Patience lightly grimaced. "That will depend on Minnie."
Vane's lips twisted, but he nodded. And forced himself to step away. "I'll see you at breakfast."
He swung on his heel and walked back up the corridor. Patience stood at her door and watched him leave.
Fifteen minutes later, a woolen shawl wrapped about her shoulders, Patience curled up in the old wing chair by her hearth and stared moodily into the flames. After a moment, she tucked her feet higher, beneath the hem of her nightgown, and, propping one elbow on the chair's arm, sank her chin into her palm.
Myst appeared, and, after surveying the possibilities, jumped up and took possession of her lap. Absentmindedly, Patience stroked her, gaze locked on the flames as her fingers slid over the pert grey ears and down the curving spine.
For long minutes, the only sounds in the room were the soft crackling of the flames and Myst's contented purr. Neither distracted Patience from her thoughts, from the realization she could not escape.
She was twenty-six. She might have lived in Derbyshire, but that wasn't quite the same as a nunnery. She'd met gentlemen aplenty, many of them of similar ilk to Vane Cynster. Many of those gentlemen had had some thoughts of her. She, however, had never had thoughts of them. Never before had she spent hours-not even minutes-thinking about any particular gentleman. One and all, they'd failed to fix her interest.
Vane commanded her attention at all times. When they were in the same room, he commanded her awareness, effortlessly held her senses. Even when apart, he remained the focus of some part of her mind. His face was easy to conjure; he appeared regularly in her dreams.
Patience sighed, and stared at the flames.
She wasn't imagining it-imagining that her reaction to him was different, special, that he engaged her emotions at some deeper level. That wasn't imagination, it was fact.
And there was no point whatever in refusing to face facts-that trait was alien to her character. No point in pretense, in avoiding the thought of what would have occurred if he had not been so honorable and had asked, by word or deed, to enter this room tonight.
She would have welcomed him in, without fluster or hesitation. Her nerves might have turned skittish, but that would have been due to excitement, to anticipation, not uncertainty.
Country-bred, she was fully cognizant of the mechanism of mating; she was not ignorant on that front. But what caught her, held her-commanded her curiosity-was the emotions that, in this case, with Vane, had, in her mind, become entangled with the act. Or was it the act that had become entangled with the emotions?
Whatever, she'd been seduced-entirely and utterly, beyond recall-not by him, but by her desire for him. It was, she knew in her heart, in the depths of her soul, a most pertinent distinction.
This desire had to be what her mother had felt, what had driven her to accept Reginald Debbington in marriage and trapped her in a loveless union for all her days. She had every reason to distrust the emotion-to avoid it, reject it.
She couldn't. Patience knew that for fact, the emotion ran too strong, too compulsively within her, for her to ever be free of it.
But it, of itself, brought no pain, no sadness. Indeed, if she'd been given the choice, even now she would admit that she'd rather have the experience, the excitement, the knowledge, than live the rest of her life in ignorance.
There was, invested within that rogue emotion, power and joy and boundless excitement-all things she craved. She was already addicted; she wouldn't let it go. There was, after all, no need.
She had never truly thought of marriage; she could now face the fact that she had, indeed, been avoiding it. Finding excuse after excuse to put off even considering it. It was marriage-the trap-that had brought her mother undone. Simply loving, even if that love was unrequited, would be sweet-bittersweet maybe, but the experience was not one she would turn down.
Vane wanted her-he had not at any time tried to hide the effect she had on him, tried to screen the potent desire that glowed like hot coals in his eyes. The knowledge that she aroused him was like a grapple about her heart-a facet from some deep, heretofore unacknowledged dream.
He'd asked for tomorrow-that was in the lap of the gods, but when the time came, she would not, she knew, draw back.
She'd meet him-meet his passion, his desire, his need-and in fulfilling and satisfying him, fulfill and satisfy herself. That, she now knew, was the way it could be. It was the way she wanted it to be.
Their liaison would last for however long it might; while she would be sad when it ended, she wouldn't be caught, trapped in never-ending misery like her mother.
Smiling, wistfully wry, Patience looked down and stroked Myst's head. "He might want me, but he's still an elegant gentleman." She might wish that were not so, but it was. "Love is not something he has to give-and I'll never-hear me well-never-marry without that."
That was the crux of it-that was her true fate.
She had no intention of fighting it.
Chapter 12
Vane arrived early in the breakfast parlor the next morning. He served himself, then took his seat and waited for Patience to appear. The rest of the males wandered in, exchanging their usual greetings. Vane pushed back his plate and waved for Masters to pour him more coffee.
Coiled tension had him in its grip; how much longer would it be before he could release it? That, to his mind, was a point to which Patience should give her most urgent attention, yet he could hardly begrudge Minnie her aid.
When Patience failed to appear by the time they'd finished their meals, Vane inwardly sighed and fixed Gerrard with a severe glance. "I need a ride." He did, in more ways than one, but at least he could release some of his pent-up energy in a good gallop. "Interested?"
Gerrard squinted out of the window. "I was going to sketch, but the light looks flat. I'll come riding instead."
Vane raised a brow at Henry. "You game, Chadwick?"
"Actually"-Henry sat back in his chair-"I'd thought to practice my angle shots. Wouldn't do to get rusty."
Gerrard chuckled. "It was pure luck you beat Vane last time. Anyone could tell he was a trifle out of sorts."
A trifle out of sorts? Vane wondered if he should educate Patience's brother on precisely how "out of sorts" he was. A blue powder wouldn't cure his particular ache.
"Ah-but I did win." Henry clung to his moment of victory. "I've no intention of letting my advantage slip."
Vane merely smiled sardonically, inwardly grateful Henry would not be accompanying them. Gerrard rarely spoke when riding, which suited his mood far better than Henry's locquaciousness. "Edmond?"
They all looked down the table to where Edmond sat gazing at his empty plate, mumbling beneath his breath. His hair stuck out at odd angles where he'd clutched it.
Vane raised a brow at Gerrard, who shook his head. Edmond was clearly in the grip of his muse and deaf to all else. Vane and Gerrard pushed back their chairs and rose.
Patience hurried in. She paused just inside the room, and blinked at Vane, half-risen.
He immediately subsided into his chair. Gerrard turned, and saw him reseated; he also resumed his seat.
Reassured, Patience headed for the sideboard, picked up a plate, and went straight to the table. She was late; in the circumstances, she'd settle for tea and toast. "Minnie's better," she announced as she took her seat. Looking up the table, she met Vane's gaze. "She spent a sound night and has assured me she doesn't need me today."
She swept a brief smile over Henry and Edmond, thus rendering the information general.
Gerrard grinned at her. "I suppose you'll be off to the music room as usual. Vane and I are going for a ride."
Patience looked at Gerrard, then stared up the table at Vane. Who stared back. Patience blinked, then reached for the teapot. "Actually, if you'll wait a few minutes, I'll come with you. After being cooped up these last days, I could do with some air."
Gerrard looked at Vane, who was gazing at Patience, an unfathomable express
ion on his face. "We'll wait" was all he said.
By agreement, they met in the stable yard.
After scurrying into her habit, then rushing out of the house like a hoyden, Patience was mildly irritated to find Gerrard not yet there. Vane was already atop the grey hunter. Both rider and horse were restless.
Climbing into her sidesaddle, Patience took up her reins and glanced back toward the house. "Where is he?"
Lips compressed, Vane shrugged.
Three minutes later, just as she was about to dismount to go and search, Gerrard appeared. With his easel.
"I say, I'm sorry, but I've changed my mind." He grinned up at them. "There's clouds coming up and the light's turned grey-it's just the look I've been waiting to capture. I need to get it down before it changes again." He shifted his burden and continued to grin. "So go on without me-at least you've got each other for company."
Gerrard's disingenuity was transparently genuine; Vane swallowed a curse. He glanced swiftly at Patience; she met his gaze, questions in her eyes.
Vane understood the questions-but Gerrard was standing there, large as life, waiting to wave them away. Jaw firming, he gestured to the stable arch. "Shall we?"
After a fractional hesitation, Patience nodded and flicked her reins. With a perfunctory wave to Gerrard, she led the way out. Vane followed. As they thundered along the track past the ruins, he glanced back. So did Patience. Gerrard, slogging in their wake, waved gaily.
Vane cursed. Patience looked forward.
By unspoken accord, they put distance between themselves and the Hall, eventually drawing rein on the banks of the Nene. The river flowed steadily, a reflective grey ribbon smoothly rippling between thickly grassed banks. A well-beaten track followed the river; slowing the grey to a walk, Vane turned along it.
Patience brought her mare up beside him; Vane let his gaze roam her face, her figure.
Fingers tightening on the reins, he looked away. Over the lush riverbanks, insufficiently formal for the discussion he needed to have with her. The grassy banks would do nicely as a couch. Far too tempting. He wasn't sure he could trust himself in such a setting, and, after the stillroom, he knew he couldn't trust her. She, however, was an innocent; he had no excuse. Besides which, the area was too open, and Penwick often rode this way. Stopping by the river was untenable. And Patience deserved better than a few casual words and a question on horseback.
Thanks to Gerrard, it seemed he'd have to endure yet another morning without progress. Meanwhile, he, and his demons, were champing at the bit.
Beside him, Patience, too, found the idea of wasting another morning less than appealing. Unlike Vane, she saw no reason not to use the time. Having surreptitiously filled her mind anew with the image of him on his hunter, she voiced the thought uppermost in her mind. "You mentioned having a brother-does he look like you?"
Vane glanced her way, brows rising. "Harry?" He considered. "Harry has curly blond-brown hair and blue eyes-but otherwise"-a slow smile transformed Vane's face-"yes, I suppose he does look a lot like me." He slanted Patience a rakish glance. "But then, all six of us are said to look similar-the stamp of our common ancestors, no doubt."
Patience ignored the subtle tenor of that comment. "All six? Which six?"
"The six eldest Cynster cousins-Devil, myself, Richard-he's Devil's brother-Harry, who's my only sibling, and Gabriel and Lucifer. We were all born within five or so years of each other."
Patience stared. The idea of six Vanes was… And two were called Gabriel and Lucifer? "Aren't there any females in the family?"
"In our generation, the females came later. The eldest are the twins-Amanda and Amelia. They're seventeen and have just weathered their first Season."
"And you all live in London?"
"For some part of the year. My parents' house is in Berkeley Square. My father, of course, grew up at Somersham Place, the ducal seat. To him, that's home. While he and my mother, indeed, the whole family, are always welcome there, my parents decided to make their primary home in London."
"So that's home to you."
Looking over the green meadows, Vane shook his head. "Not any more. I moved into lodgings years ago, and recently bought a town house. When Harry and I came of age, my father settled sizable sums on both of us and advised us to invest in property." His smile deepened. "Cynsters always accumulate land. Land, after all, is power. Devil has the Place and all the ducal estates, which underpin the wealth of the family. While he looks after those, we're each expanding our own assests."
"You mentioned that your brother owns a stud."
"Close by Newmarket. That's Harry's enterprise of choice-he's a master when it comes to horses."
"And you?" Patience tilted her head, her eyes on his face. "What's your enterprise of choice?"
Vane grinned. "Hops."
Patience blinked. "Hops?"
"A vital ingredient used to flavor and clarify beers. I own Pembury Manor, an estate near Tunbridge in Kent."
"And you grow hops?"
Vane's smile teased. "As well as apples, pears, cherries, and cob nuts."
Drawing back in her saddle, Patience stared at him. "You're a farmer!"
One brown brow rose. "Among other things."
Recognizing the glint in his eyes, she swallowed a humph. "Describe this place-Pembury Manor."
Vane did, quite content to follow that tack. After a brief outline, bringing to life the orchards and fields spread over the Kentish Weald, he turned to the house itself-the house he would take her to. "Two stories in grey stone, with six bedrooms, five reception rooms, and the usual amenities. I haven't spent much time there-it needs redecorating."
He made the comment offhandedly, and was pleased to see a distant, considering expression on her face.
"Hmm" was all Patience said. "How far-"
She broke off and looked up; a second raindrop splattered her nose. As one, she and Vane looked up and behind them. With one voice, they cursed. Thunderheads had blown up, dark grey and menacing, swelling in the sky behind them. A leaden curtain of drenching rain steadily advanced, mere minutes away.
Looking about, they searched for shelter. It was Vane who spotted the slate roof of the old barn.
"There." He pointed. "Along the riverbank." He glanced behind again. "We might just make it."
Patience had already sprung her mare. Vane followed, holding the grey back, clear of the mare's heels. They thundered along the track. In the skies above, more thunder rumbled. The leading edge of the rain curtain reached them, flinging heavy drops on their backs. Doors closed, the barn nestled in a shallow depression set back from the track. Patience wrestled the now skittish mare to a halt before the doors. Vane hauled the grey to a slithering stop and flung himself from the saddle. Reins in one hand, he dragged open the barn door. Patience trotted the mare in and Vane followed, leading the grey.
Once in, he dropped the reins and strode back to the door. As he pulled it shut, thunder cracked, and the heavens opened. Rain came down in sheets. Standing catching his breath, Vane looked up at the rafters. Still perched on her mare, Patience did the same. The sound of the rain on the old roof was a steady, relentless roar.
Shaking his shoulders, Vane peered into the dimness. "This looks to be in use. The roof seems sound." His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, he strolled forward. "There are stalls along that wall." He lifted Patience down. "We'd better settle the horses."
Eyes wide in the gloom, Patience nodded. They led the horses to the stalls; while Vane unsaddled them, Patience investigated further. She discovered a ladder leading up to the loft. She glanced back at Vane; he was still busy with the horses. Gathering her skirts, she climbed up, carefully checking each rung. But the ladder was sound. All in all, the barn was in good repair.
From the top of the ladder, Patience surveyed the loft. A wide chamber built over most of the barn, it housed a quantity of hay, some baled, some loose. The floor was sound timber. Stepping up, she dropped her skirts, brushed them d
own, then crossed to where the hay doors were fastened against the weather.
Lifting the latch, she peeked out. The hay doors faced south, away from the squall. Satisfied no rain would drive in, she opened the doors, admitting soft grey light into the loft. Despite the rain, perhaps because of the heavy clouds, the air was warm. The view revealed, of the river, whipped by wind, pocked with rain, and the gently sloping meadows, all seen through a grey screen, was soothing.
Glancing around, Patience lifted a brow. Her next lesson from Vane was long overdue; while the music room would have been preferable, the loft would do. With hay aplenty, there was no reason they couldn't be comfortable.
In the barn below, Vane took as long as he could tending the horses, but the rain showed no sign of abating. Not that he'd expected it to; having seen the extent of the clouds, he knew they'd be trapped for hours. When there was nothing left to do, he wiped his hands in clean straw and dusted them. Then, closing a mental fist firmly about his own reins, he set off after Patience. He'd caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the loft. His head cleared the loft floor; he looked about-and inwardly cursed.
He knew trouble when he saw it.
She turned her head and smiled, eliminating any possiblity of craven retreat. Washed by the soft light falling through the open hay doors, she sat in the midst of a huge pile of hay, her expression welcoming, her body radiating a sensual tug to which he was already too susceptible.
Drawing in a deep breath, Vane climbed the last rungs and stepped onto the loft floor. With every evidence of his customary cool command, he strolled toward Patience.
She shattered his calm-by smiling more deeply and holding out her hand. Instinctively, he took it, fingers closing firmly. Then he caught himself.
His expression rigidly impassive, he looked down at her face, into her eyes, all hazel-gold, warm and alluring, and struggled to find some way to tell her this was madness. That, after all that had passed between them, to sit together in the hay and look out at the rain was too dangerous. That he could no longer guarantee his behavior, his usual coolness under fire, his customary command. No words sprang to mind-he was not capable of making such an admission of weakness. Even though it was true.
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