacing-"I think there was."

  The acute sense of loss she'd felt when they'd moved apart had not been simply a physical reaction-the separation had affected her on some other plane. And the compulsion to intimacy-to satisfy the hunger she sensed in him-that did not stem from curiosity.

  "This is getting complicated." Rubbing a finger across her forehead in a vain attempt to erase her frown, Patience struggled to come to grips with her emotions, to clarify what she truly felt. If her feelings for Vane went beyond the physical, did that mean what she thought it meant?

  "How on earth can I tell?" Spreading her hands, she appealed to Myst. "I've never felt this way before."

  The thought suggested another possibility. Halting, Patience lifted her head, then, with returning confidence, drew herself up and glanced hopefully at Myst. "Perhaps I'm just imagining it?"

  Myst stared, unblinking, through big blue eyes, then yawned, stretched, jumped down, and led the way to the door.

  Patience sighed. And followed.

  The telltale tension between them-there from the first-had intensified. Vane felt it as he held Patience's chair while she settled her skirts at the dinner table that evening. Consciousness slid under his guard,
like the brush of raw silk across his body, raising hairs, leaving every pore tingling.

  Inwardly cursing, he took his seat-and forced his attention to Edith Swithins. Beside him, Patience chatted easily with Henry Chadwick, with no detectable sign of confusion. As the courses came and went, Vane struggled not to resent that fact. She appeared breezily unconscious of any change in the temperature between them, while he was fighting to keep the lid on a boiling pot.

  Dessert was finally over, and the ladies withdrew. Vane kept the conversation over the port to a minimum, then led the gentlemen back to the drawing room. As usual, Patience was standing with Angela and Mrs. Chadwick halfway down the long room.

  She saw him coming; the fleeting flare of awareness in her eyes as he drew near was a momentary sop to his male pride. Very momentary-the instant he stopped by her side, her perfume reached him, the warmth of her soft curves tugged at his senses. Decidedly stiff, Vane inclined his head fractionally to all three ladies.

  "I was just telling Patience," Angela blurted out, pouting sulkily, "that it's beyond anything paltry. The thief has stolen my new comb!"

  "Your comb?" Vane flicked a glance at Patience.

  "The one I bought in Northampton," Anglea wailed. "I didn't even get to wear it!"

  "It may still turn up." Mrs. Chadwick tried to sound encouraging, but with her own, much more serious loss clearly in mind, she failed to soothe her daughter.

  "It's unfair!" Flags of color flew in Angela's cheeks. She stamped her foot. "I want the thief caught!"

  "Indeed." The single word, uttered in Vane's coolest, most bored drawl, succeeded in dousing Angela's imminent hysterics. "We would all, I fancy, like to lay our hands on this elusive, light-fingered felon."

  "Light-fingered felon?" Edmond strolled up. "Has the thief struck again?"

  Instantly, Angela reverted to her histrionic best; she poured out her tale to the rather more appreciative audience of Edmond, Gerrard, and Henry, all of whom joined the circle. Under cover of their exclamations, Vane glanced at Patience; she felt his gaze and looked up, meeting his eyes, a question forming in hers. Vane opened his lips, the details of an assignation on his tongue-he swallowed them as, to everyone's surprise, Whitticombe joined the group.