A Rake's Vow Page 7

  Narrow-eyed, Vane watched her go, watched her hips sway as she glided along. He remained in the archway until she reached her door. He heard it shut behind her.

  Slowly, very slowly, his features eased, then a Cynster smile tugged at his lips. If he couldn’t escape fate, then, ipso facto, neither could she. Which meant she would be his. The prospect grew more alluring by the minute.

  Chapter 5

  It was time to act.

  Later that evening, waiting in the drawing room for the gentlemen to reappear, Patience found it increasingly difficult to live up to her name; inside, she mentally paced. Beside her, Angela and Mrs. Chadwick, occupying a settee, were discussing the best trim for Angela’s new morning gown. Nodding vaguely, Patience didn’t even hear them. She had weightier matters on her mind.

  A dull ache throbbed behind her temples; she hadn’t slept well. Worries had consumed her—worry over the increasingly pointed accusations aimed at Gerrard, worry over Vane Cynster’s influence on her impressionable brother.

  Added to that, she now had to cope with the distraction occasioned by her odd reaction to Vane Cynster, “elegant gentleman.” He’d affected her from the first; when she’d finally succumbed to sleep, he’d even followed her into her dreams.

  Patience narrowed her eyes against the ache behind them.

  “I think the cerise braid would be much more dashing.” Angela threatened a pout. “Don’t you think so, Patience?”

  The gown they were discussing was palest yellow. “I think,” Patience said, summoning up what she could of that virtue, “that the aquamarine ribbon your mother suggested would be much more the thing.”

  Angela’s pout materialized; Mrs. Chadwick promptly warned her daughter of the unwisdom of courting wrinkles. The pout magically vanished.

  Drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair, Patience frowned at the door and returned to her preoccupation—to rehearsing her warning to Vane Cynster. It was the first time she’d had to warn any male off—she would much rather she didn’t have to start now, but she couldn’t let things go on as they were. Quite aside from her promise to her mother, tendered on her deathbed, that she would always keep Gerrard safe, she simply couldn’t countenance Gerrard getting hurt in such a way—by being used as a pawn to win her smiles.

  Of course, they all did it to some degree. Penwick treated Gerrard as a child, playing to her protectiveness. Edmond used his art as a link to Gerrard, to demonstrate his affinity with her brother. Henry pretended an avuncular interest patently lacking in real emotion. Vane, however, went one better—he actually did things. Actively protected Gerrard, actively engaged her brother’s interest, actively interacted—all with the avowed intention of making her grateful, of placing her in his debt.

  She didn’t like it. They were all using Gerrard, but the only one from whom Gerrard stood in danger of taking any hurt was Vane. Because the only one Gerrard liked, admired, potentially worshiped, was Vane.

  Patience surreptitiously massaged her left temple. If they didn’t finish with the port soon, she would have a raging migraine. She would probably have one anyway—after her disturbed night, followed by the surprises of the breakfast table, capped by the revelations of their ride, she’d spent most of the afternoon thinking of Vane. Which was enough to warp the strongest mind.

  He distracted her on so many levels she’d given up trying to untangle her thoughts. There was, she felt sure, only one way to deal with him. Directly and decisively.

  Her eyes felt gravelly, from staring unblinking at nothing for too long. She felt like she hadn’t slept in days. And she certainly wouldn’t sleep until she’d taken charge of the situation, until she’d put a stop to the relationship developing between Gerrard and Vane. True, all she’d seen and heard between them thus far had been innocent enough—but no one—no one—could call Vane innocent.

  He wasn’t innocent—but Gerrard was.

  Which was precisely her point.

  At least, she thought it was. Patience winced as pain shafted from one temple to the other.

  The door opened; Patience sat up. She scanned the gentlemen as they wandered in—Vane was the last. He strolled in, which was of itself enough to assure her that her tortuous reasoning was right. All that prowling, arrogant masculinity set her teeth on edge.

  “Mr. Cynster!” Without a blush, Angela beckoned. Patience could have kissed her.

  Vane heard Angela and saw her wave; his gaze flicked to Patience, then, with a smile she unhesitatingly classed as untrustworthy, he prowled in their direction.

  As a group, the three of them—Mrs. Chadwick, Angela, and Patience—rose to greet him, none wishing to risk a crick in the neck.

  “I wanted to ask particularly,” Angela said, before anyone else could essay a word, “whether it’s true that cerise is currently the most fashionable color for trimming for young ladies.”

  “It’s certainly much favored,” Vane replied.

  “But not on pale yellow,” Patience said.

  Vane looked at her. “I devoutly hope not.”

  “Indeed.” Patience took his arm. “If you’ll excuse us, Angela, ma’am”—she nodded to Mrs. Chadwick—“I have something I really must ask Mr. Cynster.” So saying, she steered Vane toward the far end of the room—and thanked the deity he consented to move.

  She felt his gaze, slightly surprised, distinctly amused, on her face. “My dear Miss Debbington.” Beneath her hand, his arm twisted—and then he was steering her. “You need only say the word.”

  Patience flashed him a narrow-eyed glance. The purring tones in his voice sent shivers down her spine—delicious shivers. “I’m very glad to hear you say that, for that’s precisely what I intend to do.”

  His brows rose. He searched her face, then raised a hand and gently rubbed one fingertip between her brows.

  Patience stilled, shocked, then drew her head back. “Don’t do that!” A warm glow suffused the area he’d touched.

  “You were frowning—you look like you have a headache.”

  Patience frowned harder. They’d reached the end of the room; halting, she swung to face him. And plunged into the attack. “I take it you’re not leaving tomorrow?”

  He looked down at her. After a moment, he replied, “I can’t see myself departing in the foreseeable future. Can you?”

  She had to be sure. Patience met his gaze directly. “Why are you staying?”

  Vane studied her face, her eyes—and wondered what was bothering her. The feminine tension gripping her rippled about him; he translated it as “bee in her bonnet,” but, from long association with strong-willed women, his mother and aunts, let alone Devil’s new duchess, Honoria, he had learned the wisdom of caution. Uncertain of her tack, he temporized. “Why do you imagine?” He raised one brow. “What, after all, could possibly exercise sufficient interest to hold a gentleman like me, here?”

  He knew the answer, of course. Last night, he’d seen how the land lay. There were situations where justice, blindfolded as she was, could easily be misled—the situation here was one such. The undercurrents were considerable, running unexpectedly, inexplicably, deep.

  He was staying to help Minnie, to defend Gerrard—and to aid Patience, preferably without letting on he was aiding her. Pride was something he understood; he was sensitive to hers. Unlike the other gentlemen, he saw no reason to suggest that she’d failed in any way with Gerrard. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t. So it could be said he was acting as her protector, too. The role felt very right.

  He’d capped his question with a charming smile; to his surprise, it made Patience stiffen.

  She drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and fixed him with a censorious look. “In that case, I’m afraid I must insist that you refrain from encouraging Gerrard.”

  Inwardly, Vane stilled. He looked down, into her disapproving eyes. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

  Her chin rose. “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Spell it out for
me.”

  Her eyes, like clear agates, searched his, then her lips compressed. “I would rather you spent as little time as possible with Gerrard. You’re only showing an interest in him to win points with me.”

  Vane arched one brow. “You take a lot to yourself, my dear.”

  Patience held his gaze. “Can you deny it?”

  Vane felt his face set, his jaw lock. He couldn’t refute her accusation; it was in large part true. “What I don’t understand,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing on hers, “is why my interaction with your brother should occasion the slightest concern. I would have thought you would be glad to have someone extend his horizons.”

  “I would be,” Patience snapped. Her head was pounding. “But you’re the very last person I would want to guide him.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  The steel sliding beneath Vane’s deep voice was a warning. Patience heard it. She was heading for thin ice, but, having come thus far, she was determined not to retreat. She set her teeth. “I don’t want you guiding Gerrard, filling his head with ideas, because of the sort of gentleman you are.”

  “And what sort of gentleman am I—in your eyes?”

  Rather than rising, his tone was becoming softer, more lethal. Patience quelled a shiver, and returned his edged glance with one equally sharp. “In this instance, your reputation is the opposite of a recommendation.”

  “How would you know of my reputation? You’ve been buried in Derbyshire all your life.”

  “It precedes you,” Patience retorted, stung by his patronizing tone. “You only need walk into a room, and it rolls out like a red carpet before you.”

  Her sweeping gesture elicited a grunt. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Patience lost her temper. “What I’m talking about is your propensities with respect to wine, women, and wagering. And, believe me, they’re obvious to the meanest intelligence! You may as well have a banner carried before you.” With her hands, she sketched one in the air. “Gentleman rake!”

  Vane shifted; he was suddenly closer. “I believe I warned you I was no gentleman.”

  Looking into his face, Patience swallowed, and wondered how she could possibly have forgotten. There was nothing remotely gentlemanly in the presence before her—his face was hard, his eyes pure steel. Even his austerely elegant attire now seemed more like armor. And his voice no longer purred. At all. Clenching her fists, she drew a tight breath. “I don’t want Gerrard turning out like you. I don’t want you to—” Despite her best efforts, innate caution took hold—it froze her tongue.

  Almost shaking with the effort of restraining his temper, Vane heard himself suggest, his tone sibilantly smooth, “Corrupt him?”

  Patience stiffened. She lifted her chin, her lids veiling her eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Don’t fence with me, Miss Debbington, or you’re liable to get pinked.” Vane spoke slowly, softly, only just managing to get the words past his teeth. “Let’s be sure I have this correctly. You believe I’ve stayed at Bellamy Hall purely to dally with you, that I’ve befriended your brother for no other reason than to further my cause with you, and that my character is such that you consider me unsuitable company for a minor. Have I forgotten anything?”

  Poker-straight, Patience met his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  Vane felt his control quake, felt his reins slither from his grasp. He clenched his jaw, and both fists. Every muscle in his body locked, every mental sinew strained with the effort of holding on to his temper.

  All Cynsters had one—a temper that normally lazed like a well-fed cat but could, if pricked, change to a snarling predator. For one instant, his vision clouded, then the beast responded to the rein and drew back, hissing. As his fury subsided, he blinked dazedly.

  Hauling in a deep breath, he swung halfway around and, dragging his gaze from Patience, forced himself to scan the room. Slowly, he exhaled. “If you were a man, my dear, you wouldn’t still be upright.”

  There was an instant’s pause, then she said, “Not even you would strike a lady.”

  Her “not even” nearly set him off again. Jaw clenched, Vane slowly turned his head, caught her wide hazel gaze—and raised his brows. His hand itched to make contact with her bottom. Positively burned. For one instant, he teetered on the brink—her widening gaze, as, frozen like prey, she read the intent in his eyes, was small comfort. But the thought of Minnie made him fight down the nearly overpowering compulsion to bring Miss Patience Debbington to an abrupt understanding of her temerity. Minnie, supportive though she was, was unlikely to prove that forgiving. Vane narrowed his eyes, and spoke very softly. “I have only one thing to say to you, Patience Debbington. You’re wrong—on every count.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Patience watched him go, watched him stride directly across the room, looking neither left nor right. There was nothing languid in his stride, no vestige of his usual lazy grace; his every movement, the rigid set of his shoulders, shrieked of reined power, of temper, of fury barely leashed. He opened the door and, without even a nod to Minnie, left; the door clicked shut behind him.

  Patience frowned. Her head throbbed remorselessly; she felt empty and—yes—cold inside. As if she’d just done something terribly wrong. As if she’d just made a big mistake. But she hadn’t, had she?

  She woke the next morning to a grey and dripping world. Through one eye, Patience stared at the unrelenting gloom beyond her window, then groaned and buried her head beneath the covers. She felt the dipping of the mattress as Myst jumped up, then padded closer. Settling against the curve of her stomach, Myst purred.

  Patience sank her head deeper into her pillow. This was clearly a morning to avoid.

  She dragged her limbs from the comfort of her bed an hour later. Shivering in the chilly air, she hurriedly dressed, then reluctantly headed downstairs. She had to eat, and cowardice was not, in her book, sufficient reason to put the staff to the unexpected trouble of making up a tray for her. She noted the time as she passed the clock on the stairs—nearly ten o’clock. Everyone else should have finished and departed; she should be safe.

  She walked into the breakfast parlor—and discovered her error. All the gentlemen were present. As they rose to greet her most nodded benignly—Henry and Edmond even conjured smiles. Vane, at the head of the table, didn’t smile at all. His grey gaze settled on her, coldly brooding. Not a muscle in his face flickered.

  Gerrard, of course, beamed a welcome. Patience summoned a weak smile. Steps dragging, she headed for the sideboard.

  She took her time filling her plate, then slipped into the chair beside Gerrard, wishing he was somewhat larger. Large enough to shield her from Vane’s darkling gaze. Unfortunately, Gerrard had finished all but his coffee; he lay sprawled comfortably back in his chair.

  Leaving her exposed. Patience bit her tongue against the impulse to tell Gerrard to sit straight; he was still too coltish to bring off that lounging pose. Unlike the gentleman he was copying, who brought it off all too well. Patience kept her eyes on her plate and her mind on eating. Other than the brooding presence at the head of the table, there was precious little other distraction.

  As Masters cleared their plates, the gentlemen fell to discussing the day’s possibilities. Henry looked at Patience. “Perhaps, Miss Debbington, if the skies clear, you might be interested in a short walk?”

  Patience glanced very briefly at the sky beyond the windows. “Too muddy,” she pronounced.

  Edmond’s eyes gleamed. “How about charades?”

  Patience’s lips thinned. “Perhaps later.” She was in a waspish mood; if they weren’t careful, she’d sting.

  “There’s a pack of cards in the library,” Edgar volunteered.

  The General, predictably, snorted. “Chess,” he stated. “Game of kings. That’s what I shall do. Any takers?”

  There were no volunteers. The General subsided into vague mutterings.

  Gerrard turn
ed to Vane. “How about a round of billiards?”

  One of Vane’s brows rose; his gaze remained on Gerrard’s face, yet, watching him from beneath her lashes, Patience knew his attention was on her. Then he looked directly at her. “A capital idea,” he purred, then both voice and face hardened. “But perhaps your sister has other plans for you.”

  His words were soft, distinct, and clearly loaded with some greater significance. Patience ground her teeth. She was avoiding his eye; he was focusing every eye on her. Not content with that, he was making no attempt to mask the coolness between them. It colored his words, his expression; it positively shrieked in the absence of his suavely charming smile. He sat very still, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on her. His grey eyes were coldly challenging.

  It was Gerrard, the only one of the company apparently insensitive to the powerful undercurrent, who broke the increasingly awkward silence. “Oh, Patience won’t want me about, under her feet.” He flicked a confident grin her way, then turned back to Vane.

  Vane’s gaze didn’t shift. “I rather think that’s for your sister to say.”

  Setting down her teacup, Patience lifted one shoulder. “I can’t see any reason you shouldn’t play billiards.” She made the comment to Gerrard, steadfastly ignoring Vane. Then she pushed back her chair. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must look in on Minnie.”

  They all rose as she stood; Patience walked to the door, conscious of one particular gaze on her back, focused right between her shoulder blades.

  There was nothing wrong with playing billiards.

  Patience kept telling herself that, but didn’t believe it. It wasn’t the billiards that worried her. It was the chatting, the easy camaraderie that the exercise promoted—the very sort of interaction she did not wish Gerrard to engage in with any elegant gentleman.

  Just the knowledge that he and Vane were busily potting balls and exchanging God knew what observations on life reduced her to nervous distraction.